It's a long climb, to get to the bottom of things

Ushuaia: How far can you go before you reach the end of the Earth?

ejpredny — Sun, 8 May 2011 15:34:00 GMT

South America curls around the curve of the globe as though Antarctica is a drain pulling it closer with each orbital turn. Ushuaia is “El Fin de Mundo,” the End of the Earth. The closest city in the World to Antarctica- only 620miles/1000km; cruise boats to get to the icy continent depart from its modest harbor. From the first moment I started researching Patagonia, Ushuaia captured my imagination. I couldn’t even imagine how to pronounce the name (You-shwhy-ah) but I wanted more than anything to see the farthest reaches of civilization.

The night was black and stormy. It was already 10pm- travel complications as well as the sheer distance from north to south in Argentina had lengthened the trip to fourteen hours- and that is the shortest, easiest way to find Ushuaia. Around the solitary baggage carousel in the tiny IKEA airport, families bundled in puffy parka jackets waited with warm greetings for the passengers to arrive. They looked so solid. Walls of human form carved out of the barren wilderness. Alaska, South American style.

I couldn’t see much more than a few feet in front of me through the pouring rain. I am stubborn and unable to let a day go by completely without exploration, so I wandered the town until midnight to see what I could find. The hostel, Freestyle was set on a hillside above the bay. It was a quintessential backpackers: full of twenties ranging from hippie to over-achiever all taking on the world and making out to celebrate it. Sometimes, I feel really old. The streets were lined with small cottage homes belonging in the Munchkin village of Wizard of Oz. I wandered down to the bay where beckoning ship lights twinkled as hopeful stars in the velvety darkness. The night could go on forever and I wouldn’t mind.

I tried to catch the sun rise which consisted of checking the sky like a roast in the oven every hour- is it ready yet? At 7am, still only darkness. At 8am, a muted shade of gray. 9am, the Sun was thinking about how the day would start; she refused to show her face until the respectable hour of 10am. It wasn’t until then that I could see that Ushuaia is surrounded by glorious mountains ready to cliff dive into the bay.

I made arrangements for a cruise of the Beagle Channel. So many explorers have passed through these waters. Ferdinand Magellan searching out the way to the Spice Islands and losing his life and 213 men along the way, Francis Drake stirring up the natives as he conquered English circumnavigation of the globe, Darwin cataloging everything from Guanaco (little wild llamas) to the Aborigines- the list goes on and on as a red carpet of exploration. This land is ripe with the history of man and his battle to survive in even the most extreme conditions. My boat was delayed when the harbor was closed down because of the gale force winds knocking the ships back into the bay.

Never discouraged, I hitched a ride to the Tierra del Fuego National Park. I chose the costal route. Time stopped as I breathed in the icy beauty of the mountains floating across the calm crystal water. The scope of the world suddenly seemed bigger. My claustrophobia flew with the birds to test the limits of how far I could go without seeing another human soul.

The harvesting colors of fall decorated the weather-worn trees in my favorite season. Every turn brought new discoveries, contrasting landscapes. I climbed a tree or two just because I could not resist their inviting arms. I played hide and seek with woodpeckers and stumbled upon horses lounging in a meadow with no sign of human supervision. Everything danced a balance between old and new- I began to understand that the two are the same qualities of life in the eyes of nature.

Eventually, I got to my boat ride filled with tourists of every type. We sailed so close to a sea lion colony that I could see the snot dripping from their slimy faces! Know the difference between a sea lion and a seal? Sea lions use all four flippers to walk on land, seals use only the front two; seals have inner ear canals, sea lions have tiny little earish nubs. The comorants (little penguin-looking sea birds) live peacefully with the sea lions because they eat the algae off of the rocks- making it easier for the lions to climb up on the rocks to bask in the sun. An perfect example of symbiotic animal relationships…never bite the hand that helps you out.

On the boat was my first encounter with mate. Mate is a Patagonian tradition. They take a hollowed-out gourd, fill it with a green tea-like powder, add hot water and then sip it through a straw with a filter at the end. The most important detail is that Mate is meant to be shared: passed from person to person as a rite of inclusion into the family. The crew and I bonded over a few warm sips while the rest of the travelers preferred to stick with the safe bet of coffee or tea. I met a few other girls on the boat who were also traveling alone. We chatted our stories for awhile, discussing the highlights and lowlights of South American sights. Then I struck out on my own for an afternoon of treasure hunting.

For me, the most fascinating part of every place that I go is the local people. Here was no exception. The earth in their lined faces, weight in their laughter. They were fishermen, ranchers, tourist guiding aborigines. They were chicly European with a penchant for haute couture and gourmet cuisine, they were denim and canvas workmen spitting crudely in the streets. And their driving rivaled Vietnam in their complete lack of regard for people crossing the street.

What made them come this far? What makes them stay? Originally, the Yaghan tribe smeared seal fat on their skin and hunted fish in the harsh winter waters without any clothes. Then, as Argentina developed its national roots, Ushuaia served as the Siberia of the South- a prison for the most dangerous criminals and most controversial political prisoners. Now, everyone has a certain misfit quality. They accept of any eccentricity; they share such close quarters and have seen it all. Strong people all holding out together until the summer comes again. I felt completely at home, wishing I could stay in their understanding company. But Chile was calling me back again…

"Now we feel her to be inexhaustible

like an ancient wine

and no one can gaze on her without vertigo

and time has charged her with eternity

And to think that she wouldn't exist

except for those fragile instruments, the eyes.."

- The History of the Night

by Jorge Luis Borges

A Series of Short Vignettes of Chile: Vaparaiso

ejpredny — Wed, 27 Apr 2011 15:45:00 GMT

"Quickly Valparaiso, Sailor, You forget the tears" - Pablo Neruda

I said goodbye to some of the dancers at breakfast, but I have never been fond of goodbyes, too awkward, too uncertain. On the streets of Santiago, the marathon runners circled around me. How fitting that my first day on my own was obstructed by a marathon. I have spent the last three years running mile after mile, searching for a new path and clearing out the past. Running has become easy; living has become the more difficult battle to fight. Tired of courses dictated by someone else’s map, I refused to have a plan. I am a free-spirit blown by the wind, guided by a sense of adventure. I went to the bus station and took the first bus out of town: Valparaiso.

Houses perch upon the hills uncertain if their wings will fly. Nested together, the flock protects the people below from the harsh world threatening to invade. Beneath their watchful eyes, the park is warm and full of Sunday neighbors. Children screech with joy racing pedal cars around circled paths, grizzled men warily assess their opponent’s skill at chess. Mothers stroll chatting like Jersey housewives while their husbands shake their heads. Above all, Chile is a country of Families. I envy them. Their closeness, their value. Their difficulties as a country have created a strong community grounded in love for each other. I am welcome among them, but an interloper as well. Their hospitality is politely curious but never overly familiar in warmth. I put away my maps and wander the streets snaking through the hills. As steep as San Francisco, these hills are meant to put muscle in your legs and keep the empanadas at work. Houses pile together: some aging ladies with elegant demeanor, some crisp young gentlemen with every hair in place. The further up the mountainside the idea of structure wears down to aluminum siding leaning drunkenly against the slope. Piles of trash pour down from the crest indiscriminately spreading from shack to mansion. Instead of pulling the focus from the buildings, it adds a bit more character. The Monet-like specks of garbage blend into the strongest unifying factor: murals of graffiti cover every surface until the entire town looks like an Urban Louvre. The days roll easily as a game of ‘Chutes and Ladders’ traipsing up the miles of stairs, winding back down again. Eventually I broke down and took one of the ascentures, elevators straight to the upper deck. Sunset views of the entire bay. Lovers walking together in sentimental eternity. Down to the waterside, families packed into tiny boats taking a whirl upon the sea. A crusty one-eyed fisherman named Ricardo cozied up to me, telling me to take his picture proudly in front of the boats at harbor. Sometimes, this life seems surreal.

Ode to Valparaiso

By: Pablo Neruda

Translated by: Laney Sullivan

What nonsense

You are

What a crazy

Insane Port.

Your mounded head

Disheveled

You never finish combing your hair

Life has always surprised you

Death woke you

In your undershirt and long underwear

Fringed with color

Naked

With a name tattooed on the stomach

And with a cap

The earthquake grabbed you

You ran

Mad

Broke your fingernails

It moved

The waters and the stones

Sidewalks

And seas

The night,

You would sleep

In the ground

Tired

From your sailing

And the furious earth

Lifted its waves

More stormy

Than a tempest

The dust

Covered you

The eyes

The flames

Burned your shoes

The solid

Houses of bankers

Trembled

Like wounded whales

While above

The houses of the poor

Leapt

Into nothingness

Like captive birds

Testing their wings

Collapse

Quickly

Valparaiso,

Sailor,

You forget

the tears

and you return

to hanging your dwellings

to paint doors

green

Windows

Yellow,

Everything

You transform into a boat

Your are

The patched bow

Of a small

Courageous

Ship

The crowns nest

With foam

Your rope lines that sing

And the light of the ocean

That shakes the masts

And flags

In your indestructible swaying

Dark star

You are

From far away

In the height of the coast

Shining

And soon

You surrender

Your hidden fire

The rocking

Of your deaf alleys

The naturalness

Of your movement

The clarity

Of your seamanship

Here ends this ode

Valparaiso

So small

Like a cloth

Helpless

Hanging

Ragged in a Window

Swaying

In the Wind

of the ocean

Impregnated

With all the pain

Of your ground

Receiving

The dew

Of the sea, the kiss

Of the wild angry sea

That with all of its power

Beat the rocks

It could not

Knock you down

Because on your southern chest

Is tattooed

The struggle

The hope

The solidarity

And the joy

As anchors

Resisting

The waves of the earth.

Chile I: The Show- "You can cut all the flowers but you cannot keep Spring from coming." (P. Neruda

ejpredny — Wed, 20 Apr 2011 16:03:00 GMT

Brilliant yellow diamond sparkling of golden promises, Santiago huddles in the shadowed embrace of the strong and silent Andes. Farther and farther she fades back into darkness as the plane so easily takes me away from my dreams and back towards reality. By the time we land it will be hard to imagine that Chile ever really happened. But right now, in the space between lands filled with sky and stars, Chile stays with me as a quiet friend reflecting in the magic of the moonlight.

The Dancers and Crew landed in Santiago dragging eyes and limbs uncertain if we were here or there. Hours of travel might have dulled the will to live, but the heat of the sun soaking into our wintered skin awoke wild enthusiasm for this week’s “home.” I always have a bit of culture shock with each new country I visit. The moments of ‘Oh shit, I don’t speak Spanish’, ‘how in the world am I going to figure out what bus to take?’, ‘Am I really capable of doing this on my own?’, ‘where AM I? what if I never find my hotel again’, and my personal favorite ‘WHAT?!?! Is that guy EATING?!?!?! And will they expect me to eat that?!?!?!’ Matt and I took cover in a tiny little coffee shop that seemed to function on a level we could relate to. Or so we thought, figuring out the words to say that would be rewarded by caffeinated goodness, figuring out where to sit, how to get the check… all tricky at best.

We wandered to the Plaza de las Armes and into the Cathedral. Both introspective souls stunned into reverence by the reverberation of Belief pulsing from every surface, we spent time drinking in the moment. Finally here. Chile. I give thanks to every god of every religion ever thought of by mankind, maybe even a few more. I give thanks to my brother Chris, to my parents. It feels like a good way to start a new journey- remembering with gratitude how you came this far.

In the afternoon I struck out on my own. I love cities with a distinctive grid. Santiago is easily navigable. Streets seemed to caress me on my way, guiding me exactly where I wanted to be. Starting the central market with the tough girl exterior earned through years of solo travel, I glanced at the fish stalls and wandered through the massive wheel of waiters hawking their wares like sideshow men. After exchanging brief pleasantries with the High Ups now dining in the market, I wove my way across the river to the more gritty and native produce market. Vibrant Green, striking reds, enthralling hues of every color that the earth can imagine piled from floor to ceiling enticing culinary Olympians to step up to the table. Still gaining my piernas (travel legs) I decided to explore the hill crowned by a giant Virgin Mary statue towering over the city. The streets along the hill had few people but lots of dogs napping in the sun. Buzzing noises like a swarm of bees purred from the cracks between the boarded up windows. I peeked inside to see countless rows of sewing machines performing in a synchronized ballet of textile creation. Fascinated by the mechanical wonder of it all, I watched filled with envy of their ability to take raw goods and transform them into beauty…

I found my way to the FUNicular. The little slanted train going right up to the top of the Mary Hill. At the top, I crossed trains with a posse of dancers a tourist trap ahead of me. It still amazes me that our company can be dropped in a major metropolitan city of the world, and still manage to find each other five times a day without trying! It’s nice to feel like the experience is shared. The Virgin Mother was both stern and angelic. The views of the city were spectacular. Enjoying the slanted sunlight of the afternoon and the quiet peacefulness of my thoughts, I shunned transport downhill and took to the tentacle paths winding in all directions from top to bottom. Central Park on steroids- at some points you could not even tell that the city exists so persuasive were the trees. I found the Japanese garden and sat with all the lovers making good the panorama of skyscrapers and mountains glowing in sunset hues. That night I did not search out the company of friends. I dined in the company of Pablo Neruda (have I mentioned he is my love?) at one of his favorite restaurants. The waiters seemed to laugh at me for being the gringo girl eating alone with a book of Pablo Neruda at my side, but then again I am probably just fulfilling the obligatory stereotype that began with the beatniks decades before I was born…

That first day a fleeting memory by the time we started our work the next day. In theater, you start knowing there will be a certain amount of unforeseen disturbances that setback your schedule. The cargo was delayed by a fuel explosion in Miami, won’t be here until the afternoon. Fine. Everything we can do around it, we do. The local crew works just like we would at home only in Spanish. We supervise the finer details of what we need to do that is somewhat out of the ordinary technical standards of design. Without language, it’s fun to see how people are basically the same everywhere we go. The carpenters act the same as the carpenters back home (if I get into specifics here the Stagehands may revoke my membership as giving away the rivalry that grows deep between technical departments in a family feuding kind of way). When I had just finished cutting up my paperwork to an origami shape better suited to my work, I saw the cuttings of paper on the table below me- the local master electrician had made the same surgical proceedings on HIS paperwork!!! He was not too receptive to my flailing charade pantomimes trying to get him to see the similarities and laugh with me. Ok, ok, I will let you work today, but eventually you are gonna LIKE me!!!!

Somewhere in mid-afternoon, when we should have been progressed much farther along than we were, we started asking more direct questions through the translator. When can the console get set up? Why are the numbers not working for the lights? Soon it becomes apparent that this is the first big show in the theater since the earthquake. The dimmers are brand new and not even assembled in the racks. The rental board is plugged into a router to nowhere. Oh my, this is going to be a loooooong night! We worked from 8am until near to midnight with a one hour lunch and a 5 minute dinner of empanadas in the crowded, windowless dressing room which smelled faintly of dinosaurs. The hotel bar closed between the time we walked in the door and the time we said Hola! to the bartender. No drinks, no sleep, no problem.

The next day started early and never ended. The sun isn’t even awake when at 7am, I restacked the cues on Andy’s computer while downing coffee shots and toast. The morning dissolves into trouble shooting new problems, the afternoon rewarded our hard work rewriting all the cues in the shop when we went blindly into tech. Skating by with only a few unintended blackouts and two rehearsal stopping breaks for light mistakes. Hee hee. Pay no attention to the light on the curtain. Damn. The show. Must. Start. Must. Start. Must. Go! The relief when the curtain finally goes down is paramount to getting your tax envelope stamped at 11:59p the day before it’s due. The need to break the tension, morphine??? Ok, cervesa.

After a night of celebrating our tenacity, I still woke up in time for a bit of exploring before rehearsal started just after noon. A girl with a plan, I hit directly for Pablo Neruda’s Santiago house: La Chascona. Breathe. Obsessed with all things maritime (like me

Along the little stream trickling through the garden the first house is the boat for their love to sail the world. Captains quarters with the bar, receiving room, kitchens, and dining room. Knickknacks from his world travels inhabit spaces like a thousand happy faces in a crowd, smiling with their memories of the past and welcoming visitors to guess at how Neruda came into their lives. My favorite detail (as all great lovers of the literary world devour the detail of a house as the intricacies of understanding the heart within the dweller) the dining room, relaxed and reeking of wine and laughter- has a secret door built into the cupboard so that Neruda could escape the boring company of state dinners he was forced to have a senator. I want to have such a door. Once you have spent enough time at sea to start your journey into the depths of Neruda and his love, you shore up at the lighthouse.

The lighthouse has windows encompassing the whole of Santiago and the Andes behind.The bedroom. A quiet place full of pillowed conversations and deep seated reverence for the most important joy of life- amore. The knickknacks take on a deeper meaning here. Fertility gods from Africa, long life totems from Asia, love charms from the gypsies, and tarot cards to guess at the future of your life together. With all love the desire is to know it, to keep it, to let it grow wild with wonder and mystery. I can picture his joie de vie, savoring the sensuality and poetry as she becomes the muse of his heart. Love is not a commitment, not a prison to hold you down. Love is a glass of wine, an afternoon in the sun-soaked bedroom, a moment of completely understanding the other. The evolution into marriage: the structure created by society as security, as comfort, as acceptable affairs. As Matilde grew in friendship and love to be the center of his world, here they would watch the sun rise and set together. A life past the dreaming reckless of youth, cured into appreciation of all that has transpired. They lived among the most brilliant creative minds of the century, lived through the most horrific unspeakable persecutions, lived to explore the span of the earth, but utlimately their lives were fulfilled by creating a home. The lighthouse is the afterglow of a companion that shares the story, accepts aging, loves the worst intrinsic faults- a love for all his years.

The last link to the life on land is always the bar. The place where sailors go immediately after docking to let off steam. And Neruda’s bar is no exception. Fully stocked and reported to have no closing hours, it was THE place to be in Santiago’s raging 60s scene. After soaking in the camaraderie of good conversation, he would make his way up the stairs to his writing room. Filled with books of the world, globes, philosophies old and new. He put a picture of an anonymous but ugly woman above his desk, so she would keep him from distraction. I thanked her for her labor. The most wonderful words were strung together in that room. Poems to inspire generations long after the muses have lost their beauty and their lives. Ideas conceived that would transcend the borders of nations the world over. A Nobel Prize. And the heart of Emily…. Sigh.

Filled with light and peace, I went back to work. Rehearsal. Show. Beautiful dancers who make me feel I am not on my own in the world. I am understood. A heavenly day. The next was a full day until the show. I hitched my buggy onto a group of dancers setting out to hoof the city. The four of us were exploring by feel, camera lens, and an occasional half-hearted glance at a map.

Barrio Brasil- the perfect combination of revolution and ramblas. Trees stood like distinguished gentlemen waiting for the mad rush of cars to pass along the manicured medians of the avenue. We peeked in windows of sweeping Tara mansions (from Gone with the Wind) imagining a life of dance cards and drawing rooms. Further, a man carefully steers a horse-drawn cart around ambush-hungry potholes. Houses lean against each other, broken soldiers surviving earthquake tremors and residential neglect. Shops in Santiago spread out along tradesmen lines- the hardware district, the furniture district, the textile district, even a cheap crap mall district. If there is something to buy, price comparison is as simple as walking along a few streets. Museums and parks, the richest boutiques and the roughest second hand markets; there is no consistency to the good or bad- it all plays without judgment in Santiago. Have or have not and then just get on with it.

The discrepancy lends itself to one symbiotic relationship- the poor artist supported by the rich socialite. The appreciation for art is vibrant in the city. The graffiti has a finished, respected nuance to its rough medium; the museums step into grace with the broad strokes of appreciation. The architecture of the streets: landscaping of the parks, dignitarian expressions of statues: grandiose elegance of cathedrals; even in the melancholy rubble of destruction the variety of the visual spectrum is fascinating.

The show that night was the worst I have had in a long time. Every mistake possible to make, I made it. I curled under my tail and ran as fast as my legs would take me from the theater. Luckily, Matt never judges my mistakes to be failures, and his understanding voice tempers the harsh critic built into my mind. It's nice to have an accomplice, a bonefide friend as the head of my department; we have forged with steel a foundation of respect withstanding the most frustrating of days.

We went to dinner in the fancy part of town. The Lincoln Park, the Kensington High Street to see and be seen as fashionable and elite: St. Lucia disctrict. Patagonia restaurant. We squeezed through the crowd and locked a table in relatively little time. Crafty and skilled in our attack. We looked with drooling eyes at the dishes parading around us. One of everything seemed to make the most sense. We started with a tablas- a plate of cheese, meats, vegetables, and exceptional accoutrements for savoring with wine and good conversation. Putting on our highest snootery, we tried to cover our lacking comprehension of the waiter’s persuasive sell. When the service arrived, our Class took a hit when our eyes bulged out of our heads- it could have fed a family of six easily. At this point, we figured out the hidden message of the waiter’s Spanish: The tablas includes a whole bottle of wine. No wonder he though it strange we ordered a few separate drinks. Oh boy! We were playing against a stacked deck. Never had a chance. Bowled under the table, we left half of the “meal” behind without even making it to an entrée and had to take our bottle of uncorked wine to go. A difficult defeat. One final battle of incomprehension erupted into laughter as our waiter Auctioneered some crazy conversation at our nodding facade of understanding smiles. Do you understand what he said? Yeah, neither do I...

We decided to roll out one last Team Electrics escapade. First a museum of the life of St. Francis. I could hardly process the sheer amount of works in the endless rooms of the abbey. A painting for every event in his life. Screeching devils of temptation, ethereal angels guiding grace. I am pretty sure there was a painting depicting the loss of his first tooth! The epic proportions of knowledge that the trio of artists put forth are a few lifetimes of dedication. Trying to de-stimulate some of the overactive brain, we climbed the fortress of St. Lucia Park: a piece of a country estate snuck under the radar of city bustle. Another place to imagine that the city does not exist. I envy cities that manage to accomplish this herculean feat. Central Park in New York, Hyde Park in London they both provide escape from the madness of traffic and the concrete monotony of living in a city. I could not bear to break myself away but the final show was waiting to be cultivated. The show was a beautiful rendition of what we aim to create for every performance night. Full of magic, they danced smoothly with serene fluidity movements that would break a lesser being. A high spirited party finished the trip with boisterous celebration from a victorious team. I was going to miss them all tomorrow, but eventually I always carve an adventure of my own. Valparaiso, Argentina, Easter Island, Ushuaia- names of places that sounded so exciting I couldn't imagine the road that I should take. All I knew was that I wanted to do EVERYTHING, but there never is quite enough time….

on the eve of a dream coming true...

ejpredny — Sat, 26 Mar 2011 16:08:00 GMT

Travel dust shakes itself from the bottom of my well-worn backpack. The cats begin alternately fighting and following my every move around the apartment; they know from experience that they won't see me for an indefinite amount of time. My brother used to say that when I travel, they think I'm dead and wait in anticipation of my return from the netherworld. Life is like that sometimes for wanderers of the road. Neither a part of home or abroad: in limbo until we meet again. The past week has been a whirlwind of running errands, finding time for goodbyes to those I love, cleaning veraciously for the house sitter, and scouring the internet for tips of places to go and things to see. I haven't breathed in a month...

You see, this trip is not just another of Emily's World Travels.

This is THE TRIP.

I had a Trigonometery partner my junior year in highschool- Francisco. He was one of the most beautiful, funny, and compassionate people I have met in my life. We would help each other with the normal academic requisites, but the days I most remember are when we found words he didn't know- like jukebox, and I would draw one for him to "see" what we were talking about. He talked often of his home- the wonders abounding from skiing the Andes, people with limitless hearts and laughter, and places so mysterious that I remember the names 16 years later. He instilled in me one of my lifelong dreams: to visit Chile.

Half of my life now has been spent in pursuit of this dream. Often I have mounted campaigns to go. Every time those dreams have been dispelled by diminishing funds, breakups with travel partners, unexpected timing delays, and in the case of the past few years- having vacation that starts from a tour ending in Europe (making a trip across the globe to get where I really want to go seem a bit foolish).

Last year, we were slated to go on tour to Chile with the dance company. I was excited, but with reserve for I was certain to be fired or have some other calamity prevent me from going. Well, a month before our trip, 7.0 earthquake damaged much of Santiago including the Theater which we were to play. I felt partially "responsible." Millions of people suffered and I, once again, was prevented from reaching my dream.

Now, I am 24 hours away from landing in Santiago on the remounted tour with Hubbard Street. I can hardly believe that it might finally be happening.

For one week I will be working with the company- breaking down the language barriers in order to support the creative production of sharing our artistry with the Chilean people. The pieces we are doing are challenging both technically and artistically for dancers and crew, but they represent some of the best work our company has produced in the past year. I am proud to be a part of such a wonderful experience. After the last performance closes the curtain on our time together, I will say goodbye to friends new and old and sling on my trusty backpack in search of a new adventure.

Right now, I am planning on heading out first for the farthest reaches of the earth- Patagonia. There is so much to do I can hardly narrow down my desires into two limited weeks.

Hiking those volcanoes in the Lakes District, waddling with the Penguins in the Magellan Straights, horseback riding along the magestic spires of the Andes, cruising the Patagonian Fjords on a shipping freighter, planting my feet down in Ushuaia- the Southernmost city in the entire world, discovering the mysteries of the Maori on Easter Island...finding a Pablo Neruda of my very own and falling in love to the soft whispered sweetness of poetry... I know I can't manage to do everything, but my heart swells at the possibilities. My soul cries for wide open spaces with limitless skies. The end or the beginning. A new chapter in a life filled with adventure, a cherished memory to file away in the story of my life, or a closing song in the years of unreserved youth: what that happens from here is a part of my legacy- a life that has been lived each day to the fullest in the spirit of exploration.

and ultimately, I would like to dispel once and for all a myth perpetuated by our society and it's narrow views. On the brink of a precious dream at long last finally coming true, it's not that anything is possible...

Here, in this moment: EVERYTHING is possible.

know yourself. trust yourself. and hold on.

ejpredny — Fri, 30 Jul 2010 16:23:00 GMT

The doomsday clock maliciously turned hours into seconds as my final days in Iceland wound to an end. I scampered about, wishing desperately that I could gather up the entire country into one big bear hug and refuse to let go!

I had a big plan to sneak out to the Snaefelles Penninsula for the day- squeeze every drop of adventure out of the day. My first stop was Stykkishólmur- a port town that wants desperately to be Cape Canaveral but lacks the corporate sponsorship to really enact that kind of synergistic utopia experience. This is land of the TOUR GROUPS- lunch at a small diner took almost two hours, and all the kitchen could concoct in that amount of time was a bowl of soup, some bread, and an icecream sunday. Lunch of Champions. Already behind in my intention for the day, I cruised the coastline until the call of the crystal sand beaches drew me out to sea. The hardest part of having such beautiful beaches is that the sun never surrenders the potential of the scene. The cold frozen wind nips at the iceberg waves and toes shrivel in fear at the very thought of testing the water. The seagull calls mimic the Floridian morning, but only a fool believes the birds... brrrr!!!
I drove down to the big National Park with the mountain and glacier which lends the region its name. It was impressive, stoic, and throwing a climb-me gauntlet in my face- but time was not on my side. My hour was spend investigating the secrets of the most scenic graveyard in the entire world, filled with Sigur Gunnerssons and Kristina Karlsdottirs that bespoke the connections tying all together in eternity. My last hurrah for this field trip was a boulder along the lava rock beaches lining the return to Reykjavik and give the cliffs their proper indian names of Fat Man's Beer Belly, and Turtle Racing Horse Cliff. The Snaefelles is a little microcosm of Iceland. A little bit of all the scenery contained within a days drive. Only making it that much harder to say goodbye at the end of the day. The only way to cheer up a girl being deported from her newfound love is with CHEESE> dinner at Viking World it is!
So, to be fair, perhaps Viking World has some moment of full out popularity. Perhaps the stars align, the booths fill with token seeking tourists, and the servers forced to dress in "period" viking regalia actually bluster up the energy to give a good growl as they slam down the wooden goblet of ale before you... but definitely not on a saturday night at 10pm...and if not a saturday, then when??? Instead, it is depressively consigned to be a hotel bar filled with crusty old business travellers lacking in humor or exuberance for living the VIKING dream... more the pity. I contented myself with reading a few Saga summaries and mulling over the fact that the rotting carcass of shark was the least suspicious former sea inhabitant on the plate before me. And no Black Death moonshine chaser was going to sear the taste of pickled herring from my tongue! Little did I know that the exotic Ptarmigan poultry dish would have me yearning for the nasty little fish once more. Not even dessert could salvage the belly churning disturbance of a traditional Icelandic meal... ugh.

I had one last touristic monstrosity in mind. Along the road, everyone kept talking about the devastation wrought by the eruption of Eyjafjallajokull. I had been through that area on my first day of driving, but hadn't thought to pay attention for the signs of where it had happened. I wanted to drive as far as I could for the morning and then return the car by early afternoon. The area I had thought was just smooth dusted farmland was really massive mounds of volcanic ash. Circling a farm that said closed for camping, I found the forlorn swimming pool floaties looking on in catatonic depression at the black ash-filled pool. It struck me, the threats of environmental tragedy that the population endures on a constant basis creates such a fragile treaty of trust between the people and the land. They build up everything in the shadow of Eden, knowing that at any moment, they must allow it all to fall away. The price payed for opportunity here are more heart wrenching than some stock market number crunch- the hard work investments are ever more personal in depth. A bus pulled up by the roadside at the entranced as I meditated my moment of silence. Suddenly the doors opened and camera clicking tourists poured out of every hole! They crouched to the group clutching tiny plastic bags and began the ash inside as if it banked the value of Gold. Hundreds of disaster hunters visiting each day- I can only hope it acts as free aid to the farmers trying to unbury their land.
In my efforts to return the car, I pretzeled Reykjavik even more haphazardly than the first day. When I ended up trapped behind the airport again I couldn't help but pound the steering wheel with Viking shouts of "I hate you stupid Reykjavik" (what? were the vikings more eloquent??) I set out for the Runtur- my airport transfer leaves at 4am, no sense in sleeping when the pub crawl is going on! I erased the horrors of Ptarmigan by trying Puffin in Blueberry Brevin sauce, much nicer. And as long as I am being completely wrong and killing off my friends, I will say that whale is hardly worth the sadness that comes as a shooter on the side. I found a local bar off the strip- identified by blaring of American Cover songs jarbled out with the gusto of a massive man so talented he can still manage to change the riffs perfectly under the blitz of alcohol radiating from his blood. An old man came up and asked me to dance. Never one to pass up life, we swung around the dance floor in the classic style forgotten by the cyber generations today. My laughter blended into the symphonic track of glasses clinking together and feet tapping in time on the wooden floor. He gave me one of the best compliments of my life- "you are so completely unspoiled by life... so open and joyful" and ladies, i have learned very well on this trip one truth to life: no matter how unlikely the promise of the man, always take the compliment to heart, and say thank you! Let it brighten your day.
It is time to leave Iceland.
I absolutely want to stay forever, but the only reason I will get on that plane is because the last scene before me is Reykjavik- the bratty partying stepdaughter to the country I love.
I arrived in London a cracked out mess of the night before. Eyeliner shadowing my raccoon eyes, jeans under the dress from the night before, I am certain that immigration was skeptical if I could hack it in the formal English world. I decided to go all in and just hop the train straight to Edinburgh. Knocked out on the train, I woke up in a macabre medieval fantasy land leveled like a huge game of Mousetrap gone awry.
The culture shock of the scottish accent, the cars attacking from the road in all directions, the streets that could not decide upon one direction so they just as soon went straight up!, it was all too much for my sleepless mind to grasp. I huddled into some comfort food in the rainy night, and listened to the Gaelic local band until the pints of beer lulled me to sleep. And then I went home.
Now the viva vacation! attitude has trashed by body completely by this point. The least popular girl in any hostel dorm is the one hacking up a lung in the middle of the night. At this point, one week of no running, bronchial tubes weighing my lungs with ten pound gallons jugs, I was sick of being sick. Desperate for relief, I started taking the 2-yr expired antibiotics I always carry in my bag. You know what goes well with Antibiotics? Whisky. So begins the Scotland Whisky Experiment. Start stupid, I always say, and in Edinburgh that would be the Scottish Whisky Experience- an amusement ride in which you ride in a barrel of whisky through a Disneyfication of the brewing process. Im-aaaaaa-gin-aaaa-tion, Im-aaaaa---giiinnnnn--aaaaa-ttttiiiooon (if you have not been to Epcot, you will not get that reference). It all ends in a whisky tasting room, and I swear, the heat of the Laphroaig calmed my abused lungs and the coughing stopped for a full hour! It only started again in the Black Plague Room of the Real Mary's Close tour. The close is the name for the narrow alley the winds its way seven stories below the modern street. There are hundreds of cross stitched Closes all slanted down the hillside, geniusly running the sewage of the medieval city into the Nor Loch (bay to the sea). Effectually polluting the most likely source of water for the people, creating the long standing tradition of exclusively drinking whisky or beer. Mary's Close was particularly hit hard by the Black Plague- nearly 85% of the residents died. It highlights as one of the most disturbing and haunted places in the city as when superstitious turn of the century folk refused to live in the cursed locale- the city built a massive hall on top, using the old buildings as foundation and sealing the Close in a frozen timewarp of tragedy. Now, they have opened enough holes to allow the tourist access and hired ghost-impersonating actors to seal the deal.
Fact is, finding anything to do in Edinburgh that does not involve alcohol or dead people is pretty slim pickings! This city is morbidly obsessed (and this is coming from me!!!)
The castle was a main-tout attraction, and I doooo love a good castle. Pretty enough in moments, steeped in incomprehensible history, it did not really compare to the Wawel Castle in Krakow for my favorite vote. The exhibits ranged from artillery to Crown Jewels, impressive enough for a peasant American, but the moment with the most weighted gravity was the War Memorial filled with books upon books just listing soldiers fallen in every battle ever fought by the British empire. Then names seem to march in an endless brigade of sadness. The honor in their courage as smooth and solid as the grey slate walls, dedicated to protecting the citizens within.
Reflective, I took a hike up to King Arthur's Seat in Holyrood Park- a mountain that rises out of nowhere just down the street from tourist row. It was a steady challenging climb, and the sunset view was payoff enough for the day.
Off to Inverness! Capital of the Highlands, it will always be shopping mall shitsville to me. The one salvageable moment of Inverness was the hike a mile out of the city to Ness Islands- a really nice park that the locals use to work out in- everything from bootcamp to fishing in the river, it was a calm and welcoming few hours that had me napping comfortably on a bench. I met a local guy walking his dogs who will live forever in my mind as the only Scotsman I met who lived up to my expectations of who they would be. Stocky, burling in accent, and charming in temperament, he was rough around the edges in the nicest way. He told me that the Isle of Skye was really touristy and not as beautiful as Glen Coe and gave me a ride back into town, warning me of the shady parts that I should avoid after dark. I should have avoided it all after dark, as the English soldier barracks empty themselves on the town and the men gravitate towards estrogen like piranhas smelling blood.
I made it out of town alive, but man, I will never be in a hurry to go back!
It was here that I has to make the hardest of tourist decisions: I really don't give a shit about the Lochness Monster. I stopped here because it is touted in every tourist guide, on every tour and ever itinerary for scotland. And less than an hour away, I realized that I don't want to even waste one hour making a pilgrimage to a lake that hold absolutely no interest for me... now why was that such a hard decision to make? do I think I might be missing the coolest attraction that Scotland has to offer? Sometimes the hardest part of traveling is knowing yourself. If I know that I would rather hike in the mountains than spend a day on the tour bus, I should trust in that knowledge of myself, embrace it. Because that is why I am here! So you will have to forgive me if you were dying to know what it is all about, I don't care...
I did a day trip out to Isle of Skye, but believed my Inverness friend's advice only minutes after arriving in town. All Tourists. I hiked over the bridge between 'Land and Skye' and then hopped the first bus to Glen Coe.
The very minute I arrived, I fell in love. This is Scotland as it was always in my mind. Green, mossy, rolling forests dark with mystery... Tiny little cottages bursting with flowered plants advertising their inhabitant's taste. It was perfect in every way. I was savoring every minute of my 3 mile walk to the hostel right up until the local pulled up and offered me a ride. Perfect.
I stayed for a few days, in a wonderland of hiking and hospitality. Exploring the tiny little town Folk Museum, I met the alter-world Emily- a woman in her 40s from Chicago who married a Scot and moved back home with him to Glen Coe. She runs the little Folk Museum and spends all her time chatting up the locals and the tourists, bridging the gaps of knowledge in between. She had traveled the world in her youth, and envied my freedom and courage in striking out alone. I envied her roots and her settled cozy hometown security, her sense of belonging and the luck with which she landed somewhere so tranquil and filled with peace. I think I am learning about myself that perhaps I don't want to live in the big city anymore. Perhaps the pace of life is running me out of myself in ways that I don't appreciate... but that's a bigger discussion.
In the afternoon, I started the 8 mile hike to the trail head of the Lost Canyon hike. Glen Coe was the site of the MacDonald massacre during the Highland Clearances when England was trying to squash all Scottish nationalism in their bid for authoritative control. 300 people died in the fighting, women were set off in the harsh January snow without clothing or food until they died. Catching wind of the betrayal before them, the MacDonald's hid all their cattle in a Canyon hidden in the bosom of the Three Sisters Mountains. Game for a difficult hike, this one reminded me of the Swiss Alps with Marcus, sweat pouring rivets as rushing as the river below as the rock cliffs challenged my eyes to find what footprint was meant to be the path. I hadn't started out to climb the entire mountain, but once I passed the canyon and people started encouraging me that I was almost there, I felt like it would be a shame to stop now. The last mile or so was an impossible lung burner. I must be getting soft with the lack of running and the bronchial distress! I was completely amazed at the resilience of some of the aged climbers that I passed along the way. If I was so disheveled and broken by the climb, I have no idea how some of them managed!
At the top, I met with three boys my age. They assured me that I was not getting soft, that climb was near to impossibly difficult for them as well! But the VIEW!!! Coasting through the clear sky like a seagull on the wing, the View took your eyes sailing straight out to sea- beyond the Hebrides Isles out to the most western part of Britain and to the crisp blue horizon beyond! The most beautiful day Scotland has ever seen! and there we were to enjoy it!
It was a delayed bachelor party for the recently married Scot among them. All teachers, and certainly more handy with a map than I, they let me tag along the way down, mostly because my athletic exuberance put me in a category more boy than girl anyways. We took to the ridges, and ended up hiking all that the Three Sisters had to offer. It took much longer than we had imagined. Many times, the way down was a sheer drop of graveled treachery waiting to call us to a heavenly home. Several times we had to turn back and look for a better trail. But it was GLORIOUS> my favorite day in Scotland unquestioned. Glen Coe, you may not be Iceland, but you're alright!
The sad part of small towns is that you cannot miss dinner or you will not eat. We skated down the side of the mountain, running break neck speed for their car to get to the only pub and restaurant before their 9pm close. A ride home, warm food, whisky, and the company of new friends- this is what Scotland is about.
The next day, I did not want to impose even more on their boys weekend (and I would hate to get them in trouble with their wives) so I left early in the morning for the hike back into town. The bus took a solid hour to arrive and then I found myself in Fort William, facing a few hours more for my transfer to Glasgow. I decided to go to the Ben Nevis Distillery- named after the highest peak in Scotland and the first legal brewery in the region.
Now there are several categories of Scotch. Islay Island breweries are peat smoked and sea scented, very spicy and thick; Lowlands are smoothe and mellow with honey or heather calming the nerves; Speyside, a region in the east close to the highlands, is the most complex, hints of fruit and harvest underneath; and the Highlands- the rock hewn highlands are the whiskies of smoke and peat playing with the heather and honey at the finish. Ben Nevis is the last of these. The distillery only employs about 12 people, so the tour with our particularly quirky guide and a dry humorous sense of pomp and circumstance for what equates to them as farm equipment was pretty hilarious. I went for a real meal of Seafood as the region is famed for to dry out the afternoon. But when I finally got back to the bus station, there was still another hour to wait. At this point, it became obvious that when attempting to get anywhere in Scotland, it is going to take all day. Even an hour ride can easily turn out to be an 8 hour trek. Glasgow is only two and a half hours from Glen Coe, but it managed to take me ten hours to get there.
The first reality to strike me about Glasgow is this is a college town. I have never seen so many obscenely short skirts and sky high heels in my life! The friday night bustle around the town was retina searing in its frivolity. I felt old. really old. and considering how I was partying all night in Reykjavik, I was not entirely certain why. The parade of hot pink and purple hair, the doc martins mixed with platform heels and ripped fishnets- everyone was waaay too punk rock cool. Being a habitual participant in freak flag displays of tattoos and hair dye, I always feel like a double agent when in normal clothes on the scene. But for some reason, I could not feel a part of Glasgow. No matter where I went. Everyone was considerably younger or older than me, and not with a timeless welcome for the stranger walking by. I cannot really figure out this city, or why I don't like it. but I don't. Don't like it at all.
The next day, I could not face the city of distaste before me, so I headed out on a day trip to an Island on the Argyll Coast that I had heard was interesting to see. Arriving to the quaint little Victorian hideaway within two hours, I immersed myself in the novelty of old town, Scotland. Where everything is friendly and historic, and the newspaper has headlines of people cutting their lawns or buying a new car. I really love small towns.
Out of town about 5 miles, there lies one of the most impressive mansions I have ever seen in my life. Mount Stuart was built by one of the most powerful families on the British Ilses- the Stewart family, Marquis of Bute. Walking through the manicured forest acres surrounding the house, you would never know the difference between a national park and private property. The vaulted cathedral entrance of the house gives way to an open vestibule that invites the gaze skyward in the most natural way. The ceiling is painted with an accurate representation of the night sky in all seasons from these coordinates on the globe. The constellations are brought to life in astrological splendor. It is the most brilliant mural I have ever seen and I want one. If I had all the money in the world, my house would look entirely like the one before me. The cool seagreen halls, the mirrored ends that take the corridors off to infinity, the three libraries!!!, and two conservatory green houses! Envy! Beauty! The chapel ceiling is red glass from russia that in the afternoon light strikes the white marble of the alter with a blood stained reminder that redemption is borne through the pain of right hearted men. The bathrooms has bubble bath dreams borne of claw footed tubs. To have that much money is unfathomable! and such a dream.
I asked if the family ever visits. The curator said the current duke was visiting presently from America, but he has private apartments in an area of the house not open to the public. There is more?!?!?!
I meditation on Disney Dreams of Princes as I walked the grounds down by the Sea. My second favorite place in all of Scotland. and once again, in a small, unmentioned by tour books town.
The way home was not so pleasant. The ferry missed the train by seconds, an hour wait. The train missed the connection at Stirling, another hour. The Scottish Public Transit obviously studied with the CTA!
Walking around Glasgow at dusk, I was trying to convince myself to give it another chance. The breaking moment, when I found the Necropolis! WOW! And I thought Edinburgh was morbid! Glasgow has a whole city of gravestones rising watch over everywhere you go! The largest mausoleums I have ever seen, a veritable city within a city, of the Dead! It chilled me to the bones but I loved every second of it. I found a vegetarian bar that had a decent crowd and at least did not make me feel ancient and stodgy, so I decided maybe Glasgow could be okay, in some places.
The next day I went strolling up around the university, then checked out the street festival before leaving. Naw, still not impressed. Glasgow almost makes me like Edinburgh.... and that is saying a lot!
The problem I have with the city, both cities really, is that is seems entirely composed of tourists and Englishman. There are so many trainspotting wanna be young men trying desperately to get themselves a way into living in England. In my 10 days in Scotland, I met only four or five true Scots, and I was looking for them! Scotland reminds me of the American Indians- a country that has been so ravaged by the controlling interest of colonial masters that it takes the proud and culturally vibrant people and it breaks them. Alcohol dulls the fight of their warrior ways and they submit, opening casinos and even assimilating into the mentality of wanting to be one of their conquerors clan. But true scots, they are still holding on. In the small towns, in the kilt wearing weddings, in the stealing back their coronation stone (the stone of Scone) in the dark of night from Westminster Abbey, and in the cheeky satisfaction that the ultimate peace between England and Scotland only came when Mary, Queen of Scot's son James took the English throne Elizabeth left without an heir:
they are still holding on. Sadly outnumbered, they seem almost to be on the endangered species list. But that only makes you feel more lucky to have found them.

the pay as you go plan.

ejpredny — Mon, 19 Jul 2010 16:30:00 GMT

The tentacles of the city rose up from the ocean and captured me in its depths with a voracious appetite for frustration. As I circled Reykjavik for the first hour of my car rental, I was stalling and starting as I got reacquianted with ye olde stick shift and tried in vain to find the highway that would start my great 'Circle the Island' adventure. It was late, but surely nothing on this little Island could be that far away! The hours dragged on in infinite sheep counting numbness as I struggled (as anyone who has ever driven with me as a passenger will understand) not to fall asleep.
The first turn that took me face to face with a glacier broke me out of my zombie slumber. Every day of life that bores me and tries my patience back home should be met with a reminder of a place like this: I am the luckiest girl in the entire universe. I am here. In a land more beautiful than any I have ever seen.
Recognizing the severity of their contry's ability to stop tourists in their tracks, the road has pull offs every mile or so to admire the view. I must have pulled of at every single on of them.
The crisp jagged edge of the newly broken mountains ardently embraces the soft dripping slope of ancient melting ice; who, unsure of his ardor, raises her glacial blue trsses into the power of the sky until the clouds reflect a grayly pouting jealousy of their stolen glory. To the right, the sea played out a sibling rivalry of rock hewn cliffs and rolling green pastures vying convincingly for my camera's lens.

At long last, I turned at the third sheep to the left and followed the narrowly winding gravel road to the farmhouse I would rest at that night. Mom greeted me with a humble soft-spoken warmth, inviting me to the breakfast room for tea and coffee but the ingrateful teenager I am, I had to get back out and see more.
I found my way to the black sand beaches and spent a few precocious hours climbing over the rocks like a child deciding if I am the first or the last person on the planet to find this amazing fortress playland. I made friends with the puffins who quizzically admired my human peculiarity. In just a week the midnight sky has gently relented it's sunlit severity, gracing me instead with a spectacular sunset that lasts for hours on end- I have indeed found heaven. A country with a love of softserve icecream, decent peanut butter (really!!! it almost tastes like American!), unlimited outdoor adventure possibilities, and endless hours to watch the sun set over the ocean. sigh. what could be better!?!?!

I have pushed my flagging haggard body to the point of bronchial diress at this point. Also typical Emily- I keep going until my body decides it has had enough and shuts me down. The mornings are the worst, luckily my store of Nyquil will keep me sleeping through the worst of coughing nights for at least a little while. Starting our later than i had planned, I had a full day of bravado planned- I was going to take on some Highland roads and get around the volcano Helka to the Holy Land of Hiking, the Landmannalaugar.
Now the roads that get off the main road and into the remote and really INTERESTING places are all marked F###- while boring old highways are just ###. When I got to the turn off, there was a big billboard sized sign warning that F- roads are off limited for 2wd and passenger cars- driving on these roads voids all insurance for rental vehicles. They are strictly for 4WD Jeeps and require fording rivers and other potentially dangerous conditions. I stopped at this billboard sign. I got intimidated, considered turning back. then said, eh, I will just got for a little while in my yes, 4wd but also passenger car, and if I get to a river, I will simply turn back...

It started off pretty well. As I cruised over the rock hewn lava fields broken down by the sheer amount of wheels traversing them daily, I thought, yeah, I am my father's daughter! Boldly aetting out for adventure! I can drive stick with champions, maneuvering expertly over the volcanic ash and rough rider roads. I came upon the first river. I pulled over as I had planned and watched a huge pickup truck swoosh through the knee-deep water like a car comercial in action! wow, I was not that stupid!
Then, a moment later, three models of Subaru no bigger than my little trusty Suzuki followed suit. hmmm... if they can....
I always made sure that another car was caravaning behind me, but then I ground down into a lower gear and confidently boated my way to the other side. I reached the sand-hued Star Wars desert set of Landmannalaugar and set off for a few hours of hiking.
The mountains first here look like layered smooth sand sculptures, every color of the sunset reflecting on the temperature of their volcanic birth. Several were still smoking from the natural steam accumulating in secret lava lagoons underground. Their neighbors are grumpy moss colored masses of broken rocky crumbles- evidence of the destructive ambivalence of plodding blundering Giants that obviously roamed here in the past. I communed with the elves and their troll cousins until I knew that I had to go- I was going to be painfully remiss in arriving at my little farmhouse well after grandma would have gone to sleep!
On the way back, I decided to take the road that let me out directly by the next town I was staying in- the hostess at the morning farm told me it was a beautiful route. I got a little cocky about my river crossings. Combined with my belting out of country tunes and my impatience to be done driving, I cannot say I didn't deserve the Elvish miscreancy that happened next.
I believe the song was "Country Road" by John Denver when I was ambushed by a deeply ravining river. The stark 45' angle of the upkeep required an extra ohmph of acceleration, which bumped and jolted the axels of the car like a bull bucking a cowboy. I lasted a few hundred feet bafore I heard the blood chilling sound of metal dragging beneath me. uh oh. this cannot be good.
It had started to rain by this time. Added bonus. I postured into my best imitation of a mechanic and found the plate under the front of the engine bent around one remaining bolt like a braided pretzel. Trying with my handy leatherman to unpry the remaining bolt, I could not get it to budge no matter what I did. Finally, a car came up the road behind me. The lovely french couple tried to help as well, no luck. no luck at all. The aussie lads that came from the other direction whistled their dismay at the state of the car. oh, shit. yeah. that's right. I know now what the F stands for, and that's what I am...
Duct tape, always handy in the past, seemed like the only thing to do. I taped and tied the metal up to the bottom of the car and asked the Frenchies if I could caravan with them back to the main road. The Aussies warned that there was nothing for miles in teh other direction and many more rivers, but I knew that the way I came was not an option either.
We crossed one river before I heard the scraping again. This time, I remebered I had bungee cords ataching my sleeping bag to the top of my backpack! Brilliant! Bungeed and secure, I prayed every second of that infinite ride to Please God, Let me just get back to the main highway!!!
and it took nearly 2 hours, but I did it! we did it!!! thank you, nameless french couple, for holding my hand and braving the way with me! I called the farm and told them I had car trouble- they said I was still 2 hours away. at midnight. great... sick and not sleeping is a great way to adventure your way straight to hell... but after today, I could sleep in a cardboard box and feel lucky.

Slow start again the next morning, I went first to one of my favorite points in all of Iceland- lake Jökulsárlón. It's an eerily poignant glacier lake with huge icebergs floating in balletic grace. The lake itself is only 30 years old- as the sea water wears away the layers of thousand year old ice, the water amassed into a great lake battle of fresh water versus sea in the glacier's fight keep it's composure.
As my little boat floated by, I could feel them melting, mezmerizing me with their slow seductive dance of death. I could have watched them for days, tracing their path out to the sea.
But the twinge of car rental damage started to spur at me. I called to turn myself in. They advised me that the next big town I passed through would have a rental location. I headed there and looked in the five street town desperately for their green logo without success. At tourist information, the manager informed me that it was not a location, it was a guy. She gave me his phone number, but when I called him, I felt my Icelandic Retardation quite pointedly. They all speak perfect english... but no westerner dares even attempting to pronounce a single Icelandic word! He was telling me how to get there. I could not make out a syllable of what he said. I had to ask the information desk woman to translate for me, feeling as helpless as a toddler as they laughed and chatted away the international minutes on my cell phone. She pointed out a blue house on the map, and within 15 minutes with a sawzall- he had the problem fixed.

On my way out of town I picked up a few hitchhikers in the spirit of travel karma. They were a nice German couple who helped me stay fixed on the road and not dally at the pull offs for too many pictures. I managed to get to my farm by 10pm that night- only to find that my room was in a Church! I brushed my teeth staring at the pews lined up to the altar and reflected that perhaps this was a bit heavy handed for a Sign.

I woke up expecting hymns and hallelujiahs, but just a normal breakfast and I was on my way.

Today I headed out for the fingering bays of the East- the homeland of the mystical creature in Iceland. The part of the country that has a Commission to investigate building sites for Elven homes before any plans are accepted. The rolling California hills of green grass sprinkled with wildflowers refused to let me keep driving all day. Soon I was channeling my inner sheep scampering up the steep slopes just to roll back down to play in the freezing sea. I love every small town I visit here. Everyone knows each other. Even their system of names assumes familiarity. Here, there are no family names. Your last name is your father's name, followed by daughter or son. My name would be Emily Robertsdottir. My father's name would be Robert Johnsson. It touches the quirky sentimentality in me that they were all so related that they only wanted to know who your father was to place you in the family tree. So years later, generations later, the tradition is still standing. So though the Gunner Gunnerssons about in the phone book, the entire country's phone book is smaller than my first year French book in school. I was talking to a young boy about the 6 degrees of separation, and he said that ws the reason the crime rate in Iceland remains so low- If you tried to hold up a liquor store, most likely the person behind the counter is your grandmother's best friend or your teacher's husband. There is no anonymity here.

The next day was a prehistoric wonderland. Lake Myvatn winds its mossy way along the low drawn brush of the land with a mysterious laziness. The tiny islands of trees and rock look like Brontasaurus backs, and I was certain the head was about to surface. I hiked around for an hour until the little gnats that are so prolific the lake is named after them became too much for me. I made my way to the craters lining the bridge of volcanic action. Huge pock-marks taken out of the earth like inverse volcanoes pointed to the sea. Lining these craters is sulphuric hot springs. YES!!! Don't mind if I do! I think nature makes complete sense- you may have the coldest climate around, but you are blessed with natural hot springs all along the way.

After the hot springs, I discovered the boiling mud flats of Haverarond. It looked just like the Neverending Story's Swamp of Sadness. Bubbling heavy brown mud with big burping flatulance stinking up the land with the a sulphuric stench. Made from the magma depths of the Krafla volcano next door, I followed the hot foot path to take a look gander at the George Lucas inspired power plant at the site of the volcanic core.

Feeling like a full day had already passed, I was not yet ready to actually get on the road home. I took the 200km detour out to see the Dettifoss Falls- the largest waterfall in Europe.

Pulling up after the long gravel drive, I was not certain I had made the right choice. But once the rocks before me fell away to the thundering rush of the water falling away, I knew that even Niagra cannot hold a candle to this! There are no safety barriers, if you are stupid enough to fall or have a death wish to enact, you are free to do whatever you wish. I laid my belly on the rocky cliff and stuck my head out over the edge, laughing impetuosly at the thrill of such power! I could feel the reverbance of the water rumble in the rocks below me, I marveled at the moment the water wishes it could race back up and hangs suspended in air, and individual caught up in the rush of it all going by too fast.

The day was unending wonders- On my way out I discovered a bird reserve nestled into a horseshoe canyon made my Thor's horse as he fled into the heavens...

pure bliss. I did feel bad when I finally rolled up to the farm that night. This was a mom and pop place. and mom was none too happy to stay up until midnight for her errand child!

I can't help myself. I love this place. I want to stay forever!!!

gettin outta this one horse town!!!

ejpredny — Sun, 11 Jul 2010 16:40:00 GMT

He looked at me squarely in the eyes, sizing up the spirit inside and making up his mind. I tripped over his name- Floki, chatting inanely about how I trust him completely and we are meant for each other while nervously fussing about checking all of the leather ties and hooks that would saddle me onto his back.
I hung back from the group, an aloof observer gathering the inside intelligence to fake my way into belonging in a group of seasoned horse riders. Jodhpurs tucked inside the rubber riding books I had hastily picked up in London, I wondered nervously if everyone could see how inexperienced I am. Every movement could be an enormous advertisement proclaiming me to be unfit for the six day riding tour- the agent selling me on the tour had been very cautious and uncertain about letting me book it. He warned me that they did not consider me to be seasoned enough in the saddle- that i would not have the stamina for seven hours of riding a day and that I would be booking it under my own liability if I could not hack it in the wild.
I was nervous, very unsure of myself, but after checking my advice center for life experience (thanks mom) I knew that I had made up my mind and nothing was going to stop me- not saddle sores, not risk of death. This was my tour, and I was gonna make it come volcanic eruption or freezing rain.
I arrive at midnight a full 28 hours before the tour begins. The sun spins slowly like a mobile in the sky. It never dips below the horizon, just shifts its place in the sky. I settled into my bunk at 3am and tried to lull myself into sleep, but could not shake the feeling that this country is like no where else on earth. Since I was a little girl and I learned that the Vikings named Iceland to discourage foreigners from her fertile lands of beauty and direct them towards Greenland's barren ice, I have been curious. Combined with a love of mythological sagas and history steeped with trolls and elves reaping havoc on the poor unsuspecting humans, I long to feel the mystery unfold. I want to find the Viking spirit in my soul.
The capital city is a small town by my comparative scale, but the shops are more sophisticated than the Bryant Park New York fashion shows. Everything is handmade, designed locally. A colony of artists and literary virtuosos, Icelanders are fiercely intelligent and educated about the world. I spent most of the day wandering the shops and just taking in such a brilliant collage of artistry.
That night, as the tour loomed imminently before me, I fortifyed my courage with a liquid test of strength.
I have traveled to many urban hotspots in the world, few pull off the revelry that Reyjkavik sustains every weekend night. Rest must come at your own instigation in the summer. There will be no help from nature as the 3am sky convinces me that I have only been at the bar for few hours, and the night is nowhere near an end. At 6am, I crawled the 3 miles back to the hostel only to find my roommates were already preparing for the bus to pick us up. Come volcanic eruption or risk of death, through sleep deprivation to rival the torture chambers of Gitanamo... this will be my tour.

The first day they took it very easy on us. We took a bus to a few herding tourist spots: the geysir rivaling Old Faithful in height, and Theervillir park where the first parliament of Iceland formed and where the continental plates are shifting apart at a speed of 7mm per day. All very nice, but a little bit uncomfortable to navigate in rubber boots. The green rolling hills, the cropping of volcanic rock forcefully breaking through the mossy grass, no one can deny the beauty of Iceland. But I want to experience something more...
By the time we had lunch, I had made two new friends. An American-born London transplant-Emma and a Scottish girl-Kirsty both about my same age with the spirit of adventure spanning all the continents. We stuck together, and their confidence handling horses relaxed me into realizing that the little things I was questioning were common differences in the worlds of equestrian sport. When we stopped to pasture the horses at Gulfoss falls, we took one look at the rocky cliff falling down the mountainside and our eyes lit with the same mischievous glint as the Vikings before us! Climbing down the rocky cliff to stand as conquerors beneath her powerful sprays was exhilarating. This was definitely my people. Definitely my tour.
Floki and I finished our first ride beautifully. In one day, I had learned how to tack the horse into the bridal and saddle, how to have confidence in my ability to control, and how to squeaze the Icelandic horse, known for it's independant spirit, into it's quirky 5th gate- the tolt.
We stayed up talking well into the sunlit night, admiring unearthly pictures our guide Denni had taken of this homeland to show the world the land where the Invisible people live. We spotted the little elves both cheerful and grumpy, we even discovered an elvish shark...
After finding our level on the first day, the second began our cross-country trek across the highlands, inaccessible by car. Riding the trails of the ancestors between the two glaciers, the land folded in my restless spirit. Tears seeped down my cheeks to quench the ground's lust for admiration as I felt finally at peace in the world. A land of bone-numbing cold and here it has risen such a feeling in my hard little shell that my reticence, my nervousness breaks open like an avalanche. Here I am, world, Emily again.
At lunch, we waited along the sunny green fields of grass for our date. The birds started to take flight, the horses neighed and flipped their restless manes, and then the sound: thunder never rumbled the earth with such a powerful trembling! the earthquake was accompanied by a massive blotting of the horizon as the wild herd of horses descended the plateau to join us. I longed to run along side them as they ate up the earth with their passage. The rugged men beside them carreened the mass into the fenced pasture waiting their arrival. the rest of our days will be spent riding along with this herd, changing our horses along the way as the mountains tax their stamina. Such a glorious wild beauty to be a part of. I am a part of this wild herd. Just as restless and untameable in spirit, but just as willing to be of service and take the guidance of tested men. The day was significantly harder- one of the Danish women who had been riding horses for 25 years and in fact owns Icelandic horses at home was thrown from here horse into the rocky plain twice by a spooked and nervous horse. The tension level arose as we realized that this is not just a playful dog that obediently follows direction... this breed of horse demands compromise and ability to see beyond the habits learned in training. this horse demands a special attention and skill. when we finally arrive at our tiny little home for the night, we crawl over each other to our bunks like summer camp kids.
Each hut greets us with Asa, our hostess with her husband Yalti. They are two of the most gravitationally welcoming people I have ever met. Warmth and love flow from them making the world a better place just with their existance, their staff bond together beyond just a money-making company. Together they instantly feel like family. People you will never forget and hope to happen upon again in this crazy world of shifting faces. She is a tiny blonde swede to whom competence comes as naturally as breathing. He is a quiet solid mountain of kindness, eyes giving away a curiousity about the people around his as he watches from the corner without notice. He knows the names of all the hundred horses, gathered from different farms around the country. He knows their tempermant and their habit within a few moments of meeting them and he never forgets a horses' face. I believe she does the same with people.

Everyone realizes that I am crazy when I wake up at 6am each morning to run the gravel roads laid out on the countryside linking the mountains huts we stay at to the rest of the rural world. With elves and birds for company, the sound of my feet hitting the rocks and the brisk loneliness of the morning hours suit my need to cleanse my mind of thought. When I passed the pasture, the herd started trotting right along behind me- I belong, I belong. It feels so good, i never want to stop. I am clocking 10 miles a day before a long day of riding, and not a muscles dares to complain!
The third morning was the longest, hardest day of riding- a full 7 hours through mountain terrain. The glimmering treat at the end of the horizon was a hut with a hot tub in the mountains. A very keen prospect considering the lack of showers for the two nights before.
The morning was rainy and freezing, the horses all seemed reticent to submit to our day. My horse in particular was testing my mettle. The moment I got on his back, he took off running as though he was out to show me the world. Not quite out-of-control, he seemed to just want to warm up as quickly as possible, and did not care to follow my suggestion that we walk along with the rest of the group. Karl, the teeming canvas leader of the herd riders, walked us back like chastised kids visiting the principles office. We walked along with the group for about a mile before my horse decided this descision blows, and took off again on a wild sprint. Side coaching from Gert, the co=leader of the tour was to take the horse in small circles. The more I pulled on the reins, the more the horse fought me tooth and nail. I pulled left, he turned right. I pulled back, he slowed for a moment then took off again. Tight pulls, burst pulls, nothing could get him to stop until finally he just took off for home like the kids on the last day of school in may. I held on for dear life and started plotting my escape.
Everything slows to precise time when your horse runs off without your consent. I had time to analyze each passing rock for it's potential impact to my body and helmet. As long as we were going in that direection, I decided that the softest landing possible had to be the river. We hit the water at full gallop, I rolled off the side and let go with the ceremony of an olympic gymnast dismounting the pommel horse. and I stuck the landing like a champ!
Funny thing about adrenaline, I was much more focused on getting a horse and getting back to the group than on how drenched with freezing water I was. Luckily my tardy tendencies came in handy as my bags were the last on the truck. I had been wearing almost every layer I brought to begin with, so now that rocks and water were pouring from my boots like I was my own natural waterway, Asa lent me her Ishestar jacket. I giggled about the hilarity of my farce as we tried to put together enough cover to last a day of wind and freezing mountain mist. Asa said later that she could hardly believe how calm I was and asked my cowboy savior Ziggy how he had managed to get me to laugh. Life knocks you down hard sometimes, Iceland tested my courage and I passed. I love this land for being so real. Nothing is taken for granted, not even my biggest lesson about being in charge of the horse from the moment you mount, and making sure your clothes are really nearby when you go for a river swim!
I was pretty tense for the rest of the day with the horses. The afternoon horse knew my restlessness was clouding my mind and kept testing me in my morning lesson. We made tiny little circles of tension over and over whenever he wanted to run for the herd. and we made it through the day. together. Through the outlaw valley of purple rocks and the mountain hike of perpendicular hoofing, we made it through. and the hot tub that night was the most beautiful sight I have seen in my life. Right after the beer.
the bar was a meeting point of groups traveling both north and south, passing ships in the night of gossip from the countryside and friends seeing each other for the first time in months. I love that the herd crew of Icelanders stays with us, quiet protective men who let loose and pour whisky in their coffees while we laugh and tell silly stories of our lives. In the bar that night, Asa, Yalti and the couple running the tour to the south showed us just how worldly iceland can be. These country horse people, so useful and confident in their survival in this wilderness sang the most beautiful Opera classics I have heard in my life. His voice so deep and clear, hers the soprano to rival Maria Callus. and the whole crew joined in icelandic folksongs for us to learn. the people here are part of everything, I admire them so fiercely for finding their place in this world, I want to be them when i grow up.
Kirsty and I stayed partyed like it was Reyjkavik that night, staying in the hot tub and bar until 5am. I woke up and the world was frozen. We visited the outlaw caves n the morning, tiny little hovels were they would winter out the year and build a life outside of society. to imagine the stamina, the strength to survive with nothing in the Artic winter. Chills the mind to contemplate.
Two short days of rides through miserable wind and freezing cold taugh us to appreciate the sun and every day brought new horses to learn and closer friendships. the nightly singalongs got more and more enthusiastic until I was pulling out my own Operatic past and brushing off my freakish memory for lyrics.
As we headed high into the mountains for our last day of hard riding, we could hardly believe that all that time had passed. My morning horse, Trolli, was the most perfect of gentleman. He nudged the oats from my hand at our morning snack break, and gave me a kiss to the cheek when he was through. I asked him to marry me, and I think he felt the same.
It was so hard to part when the last break came. We arrived at the last hut in shock that it was all about to end. No one wanted to let go of our new family, but that is the way of the world, we keep moving on.
Asa's last meal was one of the best of my life. Grilled Icelandic lamb with rosemary potatoes and rhubard gravy. melting into the couch in a coma of satisfaction, i could hardly gather the energy to play group games like musical chairs and freeze frame. We laughed so hard together. We graduated with certificates of pride. and as I hugged each of the crew goodbye, they thanked me for my smile, and wished i would come back soon. I think I just might.
now, as I said goodbye to my new friends back in Reyjkavik, I make plans to visit them in the next few weeks, always keep the people you meet who are mirrors of your spirit. good friends are hard to find.
and off we go to navigate the next challenge- stick shift driving on gravel mountain roads. lookout, iceland, I am not done yet!!!

Losing my Religion.

ejpredny — Wed, 11 Nov 2009 16:49:00 GMT

Trying to keep up with you...but I don't know if I can do it! (thought I would stick with REM since it is working for me :)

We snuck into Jerusalem under the cover of the night. Strike driving from Tel Aviv left us all a bit tired, but caffeinated around the edges. Our hotel was in East Jerusalem, a modern wealthy suburban affair with just enough of historical rehabilitation to make it suitable for dignitaries and kings. Hilary Clinton was tucked into expertly woven sheets just across the street!
I woke up as early as my body would allow- 7am, in order to get as much sightseeing in as possible before our 11am work call. No shining star pointing my way, I followed the brown tourist signs until the old city crested in panoramic splendor only a hillside away.
The walls surrounding the city make an interesting obstacle for navigation. I know what I want is directly on the other side. The sandy beige stones pile farther and farther into the clouds until nothing exists beyond their resolute barrier- this is the end of the world and the wall is the only safety keeping me from falling into oblivion.
Inside, Jerusalem is a shape shifting labyrinth beguiling the bumbling tourist with narrow streets and haunting quarters. My first attempt to enter the city was manipulated by an expert con-artist determined to make his living on the dazed hordes of pilgrims that swarm the city each day. I was following a bevy of nuns, seemed like a pretty safe sign that I was on the right path. Neil waited at the point the gate narrowed and said that I could not pass that way, but should follow the wall around the side to the open entrance. Hmmmm. Sucker! Then he wanted to show me all the sights inside- King David's tomb, the room of the Last Supper, the church built where Mary was born... all I wanted was to wander at my own pace and get a bearing of the city. It took me about 20 minutes of firmly saying I was not interested in a guide and that he was upsetting me to shake him off. The ease with which he crossed hospitality (and a genuine desire to make sure that I understood the importance of every little stone) - with the slick and calloused demand for services paid left me shaking my head about the many faces of solicitation.
On my own again at last, it took me about half an hour to find the rest of the old city tangled in the walls dividing the hillside. I ended up coming in to the backside of the Jewish Quarter in the Cardo- a wide and crisp shopping Mecca with everything from fine Israeli wines to anciently mysterious Judaica. The markets of the Jewish Quarter are fine lines of logical stores designed to put the traveler at ease. Walking into the stores felt almost as though a friend had invited me in to see if I wanted any items she decided to give away.
From here I descended into the glittering chaos of the Arabic markets. The molten center of the city is a maze of market stalls squeezing the herd two by two and oozing their swaying steps into a mindless dance of oblivion. The zombie stares of over stimulated tourists find every alley the same as the last, every road leading in a circle back around to the last until there are no mandates of direction- no North, no South, no East, no West, only Jerusalem. Perhaps it is the center of the very Earth!
Exhausted from trying to swim upstream, I found my way into the residential area of the Muslim Quarter. Here children ran free, dirty and unsupervised little scallions screaming with laughter and play. The women were buttoned up to their eyebrows in hijab, were mysterious and subdued. Even hidden in the swirling silk of my headscarf, I felt that the hair sweeping across my face was a scandalous amount of femininity to show!
By this point I had to run back through the city streets to get back to work on time. Jerusalem had swallowed me whole and spit out my bones, but would never allow me to leave. Ping-ponging between wall after wall after wall, no roads lead back home. Crows laughed with insidious caws as they flew past in the direction I needed to go- the far superior evolution has his day.
Salvation arose like the sun in the helpful directions of the shop keepers used to that bewildered wide eyed panic written on the faces of the lost. Every junction had another guide pointing in the same direction as the last. Free at last! Free at last! I found the magnificent beacon of the Jaffa gate and scurried on my way to work.
The theater was deep in the hills of East Jerusalem. The crew was a professional technical company that would accompany us for the rest of our tour through Haifa. They were the most amazing and efficient workers I have ever seen in all our countries of touring. More than just doing what you ask, they figure out how to read your mind and run your show so personally that Eddie, the head in charge, could easily have done any and all of our jobs as one by the time the first three performances were finished. They were warm and friendly, welcoming and willing to accomplish any task; a beautiful thing considering the severity of tour scheduling from that point on.
We finished load-in in record time and went out to the fancy dinner sponsored by our generous presenter. A celebration of Middle Eastern family, we noshed on hundreds of tiny little salads, hummus, pita, and kebobs of many colors. The wine freed our spirits and lightened our mood. Everyone we worked with on this tour- the presenter Yoel Peer, the technical advisor Modai, treated us as family. Perfection is touring Israel!

My second day in Jerusalem saw a more sure footed advanced tourist in navigation. My three hours of time were spent touring the Christian Quarter in honor of my Father's birthday. The Christian quarter has an overwhelmingly Greek/Armenian feel. I found the Church of the Holy Sepulcher pretty easily- just hitch on to any of the hundred tour groups heading through the city en masse, and you will be sure to find something.
Entering the church, I was greeted by five hanging vases reminding me of the Canopic jars of Egyptian embalming rituals. Thousands fall to their knees and start to kill the cold hard stone of Jesus’ Tomb as they beg for forgiveness of their sin. The weeping begins. When I ventured into the main atrium containing a large mausoleum with lines of hopeful Christians waiting to enter into a tiny chamber where Jesus entered into heaven, I started to feel vaguely uncomfortable even for someone raised Catholic. The amount of ceremony involved in the entire process is incredible.
The Church is representing the most Holy ground for all Christian denominations in the world. People have been making pilgrimages to see this lonely lot of dirt for centuries! So after much fighting and Crusade after Crusade of bloodshed, the Church has been split into sections controlled by different denominations. The Greek Orthodox- robed men with staggering beard and severe angular faces glare in disapproval at my femininity. They seem to have the controlling interest in the mausoleum and I am scolded for stepping one foot in the wrong direction while taking a picture of the inside. They are the great disciplinarians, the cow herders moving the tourists through at an unsympathetic pace.
The Armenians control the entry vestibule- Saints Saints Saints for sale, the tributes to all of those who have given their lives for Jesus remind us that no one really does it alone. Then there is the Catholic Chapel. Now this is the surprising point for me- the Catholic section is very simple, lacking the pompous circumstance of the other rooms. Wooden statues line the border of the ceiling and puritanical hard benches invite you to test the cushion of your butt as the service begins. The building is like a condominium of faith.
And somehow all of those very religious men add up to less impact than the mountains on the horizon in terms of spiritual realization for me. Wandering from room to room: Mary is chained in Crusader gold upon the wall, tiny rooms shoot off in every direction claiming that Jesus did something incredibly important in every inch of space, caverns of chapels descend into the center of the earth. Round and round and round she goes, what she believes, nobody knows! So much to see. Hard to take in everything.
It wasn’t until I found the little cove that holds the place where the cross was put into the ground that I had a moment of reflection. And even then it wasn’t about the altar of gold. What caught my attention was a bay of candles sitting quietly in a corner with carved stone and almost no precious metal whatsoever. The humble prayer of the lonely is what led me home.

The next day of wandering left so much to be discovered. 7am and taking to the empty streets- pouring rain would not stop me from seeing everything I could possibly fit in before the show! I started in the Jewish section- it feels the most like home. The metal detectors rival the airport security as I approach the Wailing Wall. The most holy site of the Jewish culture- the wall is the last section remaining of the Second Temple built in the era of King Herod the Great (built on the rubble of the first temple built by King Solomon. The wailing comes from the tradition of coming to the wall to mourn the destruction of the temple). The wall is believed to still hold the Divine Presence. There is a section reserved for men and a section reserved for women- the conservatives believe that only distraction comes from intermingling the sexes. So I find my way to the women’s section with my head wrapped in scarved modesty, blending in to those around me.
The difference between the locals and the tourist is immediately distinguishable. The tourists are all wearing pants. I had forgotten the strict rules of dress dictating covered head, skirt only. Lines of women press close to the stones, holding their umbrellas in one hand and a prayer book in the other. Young, old, pretty, homely- every walk of life and faction of woman is represented here. I stood back a bit, observing, but feeling much more drawn to the holiness of the site than that of the Church the day before. Even the girls giggling and texting in their pockets still seemed filled with belief in the site, only teenage nature taking them away from the serious task at hand.
Thousands of tiny scraps of paper fit into every crevice in the stone. Prayers pushed into the wall supposedly have a better chance of being answered in our gambling human minds. It was a deeply human moment, reaching out for reassurance in a world of change. Until the waves of clacking tourist cameras invaded the tranquility. It is in one of these chaotic dervishes that I muster the courage to snap a few shots.
I wrote my secret prayers on paper almost impulsively. Something about writing it down, making it a reality and then leaving it there for to G-d to deal with is very reassuring. We do our best in life. And sometimes it is time to just let it go and leave it behind. There is too much world to see to dwell on what is too big for us to hold.
My favorite oddity about the wall is that you may never turn your back on the Presence. Women scuffle step by step in a rewind procession of their entrance. Look over shoulder, scuffle scuffle. Look towards the wall, praying and bowing, scuffle scuffle. Until there is some imperceptible line on the floor telling you that you are far enough away to merit retiring from prayer. Never the graceful one, halfway through my scuffles my umbrella flew out of my hands and gusted up towards the entrance. In my flustered haste to catch it before it maimed someone or flew away, I turned to run uphill. What a terrible breach of etiquette. Sigh, I can try my best to blend in and be a well traveled observer of culture, but I am still the same no matter where in the world I roam.
Then I had to balance the trilogy of Jerusalem religions with a visit to the Muslim holy site, the Temple Mount. To the non-Muslim tourist, Temple Mount feels a bit like visiting ruins- especially on a dark and rainy day. The open plaza is speckled with tiny little buildings of marble and stone all decorated in beautiful mosaics. Glittering gold draws the eye to the massive Dome of the Rock. Inside, where only the imagination may wander without a membership card, are two religious sites battling it out. First, is the stone where Abraham was to have sacrificed Isaac and the place that Jews believe G-d gathered dust and formed Adam- site of the first and second destroyed temples (except for the remaining wailing wall). This is a Jewish jewel that they have not possessed for thousands of years, a sensitive point that leads to a tense and fragile peace after years of warring worlds. This is also the site where Mohammed birthed the Muslim ideology with his ascent into heaven. Closed, out in the rain without any connection to their idea of Allah, I did not need long to drink in the picture and move on.
At this point, I had time to burn, a first in Jerusalem. I decided to try to hit up the Stations of the Cross, seeing as how I lived them every Friday in school girl days. I got to about the third station before I got distracted and wandered out of the gates of the city and up onto Mount Olive. The mountain is clustered at the bottom with a few very differing Churches. The Church of all Nations, containing the Garden of Gethsemane where Jesus surrendered to the Roman guards, was all pomp and circumstance. Built by donations from very wealthy nations, it holds state seals hidden in the gold-flecked murals and the steel carvings depicting the garden scene so intricately that they capture the eye for hours. Up the mountain is the Church of Mary Magdalene- four gold minarets rival the Temple Dome in architecture as they call out to tourists- THIS! This is an important site!!! Pulling my muscles up the hill to the crumbling centuries old Jewish cemetery, I caught my breath as I triumphed in gaining the best view of the Old City.
But my favorite part of Mount Olive was the Tomb of the Virgin Mary. A cave leading down into the nether regions of the underworld, a dark and mysterious rendezvous point for betrayals and secret confessions! The steel lanterns strung like twinkling stars along the path from room to room. A young but rugged Priest came to ask me if I was Russian. When I shyly said “no, I am American” he persisted, surely Check, or Romanian- where is my family from? I admitted to Poland and he immediately began to speak to me in polish. I suppose the head scarf nodded back to my ancestral roots enough to make me seem like a first generation export. It made me feel connected to my past, surrounded by such intriguing history.
At this point, darkness had fallen on the city, and I was one worn out girl! With my few remaining hours until our final show and strike-drive to Haifa, I decided to eat a nice meal in a restaurant of the Muslim Quarter. I sat by myself eating at a nice place where the staff was quite cordial. One boy made smoothies for everyone and gave me one, sitting at my table to exchange life’s pleasantries. I was relaxed and enjoying life, right up until the point where he asked to make out with me. Then I was bewildered and uncomfortable. As though a friendly conversation is invitation for brash machismo!I can't imagine what I said to open the conversation to that point! Fleeing the scene as quickly as I could manage without seeming too rude, I realized later that in my flustered state: I forgot to pay. Hee hee- what a crazy city of cultural chaos.
Ah, Jerusalem. Definitely a city of MEN taking what they want; and a city of God trying his best to get through to them despite their faults. This city makes me feel a bit sympathetic to the spirit of the world. I know how it feels. Good luck, Jerusalem, they are men of good hearts but human souls and failures; and thank you, Jerusalem, for trying to help me find my own little part or parcel of God. But for me, I will take to the mountains ahead instead of your Churches to feed my soul...

It's the End of the World as We Know It. and i feel fine.

ejpredny — Fri, 30 Oct 2009 16:54:00 GMT

Raindrops seep through the window panes, soaking harbingers of melancholy directing my keystrokes. Gone is the din of traffic rushing by on the street below. Silent are the chattering sidewalks of flea market sales. Friday night is the start of Shabbot, and Tel Aviv is as shut down as the smallest towns of Iowa on a sunday afternoon. There are few shops or bars open, and the people quietly come and go to their families in the Sukkot shared taxis. And while the night calmly ends the hectic day, I am quietly comforting myself with hot tea and the softly pillowed heaven of my hotel bed.

The tour came not a moment too soon. Life has been teaching me some ungracefully difficult lessons in 2009. Autumn finds me destitute of heartsongs, and grappling for meaning amid the inevitable loneliness of big city life. I have made some grave mistakes this year, and survived each a little worse for wear. Mostly, I am searching for a place that feels like home again and a center in my self...the best satisfaction I find is a suitcase and a street full of strangers who smile as though we are friends.

We began in Denver- a been there, done that kind of town for me. We stayed right in the heart of downtown, desolate and left in the sole possession of the homeless after 6pm. The theater was a standard roadhouse; the crew was a real good crowd. We rolled up in a winded frenzy of haphazard preparation for four completely separate shows. Going back and forth between using our entire rig at home and then only the bag and bucket essentials for overseas, the entire month of October was clucking out details for putting up to 8 different dance pieces on stage in two months. In the middle of all of this, my former boss parted ways with the company, and an Interim Director came in to take up the reins. I blinked and Denver was a memory, and next thing I know, I am throwing on my running shoes and testing out the bikeway of the Puget Sound.

Seattle was a new city for me. Only a transit point for further ventures in the past, it was nice to actually see what everyone is talking about when they wax poetic about Pacific jewel by the sea. More sharp on the beat than Portland, Seattle is closely linked to the image of it's Starbucks progeny. At some point, it was a small little harbor town that had a big heart, small budget, and creativity to burn; but now, it is accomplished, applauded, and solidly ensconced in the higher income bracket security of middle age. It's sophisticated grace woefully leaves the hippie ideals behind, but the polished finish is elegantly charismatic in it's age. Pike's place was a strange little tourist joint of local shops and market stands dripping fresh with produce. I can't say I understand the allure of standing for an hour to see a man throw a fish across the room, but it was amusing anyway. The theater was a mock-broadway playhouse, and shows wrote themselves in record time- leaving the crew enough time to have a special evening of sushi, sake, and celebration. The most wonderful evening I have had in a long time. Suddenly, the day anticipated for a solid year had arrived- our flight to Tel Aviv!

I have been slowly recovering from the normal residual marathon pain. I could have pulled some ligaments in my ankle that have kept me hobbling at a reduced gusto for the past two weeks. Unfortunately, the same mental instability that enables me to run 26.2 miles also goads me into running perhaps a bit sooner than a doctor would advise (but we all have our vices and our demons to follow, don't we?) Though the 19 hours of interminable travel helped me rest and heal a bit, I could not wait to let myself free in a new city, new country, new opportunity to BREATHE. The sun set at 4:30pm, and we plunged into the darkness of the city excited and tired and pretty confused about what time zone the spinning earth had spit us out in. I went to dinner with several dancers, grateful for the company and the navigators to follow.

The first characteristic to strike our fancy was the beautiful inhabitants of the city. Tel Aviv has an excessively blessed population of supermodels. Only they are so relaxed and beachside in attitude that they charm you into thinking that they are just normal people too. We feasted our eyes on the sidewalks, our id on the wine, and our stomachs on the mediterranean splendor- a wonderful acclimation to our home for the next five days.

The next day I woke up early and took to the beach for a six mile run. Feeling the wind in my lungs, the joy in my heart, and the exhilaration of living once again- I drank in the waterfronts. I love nothing more than racing the water to find my soul- the ocean, the river, the lake back home. I am not picky about the source but the feeling is the same- to follow wherever it leads until I can run no more.

Breakfast in the hotel was an amazing cornucopia of gastronomic delights. The most peculiar aspect to adapt to in Israel is the consistent lack of meat and cheese together, mostly accomplished by avoiding serving meat at meals. Kosher is a strange code of ethical digestion that baffles the gentile mind, but a fun game to play when immersed in the scene is trying to figure out the rules without asking.
My day of exploration had welcome company in Ale P- a dancer friend who shares a very similar essence of traveling and is not afraid to be lost in strange cities with my sense for direction. We twisted and turned with the streets until we found "the sites" without much attention to the tourist tracks.
The Hacarmel Market beckoned with shiny trinkets and hawking voices. Carts showcased everything from fish with eyes reflecting the terror of the hook to vegetables smelling faintly of the trees, from cheap Israeli militial souveniers to elegantly woven histories of Judaica- for once the world did not seem to be encompassed in the merchandising of Cost Plus World Market! My favorite part of the country is the constant smell of fresh baked breads wherever you go. Here, the bagel is the king of the land- texas sized bubbles of fresh fluffy comfort food- low carb diets beware!!!
We meandered from shop to shop amazed at the ingenuity and handiwork displayed. People here take so much pride in their ability to create. We found ourselves all the way to the old port city of Jaffa- the original city built as an Arabic stronghold. Here, I felt Morrocco revisit my memory. Cobblestone streets and staircases as narrow as the shoulder's width twisted up and down in a dance between sun and sea. Decorative etchings added an air of mystery to every building protectively huddled in secret history. The big attraction here is some archeological dig sites leaking artifacts as old as time, but we found more delight in harrassing the fiberglass Napoleons announcing TOURIST SITES than in intellectual pursuits. As the sun started it's nightly tryst with the sea, we made our way back along the silky sanded beaches watching the surfers fail to catch any real hang time in the shallow waves. The beaches are lined with adventurous playgrounds for the young and old, and the real friendship begins when you realize that the person you are wandering with is just as big a kid as you are inside. :)
We climbed and swung, trampled and explored; we laughed more than the children. After a wonderful modest dinner served by the uncles of Men, we retreated to watch the moon glitter against the waves at a beachside bar and tried our best to understand the crazy culture gap between us and the people speaking tongues around us.

Israelis are a tough society to crack. Faced with years of disenfranchised existence, they have a very strong bond with each other and a general ambivalence towards the "other." The lack of interest is not necessarily unfriendly- they speak many languages and will easily switch into english to communicate and ease your exchange. Instead, there is just a wary acceptance that people from other cultures are welcome to visit, they will just never penetrate the understanding of what they have survived. Perhaps from constantly fighting to keep what is theirs. Perhaps from keeping their culture alive for thousands of years living among invading regimes... whatever the source of the distance, there is no real warmth of non-verbal communication, no shared humor waiting for a laugh. Friendships must be earned, and I have a feeling only possible from generations of living side by side.
The city itself is built with the staid and simple Bauhaus architecture. Everything is white cement, lines are clean and utilitarian at best. I recognize the style as a reputable decision, but the effect brings to mind a people who have lost interest in embellishment because their cities are historically destroyed at regular intervals. There is a sadness to the city streets. Yet the skyline view comes together as a glowing silky Pearl. Streets signs in Hebrew are also in English to make navigating more maneagable for everyone. It all comes together to make completely sense and work in the most wonderful way, but I cannot say that the memory will warm my heart for years to come.

We settled in to working days. The Opera house is a fine complex of stages built with every technical convenience in mind. The work is easy going and the crew is superb; however, they seem to have so much going on that they are impossible to find. Something that normally takes ten minutes will take half an hour- ten minutes to find them, five minutes for them to come to stage, five minutes to explain what needs to be done, and then ten minutes to do the work. Frustrating, but definitely not the worst situation I have found. The week has gone by insanely quickly. Tel Aviv feels enough like home to walk the streets without a map and revisit the same establishment to find that the clerk already knows I like my frozen yogurt with only blueberries at their stand.
But always, at the forefront, is that I am not to understand.
Tomorrow, we have a tech with a very famous Israeli choreographer rumored to be both wildly charismatic and insanely demanding at task. Then after the show we immediately strike-drive to Jerusalem. One week left in Israel, and two more cities to open my mind...I can't wait to see how they will change my heart.
Shabbot Shalom, and goodnight.

Alaska: a memory for yesterday.

ejpredny — Fri, 14 Nov 2008 17:40:00 GMT

I know that I have been off of travel logues for some time now. the amount of imposing complications in my life have left me tucking in the hatches and sailing for the solitary reflection without the lure of reaching out to the ones dearest to me for sharing my thoughts. But I couldn't leave you stranded in the "lower 48" without proper introduction to the LIFESTYLE ALASKA, so I am now catching up for lost time with a little bit of swagger in my step.
Off the plane, not certain which direction is forward anymore after 13 hours of trains, planes, and automobiles, I am directed to collect my belongings by a stuffed batch of tangled fur pointing in the direction of the baggage carousel. Hunting for the bright plastic orange of my suitcase, I felt the beady eyes of predator and prey locked in an eternity of taxidermied stalemate boring bullet holes of victory into my back. Yes, everything is larger in alaska, and everything is dead, stuffed, and mounted...or will be at some point in the forseeable future.
We bounded to the highway in our tiny little rental car, dwarfed on all sides by pickup trucks and 4wheel drive. It reminded me of Minnesota, serious about traction in shoes, in cars, in life.
We stopped at a grocery store to stock up for our days at Denali. Man can only take on Nature if he is properly fed and watered!
Car rides tend to be my tranquilizer of choice, just like a baby I slept until the shutting of the engine awoke me to our backwoods wannabe Princess Lodge of People Cruising Alaska. Furniture of rough-hewn logs, check. Bedding hues of testosterone machismo, check. A pillow, check. I was out.
The next day, Adam awoke bursting with excitement to share with me his homeland. My pillow had other ideas. So after waiting out a few clouded hours walking the hillside on his own, he finally awoke me like a child on christmas morning "let's go ! Let's go! Let's go!"
When we rounded the turn to checkout, there she stood, Proud, Tall One. Denali. The decks of the lobby viewing station were a clustered circus of camera's flashing and aged-tinted noggins jockeying for that perfectly framed picture with the mountain showcasing her beauty. I didn't know what all the fuss was about, evidently the lady is a coquettish tease who rarely graces the public with the full naked perfection of her face. We spent a few hours just sighing in admiration; our dumbfounded smiles of whitened teeth echoing the snowcapped horizon in the distance.
Finally, we began to creep ever closer to the base of our newfound friend. We check into our new belogged wonderland of backwoods charm, and then took to driving right into the park. The Denali National Park is 6 million acres of pristine frontier land. They allow you to drive in about 10 miles or so in your own vehicle, past a few campgrounds and visitors center full of helpful lovely hippies that would live off the land in a second if it wasn't so hard to stay alive that way up here. Along the road, we stumbled upon the hotspot of moose rutting nightlife by the side of the road. Mates a calling, bulls a racing, it was hard to believe that this was actually a reality and not just a revisiting of The Call of the Wild!
Adam had kept telling me to look for moose, and I rolled my eyes and played along thinking, we are in a noisy, noisy car and the moose is not stupid enough to want a ride. But proven wrong again and again, I switched my camera into sport setting and went to work documenting just how much love means to moose, and just how insignificant we were in comparison.
We bought our tickets for the public bus- the only way to venture past that 10 miles curfew and see the real deal park beyond. The buses run from the visitors center a the mouth of the entrance and stop at all the campgrounds along the road to Kantishna, some 80 miles inside the park.
A certain Disney tongue-in-cheek humor lacking in the Disney charm- our bus driver was only too aware that the season ended in all of four days; she was long past the freshness seal on her sell by date. Salted, dry, and even a tad bit unenthusiastically judgmental of our animal spotting capabilities, she carted our pack of 30 or so adventure seeking scouts through the rich maze of colors bursting with the celebration that Autumn is upon us. Never in my life have my eyes felt to blessed to have their vision. The landscape was a sunset captured by the brush setting the world on fire, and the sky greedily defended the only color not stolen by the earth and polished her blues with an intensity to match the sea.
Sprinkle in a mother bear and her two cubs racing along the peaks of the mountain beside us, and you have an entire National Geographic photoshoot.
As we ventured further along towards the Polychrome region, the brush gave was to rock formations lecturing the mountains about the history of geologic time. Red, beige, grey, white, black- the layers landed like the sand mosaics we had made in art class in junior high- pleasant swirls forming circular plaids climbing up to reach the sky in snow clad peaks of Burberry perfection.
When we approached Denali from the southern face, she smiled, flipped her foggen hair, and gave us just a flash of a flirting wink before disappearing once again. Now I understand why so many men are trapped by the obsession with climbing her peak. She charms you, beguiles you like the rarest and most beautiful of geishas, but as masterfully as she can shroud herself from view, she cannot escape the most driven expeditious suitors. They conquer her snow drifts and fight off her furious winds, and if they are truly the luckiest of foolish souls, they make it to her summit alive and filled with the knowledge of her soul. I do not envy those unlucky in love with her fickle flame.
When we at last reached Eielson Visitors center, we had filled our cameras with Dall sheep, moose, caribou, and even a couple of bears. We felt proud of our safari, and even ready to try to push a bit further on to Wonder Lake. By this point, we were eating our peanutbutter and jelly picnic and waiting for the next bus to adventure, when suddenly we hear shouts of "bear!! BEAR!!!" Now the smartest reaction would be to head into the safety of the building and lock all of the doors. Tourists have never been known for wisdom. In fact, even the most savvy of Mensa candidates must check their brain with their luggage when they board a vacation bound plane. We all jockeyed towards the shouting and saw the rumble tumble linebacker grizzleys setting pace at 30 mile an hour speed. One crowd of hikers happened to be trapped along the section of the nature trail with the ripest of blueberries- the snack of choice our discerning cub. Their arms were waving, they shouted in skittish wavering voices "HEY! BEAR!! YOU DO NOT WANT TO EAT ME! BEAR!" as they backed slowly up the hill never turning their eyes from the pacing, rambunctious predator beside them.
Finally, the rangers got a hold on the attention of the crowd, and pushed everyone reluctantly inside. We boarded our bus excited by the uncertain whimsy of Darwin' survival theories.
Wonder Lake was a taste of summer in the park. The sun had turned the thermostat up to rockin, and the fittest in the wilderness at that mile marker proved to be the mosquito and the gnat. I could see the architecture of Ansel Adam's fascination with this scene. The water, the mountains, the trees perfectly framing log cabins of the campground all built utopian visions of man residing in harmony with nature.
This was the farthest we could possibly reach in our adventures for the day. When we boarded the bus back home, we were filled with the restless spirit of pioneers harnessed by the limitations of bus schedules and curfews: two grumpy five year olds in desperate need of a nap.
I had doubts that the road home could be as spectacular as the journey outward. After a few fox sightings, and the rejoining company of the bears- this time just hiking on down the road in front of our bus, like hobos searching out the next homestead to squat upon- we managed to revive our flagging spirits and find contentment again in the visions around us.
The finale of the day was a battle of cloud and sun, the spectacular sunset erupting into a fierce storm of lighting and rainclouds. The middle ground between a garden of rainbows sprouting from the braided riverbeds in the valley below. There is only a vague retelling of Denali- there is no word structure that could harness her beauty and magic suitably enough to recreate a story of her life. Unable to capture the feeling in a journal, I contented myself with salmon bakes and alaskan amber in the Northern Exposure set dive bar that highlighted the nightlife in "town."
The next day we took off for the Kenai Penninsula- the true homeland of Bute, and the location of the wedding-to-be of Adam's sister Alana.
The flight took all of 15 minutes, and the plane was so crammed we had to fold ourselves like origami in order to take our carry on baggage with us to our seats. The herds of roaming Caribou gathered to welcome Adam home. We settled ourselves into the cosy childhood homestead and then warmed ourselves by the glow of familial reconnection.
The next day we took to touring the town and testing out my healing ankle on the running trails that a teenage Adam had built with his high school cross country team. Signs attesting to the dangers of running in the woods advertised the dates of the last bear sightings, and advice for how to handle an ambush in the woods. I had never considered what it was to live in a place where there is danger around every corner, predators waiting to stake out a claim against the suburban sprawl of man. The realization that not everyone can just take off with a wild ambition and a pair of running shoes really hit home in that sign. Illinois was not only "boring", it was safe; and I would never take that for granted again. Especially when the hills were at protractor angles that my knees did not believe existed in nature, and my lungs questioned the oxygen content of the arctic atmosphere.
We spent our last free day before the Arrivals began with a field trip down to Homer. The drive through the more settled neighborhoods showcased the side of Alaska that Robin Leach would have narrated with a tweaking smug satisfaction that luxury can happen anywhere. That said, the standard of luxury is a completely different competition for the Joneses when you factor in the North Shore of Chicago or even the choicest of zipcodes in Malibu. The richest here settle for the finest of what they can get from catalog and paying exorbitant shipping subsidies, not quite the haute couture of the Renoir set of the lower 48.
Homer itself was a quaint tourist reconstruction of a fishing village, not unlike the Cedar Key oasises of Florida. Tiny little wooden slats climbed into a pyramid of shelter that advertised Halibut snares of 300lbs just last week! The fishing expedition charters were wedged in by vendors of humorous chotchky of alaskan pride and handicrafts of native tradition. The beautiful, the absurd, the completely uncomprehensible, alaska is definitely an inside joke to those who have survived the winter's snow.
We hiked along the coast, visiting with the sea birds and the jellyfish washed upon the shore. I have a love of maritime scenes of Rockwellian perfection, and that is a specialty of the region.
On our way out, we rallied our Denali spirit as Adam's dad spotted an otter frolicking in the surf breaking oysters on his belly for an afternoon snack, and eagles just browsing the evergreens for love and patriotic glory. And as we stopped into the Paradisus restaurant for the traditional family dinner on the town, the entire day was eclipsed by halibut the likes of which i have never tasted in my life! So fresh and flaky, so perfect and heavenly- sign me up for the next expedition leaving from Homer, I want to bring home 300 lbs to share with the deprived souls of lake-bound midwestern poverty!!!

The days of the wedding huddled upon us, and family began to trickle into town. Everyone warm and jocular, all brilliant personalities creating a fireworks display of color and sparkle. Not a meal went by that did not contain laughter and recounting of histories that weave the quilt of a family's story. Not a moment went by of feeling alien or alone among the crowd. This is what I love about good people and large families- there is never enough space to get completely lost in your own psychosis, too much distraction to feel like you are outstanding in your folly.
As the rehearsal dinner barbeque (once again, amazing wild salmon caught by the blushing bride to be, undoubtedly in waders and a strong independent spirit of capability) faded into the bachelorette party, I began to realize that according to Alaskan standards, we were both far behind the times. In that way of small town time warp, I would be considered an ancient spinster material, not even once divorced by 30, without a purpose for my life being barren of child and man. The ultimate accessory in the state is not a Louis Vuitton purse or Chanel sunglasses- the ultimate accessory here is a baby. A giggling, mop-headed, bouncy baby that shouts to the world you have arrived into adult independence; fulfilled the goal of human existence. The people are not naive, are not backwoods or redneck in this party; they are all fun, intelligent people who grew up in ways that the urban communities of the world have stopped recognizing as a rite of passage and started to question suspiciously as an outdated construct of society. I was filled with wonder at what these women would have accomplished set about the world with a backpack and a guidebook as I had been. What books could have been written about the fire in their spirits, the compassion of their gestures, their outreaching generosity for human nature! But then when I see the light in their smiles brought on by the toddling comedic routines of their little wonders, the patience with which they explain the world around them, and I understand that we both have made right choices, just upon very different paths. And hopefully the fates will be just as kind to each of us in finding a safe haven for our futures.
After the raucous lewdity of Penis centric bachelorette celebration, we met up with the bachelors for a night of drunken karaoke talent searching. I had been to many karaoke joints in my shady shady past, but had never quite seen such rousing renditions of "Proud to be an American" nor realized Adam's hidden moonlighting as the male member of the B-52s. There is definitely something regenerative in nature of a homeland visit for a man who has found himself carving out a life on the other side of the continent. I had never realized so many dauntless qualities that had muted themselves in Adam's personality the farther he ventured from the wild Alaskan brush; I was proud to see him so sure of himself, so completely centered from within.
The wedding was a low-key celebration of family and future. Traditions were engaged so far as they were enjoyed, and not encompassed as a requirement for passage. It was a party for those who toasted, danced, and conversed until the sun went down the horizon and shooed us gently on our way- we were a merry party of revelers headed straight to the airport, to leave alaska is an evening affair. The bride and groom headed their way to express the luck of their lives in Vegas, I was headed back to a full schedule of touring with Hubbard Street, and Adam back to start his new job full time with Freeman.
There are seasons for family and reveling together, and season of wandering and soul-searching alone.
And there are places that are much bigger than any notch on the timeline of my life, like Alaska.

nobody here except me and my monkey, and he's got a lot of friends

ejpredny — Fri, 11 Jul 2008 17:51:00 GMT

Hello there!

I know that I promised to take you more thoroughly through Angkor wat, so here we go!
Rolling up in a cloud of dusty scattered gravel, my tuk tuk driver crazily hisses at me when i start to stand to exit the vehicle. I had no idea the massive scale in store for me when we pulled up at the first ticketing gate. Imagining an Epcot center mecca of culture, I thought i would just flitter about from wat to wat with the monkeys and monks beside me, hacking away at the brush like a proper Indiana Jones.
Quickly, he lurches forward and I slump back in my seat somewhat nervous- where could we possibly be going? Past the ticket gate was another 20 minute drive through parks and wide expanses of forested landscape. The little grey monkeys, obviously reincarnated gurus of tantric powers, greeted me with jolly waves from their peeping trees; their mischievous tails were eclipsed in both scent and beauty by the night blooming jasmine that lifts the woods to a more heavenly plane at this late hour of the evening.
After pulling up to a dirt clearing designated for parking, I am immediately swarmed by tiny little children: "Buy Something. Postcards. Cold Drink. Maybe you come back you buy something...." obviously repeated with practiced care in polite tones to supersede any response issued from the victim.
The first temple I chose to visit was Angkor Wat, the main event- a well post carded warrior with five billowing towers that put the height of the trees to envious shame. The entrance is a whittled concrete sidewalk weaving a careful path between statues of various bodily disabilities, standing in line flanking each side with either Gods (right) or Devils (left) wrestling down the great Naga snake. The glistening mirror lakes on each side reflected this epic struggle with a fierce severity that made me pause to count the number of soldiers on each side of the battle, just to be certain neither was favored in odds to win.
Safe in the even numbers for both yin and yang, I entered into the temple and quietly lit my incense to the honor of the great golden Buddha idol swathed in clothes of brilliant golden orange silk. Beyond the first wall is two football fields of wild grass and flowering weeds with a scattering of gentle chestnut horses wandering about the reeds looking for their lunch. Normally the horses are a part of the tourist torture karmatically reserved for the masochists that drag their children from temple to temple in the sweltering heat. Luckily, the day was done and the little ponies were undisturbed in their happy munching.
Most houses in this neighborhood of the world are equipped with a Spirit House (in Cambodia it must be on the North and East side of the house for feng shui purposes) in honor of the ancestors of the family. The people give daily gifts of food and flowers to their miniature friends (they believe everything is smaller in the afterlife) and with their offering hope that the spirit world will grant them great favor and take care of their property. The wats were no exception. Only their spirit houses are the size of the four bedroom ranch house I grew up in. I guess the ancestors of kings, like the ex-wives of the socialite sect, need more room in the afterlife to be comfortable equal to the lifestyle they had grown accustomed to in life.
The spirit houses sprawled just shy of the lotus flower lake that perfectly inversed the grandeur of the towers and hollowed out the depths of the earth to comb new regions of the netherworld.
Only after I accepted and released the negativity at never being at peace among the crowds was I able to truly appreciate the follies of humanity at play before my eyes and embrace the wonder of the Khmer achievements seducing my imagination.
At Thom the Bayon, thousands of mona lisa smiles coyly flirted with King, telling him that he could have every girl in the nation and still never be satisfied with woman's charms. Their eyes followed me everywhere, as face after face appeared among the rubble. Ta Prohm's elephant trunk jungle trees struggled against the protections of man in the weedy quest to swallow the entire temple like a python eats a cow. If it succeeds its belly will be all swollen fat and protruding with all the angles of the feet of the temple, now that would be a sight! And my favorite, the whispering gossip frozen in the stone of Shra Srang, the temple dedicated to love with huge pooling baths- supposedly separated by male and female, but the limestone warriors tell me differently and I believe. The best part was giving a little hum and time step to the waltzing hall of dancing that still had the vibrant green mossy feel of life that refuses to give up its certainty that it will survive.
Truthfully, it is very difficult to grasp what sacrifices went into making all of this happen. Being from a world that craves architectural perfection in every ikea couch, how can I possibly understand the hours of life that one man spent carving lady after lady Apsaras dancer with intricate detail of face and style so specific that it had to have been modelled after real life? How can I put into words the depth of commitment that cry out from each scene of war and strife filling the walls with their story without so much as a seam in the limestone bricks that bridge each spear and lance? And what of the sadness that fills me at each section where the unfinished creation lies neglected and forgotten as the man's life was cut short from fulfilling his purpose?

I know I am failing you in this squeamish description. Even in the harrowing adrenaline of the hot air balloon view from above, I could not encompass the grandeur before my eyes. No matter how hard I try to imagine myself a Khmer priestess of the King, dancing about with my hair whipping like Medusa's snakes in halls shining with more gold than the all of the coins in Ali Baba's cave, the acid rain melts away my imaginings like it melts the crumbling piles of stone that fall over each other faster every day in an attempt to win the race to the finishline of returning to the arms of mother earth.
Angkor served as a lesson to me that one day soon, no matter how impressive our resume of accomplishments grows to be, we will all be racing to return to the same mother waiting for us at the end of our purpose.

Our last night in Cambodia, my guide Bo (in complete disbelief that I was actually curious and interested) took me to a Cambodian priestess fortunes teller. When we arrived at her house, it was not what I expected at all. No crystal balls, no palm reading or pulses, just a large alter filled to bursting with fruit and offerings to Buddha. As Bo guided me through translation, i gave an offering of candles, incense, and money, and then lit five sticks of incense while praying to Buddha for what I wanted most in the world. I put them with the burnt out sticks that wished for those before me and returned to take my seat on the floor next to her while she in turn lit incense and began to pray. She talked to me very simply, Buddha telling her about my life and my quest that brought me to this seeking juncture. As the things she said sounded more and more familiar and pretty specific to my experience, I did feel myself being drawn into the experience. There are some things in life you just don't question. How she knew those details that I had not even shared with my best friend or mother, I will leave in the hands of the glistening gold wisdom of Buddha. The things that she predicted for my life will stay here inside my heart, too precious for mass emailings or blogs to the outersphere, but suffice to say she put to rest some of those yearning anxieties that have plagued me so in the past few years. I have time, she said in very specific detailed sentences, and all will sort itself out in the next few years if I am patient enough to wait for it to arrive.
When we made it (after a horribly grueling eight hour bus ride!) to bangkok the next day, I gave myself over to the proper goodbye festivities due to my campanions for just over a week. Dinner in the Hippie mecca of Khoason Road begat streetside spectatorship as the parade of people fit for the model UN began when darkness fell. The bustle of the beer shacks all huddled up against the street with tiny uncomfortable stools, the Night Hawkers trying to find that last buyer to float their midmonth fiscal crisis, the drunken fervor of the fans watching the Wimbleton match and cheering more loudly than the walls could contain, it all melded together in a busy collage that has the same effect as neon signage but not the harshness of the eyeball searing light.
The next day I was off on my own again, wandering the streets of the city through the obstructing blur of rain until I had mastered the entire width of Downtown. Chinatown was the same wreck of plastic and sea creatures that it is in every city; the River was a beautiful girl too shy to meet your eyes in the state of her dishevelled polution plague. The sky train was a bright and shiny pillar of modern efficiency and so clean that it trumped many a hotel room I have seen upon this trip. I found a dream home in the silken teak wonderland that is Jim Thompson's house, a famous expat american who ressurrected the Thailand Silk establishment and then mysteriously disappeared at age 61. Such clean style, such rich tapestries of color and simplicity of design. I never would be able to limit myself to such a minimalist virtue.
That night, I climbed aboard a public bus bound for Krabi, a small town along the Andaman Sea from which many tiny little beaches are accessible.
An American girl named Lauren sat next to me, not by choice but by the barking insistence of the seat assigning Nazi. We shared our stories and figgited our way through the evening until finally I just took some NyQuil and had done with the whole process.
As we both decided to journey to Railay, we helped each other navigate the tourist wheel greased thoroughly by the thousands that had come before us. Everything in Thailand is easy. No real arrangements to figure out, no secret passageways, anywhere I want to go is open and available to me for the right amount of money.
When we got to Railay, we parted ways as she began to arrange a climbing class and I followed the lead of an Aussie miscreant to find Tonsai Beach- a yawning peaceful haven of isolation. We were four in total: Me, Aussie (appropriately named Adam), a frenchman named Mattieu, and Silke, a german girl who would be my roommate as we settled into our dysfunctional little family-to-be. The road to Tonsai was insanely treacherous with heavy packs. Because I am a genius, I decided to leave my big bag in Bangkok and just day-sack it this last week. I was thankful for the lightened load as we stumbled up and down the 45 degree slopes of the jungle deerpath for half an hour. Before we even found rooms to house us, we stopped at a bar and started on cold beers. This should have been my first clue as to what my next few days would have in store!
The next day, I was up and about before anyone could try to join me or sway me from my task. I failed in finding a dive shop that was open during low season, so instead I set out to find the mysterious lagoon hidden in the towering cliffs of the beach.

I balanced across the rocks the tide left behind as the currents pushed farther and farther away from the beach. The rocks were slippery and my Keen sandals were pushed to the limits of their useful boundary. The worst part was when I was pushed just a little too forcefully by the curious waves, and my left hand was shredded by the evil controlling dominators of the sea: the zebra mussels. Sharper than the glass bottles used in bar fights, the stinging bacteria had free access to all of my juicy blood.

When I finally found the path that led to the lagoon, it went straight up the side of a cliff built for mountain goats and intense climbing fans. Feeling my hairs prick up on end with shouts of "Adventure!" I scrambled my way up finding natural hand and footholds in the pourous coral structure that had pushed its way skyward from the sea. When thoughts of my imminent death crossed through my mind, I heard shouts of men before me telling me there was a foothold to my right, and I should come climb along with them. Two brits from the south of England were the only two souls I saw along the way, and I was more than happy for the company to ensure that even if I did die my mom would not worry what had happened. After two hours amid the mud and grueling heat pushing myself farther than I had ever imagined I could go, I now understand the draw of outdoor climbing.

Humans naturally find the ways to limit themselves and emphasize those hanging doubts of mind. "Bring it on!" I said ferociously, and I realized that this day was about proving to myself that I am capable of more than I know.

Broken, battered and full of conquering spirit, I followed the next path to the most beautiful beach of my life. White with crystal clean sand kissed my skin and then let go so I could test the warm clear turquois waters of the sea, I floated along for an hour letting the water infiltrate and heal the many cuts and sores I have begun to amass as Thailand kicks my ass.

That night began innocently enough with a dinner and a drink at an abandoned beachside bar. Then the Aussie began to hint at parties across the island: an hour's hike through either dark of jungle, beachside attacking zebra mussel rocks, or a third untested path of mountain climbing and repelling above the beach's cliff. As one by one we admitted that we were not one to turn down another chance at living, we drank our coffee and steeled ourselves for the long night ahead. The hike above the cliffs was rough and I definitely was the beraggled, sweaty, fallen beauty queen among the pampered high heeled girls lounging around the pulsing bar. Luckily, neither silke nor I were ones for fussing or picking up guys, so we had our beers in harmonious ambivalence to the flirting scenes around us.

Aussie kept trying to hook up the frenchman and Silke, so he and I left them to the night and started requesting songs for dancing. We invented a rhythmic olympic worthy sport that night: dancing with balloon. Among the Russian Judging eyes of cool, we amused ourselves until the waning hours of the night.

When we finally decided to start the long road home, we were distracted by the perfect moonlit beach and decided to be wild and reckless children playing in the surf. None of them had ever seen the phosphorescent plankton that light up like fireflies as we move through the darkened water, so that held their fascination for the hours while I stared up at the stars, wishing fervently on every shooting star.

By the time we made it back to our bungalows, the night sky had given way to the glowing light of day. Knowing that I was determined to leave and strangely attached to my company, the boys insisted upon breakfast on the beach as they tried to persuade me to stay. As my days of freedom are dwindling down, I just didn't see enough of a reason to stay. I am not one for too many long nights in a row, nor a player in the allure of romance among the backpacker set.

I made my way to Ko Phi Phi, fully intending on making the ferry to Phucket to see what the grossly obsessive stories of depravity on Patong Beach were all about. Once I saw the pristine perfect of the Phi Phi beach before me, I booked myself a tiny little bamboo hut upon the sand.

I found a scores of diving shops all open for business, but with no one else to match my pair, I didn't merit a solo boat for a night dive. I resigned myself that my goal of diving Thailand was just not meant to be, and I boarded a snorkelling sunset cruise full of huge groups of young people all too involved with their own friendships even return a hello in my direction. As we swam from bay to bay, played upon the beaches made for movie sets (including the one in The Beach with Leonardo DiCaprio), and finally gathered for the showdown of the sun versus the sea, I was pretty content to be the lone single among the throngs of chatter.

I spent my evening wandering the town and watching the world from the hammock on my hut's front porch, saying my goodbyes to Thailand peacefully to myself. I am almost returned to stateside, my friends. Just a few more days to pack full of life and beauty, maybe one more email of reflection upon the countries as a whole, and then I will be there among you once again. Save a beer or two for me, I will talk to you soon, Emily

naked communism: second degree burn in a third world country

ejpredny — Fri, 4 Jul 2008 18:02:00 GMT

He came to me in the night. I never knew if he was dressed properly in black- sleep hooded my eyes as i stumbled to the clacking chorus of the window and slid the errant lock into place. I thought for a moment about how strange it was; I hadn't noticed the window nor opened it before. I dulcetly closed the drapes that led directly to the courtyard outside and retreated to dreamland.

I am usually so much more pragmatic than that. My only excuse is my surrender into the softness of friendship and trust that I had let into my life for the past two weeks.

When I awoke, the damage was minimal. Obviously my unlover had grabbed the first item that was not strewn about the room in wake of the detonation of landmine emily- my compression sac of dirty laundry.

Thankful for the curse that turned blessing- my constant disorganization, I only lost most of my clothing and a few spare dollars secreted away in my squirreling patches for emergency cash.
Mostly I was just shocked and in disbelief.

I went to the front desk to report the incident. An officer of empathy joined me in my perplexion and told me there would be no problem, nothing to worry about- told me not to cancel my cooking class and they would search the hotel.
When it came time to leave, however, i was detained by the hotel manager- tardily projecting upon the scenario that the occurance was obviously my own fault as I had not locked the window properly the night before. There would be no help or admitting of fault from that department, she dutifully informed. The officer of empathy then escorted me to the police station in effort to get a report for insurance claim.
As we made our lumbering way (they would not even let me store my backpack behind the front desk at the hotel while i went to the police station!) the communist camerades of ambilalence were hardly set to budge from the soap operas entertaining their morning nap. They told me i was not important enough to merit a report and turned me back to the hotel, which again emphasized that this was not a problem, it was just my clothing and it was completely my own fault. They would help me if it was a real problem but it was no problem so they could do nothing for me. URGH!
Never one to be obtuse, I grasped at their subtle point. This was a case of Communism at its best. Even Marx would be proud at how docilely I surrendered my belongings for the common good.
On with the holiday or bust!
Newly minted as the freak in town, I arrived at the best cooking class I have taken yet. In a class of 1, I got all the attention lavished on me that my mother used to give at home. I felt a sympathetic ear, I compassionate shoulder. And boy, can I cook some decent vietnamese yummies now!
On my way back to the hotel on my speedy motorbike ride, I hastily abandoned my good sense in my awkward hurry to dismount and burned my calf like a cow marked by Yamaha branding.
Ouch! Ouch! Ouch!
I met with my new group, a merry little band of 4, and then excused myself from dinner (what, you didn't really expect my lovingly social acts to continue, did you? i am still emily no matter what brainwashing the british empire may be capable of!) and set about finding myself a replacement wardrobe.
the choicest apparel to fit someone as humongous as I am: nike, adidas, and puma tennis shirts. you can now call me anna kornikova. if only i could hit a ball!

Suited out right, if a bit tight about the edges, I said my final goodbyes to Saigon in the silence of my own wandering salutes. Goodbye, river. Goodbye, hotel that didn't rob me! Goodbye, Uncle Ho! In the darkness of the night i could feel the warm arms of the city soothe my bad day. The bats and I were both set to fly away from the constant buzz of humanity and they proceeded my parade with a ballyhoo of kamakazi flight patterns, helpfully clearing the chatter of the motorbike and cyclo drivers trying to distract me from my way.

Onward! The six hour bus ride was a torture of new dimensions as I got to know my new companions more intimately. The first conversation I had with the Canadian girl of a squalling 18 was how the people in countries like this are the shame of humanity, preferring to stay poor beggars instead of applying themselves and working hard to be something better. I nearly died when she pulled out the "they are all trying to rip me off" laments. (Save me, God, save me!)
Not even my pitiful cd collection could take the edge off that hideous whine!
I now spend every moment of meal times watching the seconds click by until my precious release arrives in the form of the bill. i have taken a monk's vow of silence.

We arrived at Tuc Doc, the vietnamese border town made of dirt and just as seedy as any border town I have ever met, just in time for a quick shop before our motorcycle farewell to Vietnam sundowning excursion.

The Vietnamese people on the outskirts of tourism have a healthy distrust of foreigners, I have found. I was stared at again like a leper victim (I swear, it was not just the tennis shirts and wimbleton) and laughed at when I tried to buy the local boa that have sustained me as I skip meal after meal.

I am impervious to their scepticism as i am blooming with love for this country of open hearted adventure. I boarded my motorcycle and held on tight to the leathery man taking my life into his hands. We raced through the mountain road passing farm after farm of rice fields and fishing ponds. The mountaintop was a hammocked haven filled with beer of any man's desire. As I swayed with the mountain winds whispering songs of Vietnamese fortune, I knew that the only way to collect my fortune was to leave it behind and search out new horizons. Off to Cambodia!

Our six hour speed boat ride was loud enough to drown the dead, I happily caught up on my writing.

The Vietnamese border was a hectic crush of children all trying to earn another dollar while the Cambodian side was a sleepy slug of canine and human sloth. When we finally arrived in Phenom Phen, we were welcomed to the bustle of a sprawling urbanity of cosmpolitan growth much bigger and more cemented than what I had expected.

Our hotel was a bit far from town, no lazy strolls about the town for us. We took a quick cyclo tour to the main sights: the royal palace a glittering with gold arched rooftops, the riverside whith its faux Miami funk, the independance monument- a phallically proud papa of civil rest after the decades of wars on all sides. Then we all piled into a tuk-tuk together and took to the road for an invited dinner at the house of our guide's family- who run a school for children to learn english.

We came armed with gifts of notebooks and fancy pens, they came packed with burning curiosity about our world. I spoke for an hour with two teenage girls of 17 (who looked all of 12)- who I wished I could hold in under my wings until they are safe from the many dangers that face them in the next few years. They were very proper at first, asking only the questions from their books "where are you from, what is the weather like, how do you like Cambodia, where else will you travel?" then we quickly dissolved into "do you have a boyfriend, why aren't you married, what will you do for the rest of your life, do you think we are pretty?" a real exchange of girlhood questions that youth is usually too afraid to ask the people that they hold in high esteem.

After our english exchange, we ate dinner with the master of the household, a fount of historical information about the Khmer Rouge and Pol Pot regime told through the eyes of someone who has lived a million lifetimes in the span of fifty years. I was enthralled by his experiences and optimism.

Our plethora of food was an insurmountable mountain of gluttony- but the treat to write home to mom about was the dessert of deep fried tarantula!

My cohorts were aghast and disgusted I would even consider partaking, but I have come here to experience everything life has to offer, no matter how many legs it has! I must admit to being a bit squeamish in picking it up, telling myself to stop being so stupid, it was not alive to bite me anymore. The first leg went down like a crispy french fry at the bottom of the pack. The next seven seemed safe enough. But when time came to bite the bullet of the thorax, I had to make a bet with the Irishman and go all in, double or nothing or risk losing my resolve. Suprisingly, the manibles were the best part. And with that, i am feeling a bit grossed out by myself so I will just move on.....

The next day we toured the Killing Fields and Tuel Slang Prison. The somber tone of subject matter was dragged to eternity by our guide and the perky yellow cement walls were declared liars by the bloodstains marking the floor almost thirty years after their owner's demise. I found myself engaged in a direct parallel with the images before me and the ones portrayed in the Cambodian genocide book I am reading "First they killed my father".

Many people, including some of the brightest and most interesting, gloss over the unsavory parts of a country's history in an effort to remain happy and light as they travel on holiday. I find that I am drawn to it. I feel that I am provoked to face just how cruel and merciless man can be when he loses his sense of boundary. The utopian vision that instigates mass genocide fascinates the amateur psychologist in my mind. I understand the desire to return to a simpler time. Pol Pot was remarkably similar to Aldolphus Huxley's Brave New World- taking children away from their parents, living a completely communist dream. And I understand an adoration of the pure life found in an agregarian society, but to take that sentimental meandering and turn it into a vehicle to murder thousands of men, women, and children, that I cannot fathom.

Telling people of Phenom Phen that the Americans will bomb their homes, effectively evacuating the city. Then once the cities are all ghost towns, setting about exterminating anyone who would be educated enough to rise against- the evidence of evil was astounding in the thousands of human skulls piled thirty feet high. Battered and broken, they stared creepily out of the stupa memorial surrounded by field after field of unmarked graves. The people were not even killed in a detached manner as civil as the nazis, they were beaten to death, starved, and tortured until they had no will to resist. Every soldier who followed the commands killed with blood on his hands, not with poisonous gas chambers or bullets.

I spent the night wandering alone, unwilling to let the ignorance of those in my group (who had not even heard mention of pol pot's name before this morning and certainly had no tact or sympathy for the people in question) taint the braided reflections in my mind.

We boarded a flight to Siem Reap early the next morning. Arriving at the small town with borders it would take mere hours to circumference, we went together to a silk farm to experience the rural bliss for ourselves. The farm was a nirvana of greenery and a landscaper's dream. The ladies who lunched had left us clues to piece together the production process and after a quick tour of worms and weaving, I separated myself from the group and headed out to make my first impressions of Angkor Wat my own.

Spectator to a sunset that reverberated back to the time of the dinosaurs, I found myself in the midst of one of those moments that is perfect only in its imperfection (i think this is my Cambodian theme, as much as friendship and community was my Vietnamese one). I drank my angkor beer in the shadows of the temple amid the thousand legged millipede made by tourists lining up to see the show. And just about the time the sky turned pink with the promise of twilight's arrival, the Buddhist monks swaggered suavely upon the scene. I could not help but laugh aloud as their arrival set the disney-fied camera toters to sprinting across the grassy fields in order to capture that elusive monk in front of temple ruins at sunet picture that would embody the happiness of their entire visit.

Ah the simplicity of their quest!

Today was a twelve hour day of temple packing as I pulled my group along as they all wilted from the heat. The canadian didn't last past lunch time and as soon as she disappeared into the hotel bound bus, our group suddenly became one of laughter, bonding, and cultural exchange. We visited eight temples: each completely different from the last and in its own way a treasure that shines brighter even robbed of all its lusterous gems. The carving artistry, the massive scale of design, the colors of the lichens redecorating to the tune of nature's theme. It was a day the camera could not hope to capture, but that stopped none of us from trying.

And as our sunset horizon faded into a scouring cleansing rain, we followed the young temple urchin into the tiny little Buddah guarded cave at the top of the apex of the stairs. After lighting an inscense to give Buddah all my love, our fortitude was rewarded with a completely arching rainbow painted across the sky. And when our guide brought us gigantic umbrellas to shield us from the shower, we stood in awe that the sun can set the jungle completely aflame amidst the challenging gauntlet thrown in by the rain. A moment perfect in its imperfection.

more on the angkor temples later, I know some of you have asked but i think it needs its own hour's time to write.
love, peace, and visions of decidedly non-utopian wonderlands, emily

a little water goes a long way

ejpredny — Wed, 2 Jul 2008 18:22:00 GMT

hello again.
the sky was sparkling like a sapphire stone set among diamond clouds as i wandered the streets of Hanoi. We had finished a morning tour of the one legged (okay, one pillar but it really looks like a flamingo balancing amid the lotus blooming pond) pagoda, the chilling hoa lo prison- complete with gruesome photos of tortured prisoners as well as John Mccain's air force uniform and photos of him as a guest of the Communist government, the temple of literature- the highest univeristy in the country, and a very decidedly unfriendly (because it closed early and would not let us in) Ho Chi Minh Mausoleum. The temperature had been steadily rising as though each minute on the clock slid the mercury down into the thermometer's pool.

I was trying to make it to the post office, the bookshop, and find myself a small bag for gifts. Halfway to the postoffice, I was startled by what I thought originally to be a bucket of water poured over my head. In looking for the perpetrator, I saw hundreds of motorbikes screech to a slamming halt followed by military precison rain poncho donning; I understood that I was in for a wet surprise.

The streets were rivers of mud and water, my silk shirt told everyone in town my measurements and birthmarks. But I was grinning ear to ear as I splashed my way through the puddles with the enthusiastic glee of a four year old girl. The ridiculous severity of the rain cloud's anger only made me even more filled with amusement at its tantrums. What could water do to stop my parade? Nothing. I made eye contact with the few brethren of stubborn pride- we all had that same twinkle of someone thwarting nature. I should not have had such plucky defiance- the rain twisted the shape shifting chameleon streets of Hanoi into pretzels that would not let me out of their salty dough-filled knots. I was lost again. And this time, the train was leaving for Hue and I had no choice but to hire a poor old man to cycle me on his bicycle closer to the hotel, so I could scramble out and run in my flip flops for the finishline.

We loaded our packs and then flew about three streets before the entire grid ofthe city was covered with stalling cars. evidently it was more than just a little bit of rain.

As we ran for our train, backs laden with weight, my flip flop decided that he had taken enough abuse in his lifetime and left me running barefoot through the train yards like a native urchin of the streets.

The train was delayed by half hour because of the traffic- but that was okay, we stocked up our little cars with beer and snacks. The cars were dingy little trashbins that had been haphazardly swept of obvious debris but left about as clean as the dumpsters of new york city. there were four bunks per berth in first class (no sitting or dining car, which shocked me a bit)- we split ourselves carefully along gendered lines to sacrifice only two boys to the cohabitation with strangers. The four other young girls took one cabin, I slept with the generations before me, and the boys huddled on their own. The young girls cabin became the place to socialize and bond over the awful conditions together. Our guide kept catching mice in a plastic bag of food and tossing them out the window as we rode through new places for mice to populate (16 tiny little mice total during the night). Then the cockroach parade began and I thought I would go deaf from all the screaming taking place around me. Amazingly , you can drink enough beer to forget that you are grossed out by the rotting smell eminating from the hole in the floor they call a bathroom. And though the sleep was not long or restful- the ladies servicing the train began to fight in the hall about 6am and I was up up up- it did awaken all of us to the reality of leisure travel in Vietnam.

The city of Hue was a beautiful concubine replaced by the king because her face began to wrinkle into a resemblance of the proud but tattered queen. The french columns embracing the graceful eaves of sprawling buildings looked familiar and inviting. After breakfast at the shop of an amazingly insightful photographer that made each of us drool in envy at his honest and uncomplicated artistry, we took a ride up the perfume river on a boat carved into a dragon- a symbol of power and water to the Vietnamese folklore.

The Thein Mu Pagoda told a story of the city with sweeping views, a bonsai garden to rival the queen's, and an astin martin driven to saigon in protest of the persecution of buddhists during the reign of the catholic president in the 1960s which ended in the monk burning himself alive in the middle of the city. we rented bicycles and took to the mad chaos of the streets.

We stopped at the high school of Ho chi Minh (they really do love and admire him here, a most revered leader), the Citadel and fortressed gates of the palace, and the forbidden purple city of the King (much of which decimated by bombs in the American War).

It was all laced wood insets and balanced feng shei confusion symmetry in hues of gold and red. The lotus flower blossoms thrive in the moats that forgot how to protect and serve and lazed about like cops on Segway scooters. The King used to have tournaments facing off an elephant against a pack of tigers. The Chinese tourists dressed in cowboy hats and jeans bet that they could have taken on both and won.

There was a place in the palace for dressing like the royal family (or the royal concubines, in fact) and taking pictures to laugh at for years to come. We elected Rich to celebrate his college graduation with a photo of fu man chu brilliance. And when the two demure girls taking family photos next door were game for posing with him as his concubines, I nearly waxed the marble floor with the tears that my guffaws can't contain.

We went to a nice dinner and followed with a nice drink at the tourist bar scribbled in memorium of all that have past this way (with sharpie). We came away with a souvenier as our sweaty bottoms reacted with the ink of our graffitied barstools.

The next day we were off again without a proper goodbye to the lady grace of Hue. We went to the tomb of king Toc Duc, who was unfavorable to the people in every way so he built himself a sanctuary to reside in that would later become his tributary legacy (kind of like daley, I suppose, hee hee) When trying to listen to the guide while ADHD set in, a local girl admonished me for leaving my white skin to be feasted on by the sun. They wear long sleeves, jeans, huge hats, and even dainty little mouth covering cloths in order to keep their skin a youthful pure whitish glow. Marvelling about how we try to look like the ideal of exotic allure the whole world over, we stopped at more temples, pagodas, and caves that housed statuesque buddhas hidden to the unadjusted eye.

Finally, we stopped at China Beach and I ran headway into the sea, crashing with the waves in a melody of cymbal rolls and rhythmic drums. When the sun had fallen its best reddish hue behind the rice paddies, we arrived in Hoi An, the shopping paradise of Vietnam. As we sat at the local restaurant that serves only forms of spring rolls layered into a double decker taco fashion, the matriarchal patron literally poured the beer down our throats and fed us each by hand if we stopped eating long enough to attract her merciless eye. It was a meal of devastation.

After the meal, we took our first wander to the tailor shops. The tailors of Hoi An made me realize that I had been waiting my entire life for this trip and had not the forsight to prepare for its destiny. They tailor make anything you want- right out of a picture or a magazine overnight for pennies on the dollar value for clothes back home. As I flipped from book to book feeling like a bride without a wedding, I remembered the dress of my dreams- the one in the final scene of dirty dancing. Sally and i raced about trying to find a suitable copy and explain what it was to the tailor, but I didn't end up getting that dress due to a slow internet connection (don't laugh if I try my luck again in Saigon!). The two I did get are fabulous reminders that I am a stunning creature unsupressable in spirit (well, the untouchably cool winter coat lined with dragon silk is anyways!) Less than $100 got me dreams of the future designs that I could bring back to test my experimental spirit. I could be a punk rock queen or a movie star- if only Hoi An would follow me home!

Much of the next few days had to do with shopping. Shopping for the handmade. Even the museums were really just shops wearing mustache glue and fedora hats and pretending they were teaching you history. A city without a soul, taking your money mercilessly and leaving you with visions of chinese lanterns lighting up your neighborhood in a gay celebration of ethnicity, I was happy to have a chance to take a cooking class to limit my time for roaming the dangerous streets lined with seducing wares of consumerism.

Four of us did the class. I almost didn't make it as I scurried from place to place fitting this and tucking that. I had to climb on the back of the hired motorbike and whisk my way along with the romance of the wind sweeping the hair escaping at the nape of my helmetted head. I wanted to keep going on the back of that fellow's bike for the rest of the year, but the class was only about a mile down the road- he had to bust me for trying to keep the helmet as I dashed off without even thinking about the extra weight on my brain.

The class was definitely more of a survey than an academic endeavor. We all sat around chopping and stuffing and nibbling on this and that with the fitly pregnant mother taking us to task. Our delicous meal was finished, and after a few local beers to tidy up the night, I returned to find christmas in the multitude of packages tailoring my girlish fantasies- all awaiting with expectant insecure faces hoping to be my favored treasure.

As we flew from Hoi An to Nha Trang, I noticed among the plethora of plastic rustling from my fingertips that a serious baggage problem had infested my luggage.

Several more pagodas later, (including one of the Champa people who lost the battle for survival to the Vietnamese long before the rest of the world tried to conquer their lands and one honoring the monks who burned themselves for budhist rights) we found ourselves at a mat-weaving house in the country. Filled with playful kittens just wanting to trust the huge giants before them but unsure of how to start, Jon and I found ourselves to be the only volunteers at learning the craft of the villagers. Our work was awful, even under their watchful hands, but I remembered how envious I am of those whose living is made by the strength of their knowledge and the force of their hand. (here I am still having my anne of green gables dreams even in the far east) we topped off our sundae of a day at the mud baths to have a communal session of beautification the Vietnamese way.

We piled into the slippery greased water that felt not so medicinal as dangerously menacing to my balance; we took turns with Three Stooges worthy moments of awkward comedy. The basking rocks to sunbake your skin felt like an iguanas dream, and by the time you rinsed in the water falls, vichy showers, and hot tub, the pool was a heaven on earth waiting for me to come home. My conversation skills went into hibernation as I ggggggggg-ed my way into a state of untouchable zen. The only revival was found among the charcoal fumes of dinner as we cooked our own meal in a grill version of fondue that put us elbow to elbow with the natives.

And when the completely riviera-esque beachside turned us out into a euro club filled with pimps, hookers, and foreign tongues, we found that the night gave way to jugs of rum and dancing- a faster life is always found along the pristine seduction of white sand.

Unfit for socialization until the oxygen of diving cleared my brain, we boated out along the bay to islands protected by the bumper cars of tourist boats all emptying into the water.

Floating along reciting the remembered pieces of quotes translated into wisdom along Budha's walls, i reflected on the sounds that pull us all beyond ourselves and into the world around us. The chants of our religious practice, the laughter of a beloved voice, the siren songs of whales elusive in distance, the musical memories our brains vacation with as we hum along our merry way.

They say that smell is the strongest sense of them all, flooding our emotional sensors with reactions provoking response. As I returned from my dive to bask in the sun and get massaged into coma by ladies waiting to fulfill my every need, I knew that the sound of the ocean will always be the most powerful of all. and I let it roll me off to napping peace.

i love you, let me know how your doing back there in the land without everyday massages and sunshine induced delerium.

love, emily

there is something about this place.

ejpredny — Wed, 2 Jul 2008 18:11:00 GMT

The night was a solitary predator on my mind. whispering about the perfect day, the perfect dream, the perfect future, the perfect past. And I was a solitary figure dressed as a reflection of the features of the night; the people lining the streets took little notice of the stranger in their midst as they laughed and shouted and lived their lives in the full volume of a sunday afternoon without responsibility. As I reflected on how strange it is that I have accustomed myself to the comraderie of my group to the point that I am actually lonely wandering on my own; I headed as far out of town as possible leaving the european feel behind and taking up the grit of local culture in my teeth. The carnival.
I am always a sucker for a carnival. Perhaps a tether still attaching me to the summer nights of paradise in my childhood when I would stay every waking hour at the carnival until my mom would come and collect me home. The people wore smiles like shining sequined accessories, and the children were excited residents of hypersville. There was a whole area set up with little cars and motorscooters so the children could ape the madness of the streets. As I laughed at the hundreds of accidents within the first whistle of the start, I noticed that the ferris wheel was calling my name. For only .50 I breathed in the magical lights spreading in every direction but the sea. Not the computer chip glow of the airplanes, but the reaching arms of bachelorettes each trying to catch the wedding bouquet- a little mad in their desperation for me to choose them for my future stop. I am used to being on my own when I come to these destinations, but with the fresh friendships blossoming around me in a group of amazingly like-minded travellers, I longed for my miscreant brethren to play air hockey with and join my dance dance revolution face off challenge.
On my way back I decided to jump into the street food experiment. I stepped up to a cart, smiled shyly and pointed to what looked somewhat like duck. The old woman clucked a little bit at my choice, and after staring deeply into my blank face, started to whip me up a concoction like a mad chemical scientist deciding the fate of the world. My roommate had stayed out on the town, so I finished my day watching fast times from ridgemont high while trying to decipher what exactly could have been in that bucket of sauce she put on my rice.
Luckily the mad scientist brew ingested was peaceable and not hell bent on hiroshima, I woke up feeling refreshed and ready to take on our night of roughing it in the villages of Lak Lake. The drive was a seven hour bus ride over roads that imagined that every pass was a systems test for shock absorption capabilities. It went by surprisingly painlessly as I traded music players with Jon and we investigated the subtle differences in style and release of artists who try to bridge the pond between us, and discovered the treasure of new artists unheard of at home. We stopped periodically at scenic overpasses where the girls all huddled together to avoid the demands of the roadside ladies hoisting wares at lightspeed pace from bus to bus.

I think I have a new Vietnamese name for this journey ""buy sumthing"" is a cheerful greeting the my friends call out to me everywhere I go.
We arrived at the tiny little hamlet in the central highlands just about evening time. Time enough to wander about clucking in response to the chickens and ducks, and playing the little piggies game with as many little potbellied piggies as you could possibly send to destinations around the globe. No little piggie could finish off the verse and go all the way home, however, because the people here build their houses on stilts to stop the wild animals from harming the women and children who stay at home unprotected throughout the day. We stayed in a communal room, mattresses lining the floor and mosquito nets ready to string their way up like lanterns in a paper moon festival.

As the lake spread an inviting calm before us, we saw the people boating to and fro pedaling their noble tree-trunk thin crafts with oars attached to their feet- ingenious! The sunset- the first one we have really gotten to see in its glory, was a magnificent reminder from the earth that we are lucky to have the gift of sight, lucky to have this moment to enjoy together, lucky to be alive.
The electricity here is as fickle as the rainfall, so we ate our dinner by candlelight. feeling really back to the simplicity of life before modern convenience, we went to a music celebration of drums and dancing. A big part of their tradition was the refreshment, worthy of Appalachian moonshine. Firewater is poured into a huge earthen jug, diluted with water poured from the bamboo canteens and then offered first by dueling straws to the ladies of the group (matriarchal society) then to the group in entirety. Ever the guinea pig, Jo and I went first.

As the taste of fermented apple juice mingled with charred ashen grit reached our mouths, we stared wide eyed at each other and looked for a way out- unsure that matriarchal was really a priviledge in this scenario.
As the night progressed and those around me nodded off to snore in symphonies of uncomposed brillance, I kept dreaming that the chickens were terrorists who suspected I was the enemy. As they pecked my eyes out in my dreams and clucked in my ear as a sleep deprivation torture tactic, I wondered if anne of green gables ever faced anything like this. Cracked out eyes belied my excitement as dawn awoke the rest of our tribe and we prepared our berths for the day's festivities.
AN ELEPHANT RIDE THROUGH THE JUNGLE!!!!!
Hooray! Sally and I paired up on our speedy gonzales pachaderm fit for two. We debated many names between us. I was a fan of nefi- short for nefarious, sally's favorite word. He hardly seemed so nefarious, however, as he carefully bobbed his way beneath the surface of the lake, trying to find a path that would keep us from blowing bubbles with the fishies. Poor nefi was up to his eyeballs in murky water, but he never resented us for having that extra bite of omelet at breakfast. As we caravaned along, the morning sang a perfect head bobbing beat with a cinematic progression of scenery perfect for our pulitzer prize attempts at photography.

Any activity booked after an elephant ride is forgotten like the closing band following the rising superstar. Not even a resurrected elvis could have really rivaled for remembrance in my log.

That said, we took a hike through the jungle; and by hike I mean that easily at several points, we could have all broken major appendages because the "trail" was formerly a snake's path trough the overgrown brush. It was fun to challenge our fitness after so many days of riding a bus. And the stops surveying mountains pushed back to the horizon by the green lush softness of the growing rice weren't bad to look at neither. and really, I felt a beaming pride to have escaped unmudded and successful in the wake of our tightrope act through the thin paths of the rice fields.
that afternoon, everyone went for a canoe ride out on the lake, but a few of us (especially those plagued by terrorist chickens) decided to nap instead (not that terrorist chickens cannot strike by light of day, mind you, I was just trying to wear them down a bit for the next victim).
As the flooding began in earnest that evening, and the frigid water supply ran dry without the generator supplying power to the pumps, our worst fear was that our flight to saigon would be cancelled and we would have nowhere to go, homeless hillbillies dirty and beraggled.
Our tiny little propeller proved fearless in the face of lighting aggression and we made it safely to the madhouse of Ho Chi Minh city.
This journey has taught me about the over hyped necessity of sleep. Everyday now I wake at 5 or 6am after staying up till midnight with my friends. Faced with the silent peace of the morning light, I find my thoughts much clearer and my heart more open to reflection. I think often about how I miss the meditating practice of my college days, and how I should try to take better care of myself when at home. Saigon (okay, technically it is now Ho Chi Minh city, but I really like the name Saigon better anyways) was the same way. In the slight hush of morning, the people were calm and docile in their slow preparations for the day. No one rushed about, no stores hawked their wares, people even played badmitten in the normally congested streets. By the wake of day, it is all a forgotten promise made from good intentions built in rehab, but lost to the fast urban pace of life on the streets.
We were off again by 8am to the Mekong Delta, to do our second homestay.

First we stopped off at the Chu Chi tunnels- the systems of underground crevices in three levels used by the viet cong during the war as everything from hospitals to rabbit holes to win against the americans. As we toured the blown up remnants of unlucky land-mined tanks, i felt a bit self conscious at my nationality. Luckily, it was a place for playing war, which was another childhood familiarity. I posed amid the tanks, flexing my muscles, chased phantom guerillas through the narrow dark tunnels, and even shot my first AK-47. It was a really intense game of testosterone machismo, and it was an exciting day to win.
After calming lion's roar with yet more hours on the bus, we arrived to a welcome drink of coconut juice served right from the nut. Our riverboat ride took us to a crocodile farm which took my memory back to scenes from Jewel of the Nile/Romancing the Stone. After we counted our fingers and toes and survived the pulsing speed of the predatory lizards, we slowed the speed down again to a pirogue for three paddled by a little old lady who I am sure could bench press arnold schwatzenager.

We got to peek into the treehouses built along the tadpole creeks, and the children here were bursting with excitement at a recipient for their enthusiastic "hello!!!"s.

When we glimpsed our treehouse mansion pimped out with a bar and connecting passageways to several communal mushroom huts, we breathed a sigh of relief that perhaps this would not be as exciting a stay as the farm.

We took walks along the dirty roads circling the one road island. Not much hazard of getting lost. My favorite resident was the little old man jetting about on his scooter decked out in matching pajamas. The dogs were a little fierce in their protest of our foreign scent, but we found our way out of harms reach soon enough. We cozied up in our wicken hut and snacked on snake grilled up for hor d'orves- paired with what they like to call lipton iced tea which is really vietnamese whiskey made with rice wine and jackfruit.
As the night progressed it became more apparent each hour that this place is filled with the magic that is only found in small towns and sentimental memories. The bushes were filled with fire flies who blinked in chorus as the originating muse for the inventor of the christmas lights.

The stars, oh, the stars. They sounded the call for a mecca to the heavens as they twinkled with a coquettish wink that we had met before. As we all sat together on the tiny little cement dock and prayed that the tide would not swallow us with river, we bonded in that dreamers way of trying to figure out which constallations were the stars that spelled out our futures, and which were already taken by the past.

In the faded haze of morning light and yet more chicken alarm clocks, I found myself as a party of one watching the magnificent slumbering beauty of the earth turning her face to the sun to stretch gracefully upon waking. As she tried to convince me that the sun rise will surpass the sunset as the bearer of my heart, I was taken to places of awe that I had been holding in reserve for life changing moments yet to come; my communion with the sunrise was saturated with wisdom and secrets that I shall keep until my dying day.

My reflection was not disturbed until the high heat of the morning roused the troops to evacuation, we were off to return to Ho Chi Minh.
We returned to a whirlwind tour of the city that proved to be somewhat less than climatic. The Reunification palace- a 1960s splendor that could really use a spiffer of a PR genious and a good interior design makeover (but the government that built it was a casualty of the war, so the current regime has little interest in that investment).

The War Crimes Museum- an excercise daring me to gaze into the eyes of the dragon of war and see what our country is capable of causing around the world. Photographic exhibits of death and torture, children whittled like rubber dolls by the agent orange warfare inflicted by our bombs, communist propoganda celebrating our eventual defeat. Helpless, not even able to speak a coherent sentence when all of this took place, I wanted to be able to do more to protest the wars that are still plaguing the world because of our American ego. I wanted to be able to help and make it better, by doing more than just being a good individual person. And I feel that those images will stay with me long beyond the stain of sweat from the heat of Saigon. It will be a reminder to me that it is not enough to object, it is a call to try to understand the aftershocks that follow war long after the fighting day is done. Remember the victims, the civilians, the veterans; remember the need for peace.

And the grand Finale, the Post office. pretty yes, colonial at its best. but ultimately not quite the tourist attraction that captivates and provokes your mind.

Done with the business of tourism, I changed into my Hoi An dress for a fancy dinner and found that I was the only duck dressed up in swan's clothes. It was alright though, as the compliments on my dress eased my embarrassment and made me feel like maybe I had class after all.

Our last day together was filled with sentimental wanderings and last souvenier expeditions spreading our wings throughout the city. Souvenier is a funny little word. To remember in French. As though a tiny little momento will make the memory stay sharper as the years dull the colors of each sunrise and sunset we have cherished here.

The time marched resolutely forward, no matter how hard we tried to fool its callus face. It was time for us to part. I have no idea how I changed from a loner to lover in such short time. But these people are ones I will hold forever to be friends of a common soul. Its more than just Vietnam about us, its a common understanding of the world, a lost language remembered in the presence of ones who have no reason to understand your lexicon. Twelve people got on a bus, and one got into a taxi.

But that is not where the story will end. When Duy, our Vietnamese guide called to interrupt my moping saturnine complexion, I hopped on the back of his motorbike and sped through the city in search of my resurrected dreams of that one elusive dirty dancing dress.

It was a nice distraction to walk my way home among the people parading and celebrating their saturday evening with games of chance and stiltwalking in the park and a huge live concert that put millennium park to shame.

And as life trudges on with plans and travels, I start to say my own silent prayer of thanks to Vietnam for enticing me and inviting me to discover that which I had forgotten about myself with the rusting weight of responsibility. In the quiet dawning of the day, in the clinking glasses of the night, I will souvenier these memories much longer than the fabric of that dress will fit me. and for that, i am filled with gratitude.

i miss you all, and value your love and support as I keep wandering my way back home. I will see you fairly soon, until then, write me!

there are places I remember... long after culture shock fades

ejpredny — Wed, 25 Jun 2008 18:28:00 GMT

So last we left Thailand, the land of smiles and buddha bellies lying content in the arms of tourist heaven. The day after cooking class, I went on a trek into the hills of the north. I was following the whisper of the trading winds to Chaing Rai and the Golden Triangle, the land where three countries joined together in sheltering a noman's land the chinese opium dealers used to swallow for their pirate runs and dens of indiscretion. It is not much more than a sign now, unless you pay extra for the boat ride that will pull you between thailand, the huge vegas casino that is Mynamar/Burma, and an island that oh yes, you pay more for-to land in laos, and shop (which indeed costs more than that). But among the king cobra elixer of testosterone fortitude, I found that this much of "laos" was probably not a true representation of visiting the country. After that we journeyed to the hilltribe villages, which are really refugee camps of tribes that fled burma and now make their living having: you guessed it tourists pay to enter into their camp and take pictures of them and then, yes, pay more to shop their handicrafts of silk scarves.

There was not one man in the camp, and five tribes all blended into one little group of huts as though their traditions merge in a friendly implementation of peace. There was the Akha- the men start saving silver pieces and when they are ready to get married they melt it down and produce a silver hat for the woman to wear. As the modern world has gobbled up the resources of silver, they now pass down the hat from generation to generation- a treasured pice of history for the women in the tribe. Then there is the long eared and long necked Karen. They insert metal tubes into their pierced ears to stretch them into big loops that drag the tips of their shoulders, or wrap brass around their necks until the weight of the metal displaces their shoulder bones to droopy downward curves making their necks look like long giraffe worthy limbs. The theories of why they do this are 1) to protect the tribe from tiger attacks, as the tiger kills by going for the neck, the metal prevents the tiger from reaching those precious arteries of life. 2) the men of the tribe decided that their women were the most beautiful and wanted to prevent them from marrying outside of the tribe, so they began this tradition. They were very shy but gracious people. (I can't remember all the other tribes) Their children ran about, giggling and creating a scene of life vibrant among the roughest of circumstance. But the overall experience was a tourist "attraction" the likes of which I cannot fathom to be organic, nor manage to be proud of seeing other than to support a failing people.
A few massage trips (I like to try a different place each night) and jaunts about town exploring every nook and cranny I could find (including an embarrassing encounter at a starbucks when I bought a drink strictly for the right to use the toilet, and as an american, I still cannot properly order a drink in the right jargon, which made the poor girl so flustered that she called in three people to help her discipher the order in which to say no whipped, tall, whatsamajeez).

And before I knew it I was on a plane to Hanoi, ready for the next part of my adventure. Entering the dingy sqwall of terminal hallways that could only manage to land about three planes simultaneously, I was ready for the beaten path to be a long forgotten memory. The visions of rice paddies and french colonial architecture transported me to a place that is simulateously exotic and familiar at the same time. Memories of Madagascar float to the surface. Both are a people who have lived with the dichotomy of serenly beautiful and violent base humanity at the core of each days journey. Here, the serious face of communism peered out from forgotten smile lines in the wrinkly old faces lining the streets. Posters toting public safety and moral lessons from the goverment face off against the easy joyful smiles of the children who are the treasure of these people, a friendly, loving, vital force refreshing the memory of an existence with no war to age and cynicize the mind.
The rest of my travel companions did not arrive until later in the day so I hopped in a taxi and got to my hotel by 9am, only to find quite predictably that the room was not ready. I left my bag and steeled my will to wander the streets alone and see the town. The way of life is very rough here. Streets lines with tiny little pho shops, the people crouch on the ground sipping hot steaming bowls of noodles that I believe follows my childhood theory of eating ice cream in the winter to equalize the inside and outside temperature. After all, just stepping outside feels like you are being cooked for the dinner of some vengeful god determined to boil you until you are a lobster feast for his guests. I felt that familiar distension of culture shock. I eyes thought everyone was staring at me, some blatently laughing and I couldn't tell if it was malice or folly. I am twice the size of any man or woman, about ten times the sweat. My cotton teeshirt was decimated within moments of hitting the sunny curb. Feeling self conscious and unsure of myself, I found haven in an internet cafe. When I tried to leave, the price was 3000 dong. The us dollar is 16000 dong. the atm gives out 100.000dong notes. he didn't have change, so i tried to pay in dollars (most transactions they prefer to be in dollars US) but flustered, I could not make my brain wrap around the math of 3000 into 16000. so i gave him 3$, and he was still not so happy, finally the two of us were rescued by a 16yr old girl, who gave me two dollars back as well as a bunch of change in dong. whew. as laughter erupted from all the children as I left, I had to smile as well, there is something about being a clueless foreigner that really humbles your spot into the world and solidifies your compassion for all those who live in a world different from the one they understand as home.
when I got back to the hotel, my roommate had arrived. Sally from britain. she is definitely my speed and a quality roomate. Naps to quell the heat of day are a must by 1pm. After a 3pm meeting, we were off to explore the city. The group is larger than I had anticipated, and much more diverse. 13 people mostly from britain, scotland, and ireland, including one family of four with the two sons having graduated college. However, there is also much more free time to do as your please, which is nice. We did attract quite a bit of attention "WHITE PEOPLE, WALKING" as i like to subtitle any journey together.
Then we had a free hour to wander the new neighborhoods alone, and one person got so lost that she was half hour late to meet us again. We all laughed and anticipate following suit at some point along this journey.
The next day, we got on a bus to go to Halong Bay, a world heritage site of thousands of limestone cliffs jutting proudly out of the ocean to protect the shore and hide the pirate ships playing cat and mouse with the fishermen and warships in the bay. As our bus bumped along the road, the scenery kept changing so dramatically that it was impossible to peel my eyes from the parade of beauty we passed. We stopped amid the peaceful serenity of the rice fields, and finally after years of imaginative musings, I learned the secrets of the rice harvest and what each step is to finally producing a huge sack of rice for a family to take home.
The boats in halong Bay are old chinese "junk" ships. teak wood the likes of which are long forgotten treasures either eliminated from existence or protected from abuse by this day in age.
they were beautiful; I felt like an lady at the turn of the century waiting to board the exotic cruise to a new land in a world filled with dangers at sea. the irony is that the boats are so aptly labelled "tourism" and the trip is a masse fleet of ships all huddling together for protection whilst visiting the same sites.
there are caves hidden on some of the islands, huge stalagtite wonders with stalagmite refrains. they are all colored quite like a circus show with sparring hues of green, blue, pink, yellow- every swatch in the gel book of colors a random stop- yes! that is the color for section 6 of cave 3!
and of course, there is the long revered (hee hee) symbol of male virility- a boulder with a certain rising attraction to the sun that the guides like to show the ladies and watch them blush and look away.
After the caves was time for kayaking. Every one paired into pairs, but I was left the odd man out. At first, I was going to go it alone, confident in my kayaking abilities, but then a guide went with me and I was glad because the directions they gave us to finding the hidden lagoon were very rocky and the lagoon was hidden well from our untrained eyes.
we formed a good team, he stopped at a boat floating in the middle of the inlet to boast to his girlfriend that I was a suitable replacement. she was definitely used to such harassment, asking me my age and if I was married to gain ammunition in her barrage that he had no chance. He gave me candies that he stole from her floating store, and whisked me off in a race against the rest of our group for an invisible finish line he makes in his mind. The lagoon was tranquil floating but all the exertion in the heat left you wanting to gulp in the salty sea and float yourself off into oblivion. He told me to rest for while and gondola man style, paddled me about while singing soft vietnamese lullabies to soothe the spirit. When we reached the boat, the entire crew was splashing in the wake of the boat, doing machismo jumps and somersaults off of each level of the deck. We naturally joined in the fun. Only myself and the british boys were brave enough to try to kloofing off of the top deck- about 12 feet high. I think I earned my vietnamese stripes with such a daredevil feet. the crew definitely cawed and smiled at me from that point on.
the best part of the day was floating on my back, arms outstretched with the sounds of the world silenced by the water in my ears. I kept wondering about the luck I have in life. floating along the vietnamese shore, sun set rays caressing my face and telling me that the world is filled with love for those who follow the promise of an adventure. and the gentle rocking of the ocean lulled me to sleep with a smile on my face. As we breakfasted on rice and noodles, I felt a certain fulfillment of childhood foreshadowing. My mother always used to laugh that I preferred cold chinese food to cereal. Now i know I am not alone in this preference. The crew found my chicago postcards, and enjoyed ooing and awing over the american city and the boats dotting the lake. We had a chipper exchange of vocabularies as I gave each of them one signed like a miniature rock star, that I am.

We stopped on our way back to Hanoi at a facility made by a rich man to support that people with disabilities in vietnam. about 500 people live there, 57% disabled by birth or by bombs. they make handcrafts and charge exorbitant prices for them, but as they limp around showing you their achievement, you would rather pay twice the price to know that they are taken care of and loved so well.
Back in Hanoi we went to the well advertised tourist attraction of the water puppet show. A true achievement of theater history, the band sings mystic songs of historical significance while the puppets appear beneath the water and dance about portraying the folklore of vietnam and the daily life faced by each farmer and animal.
It was kitschy and fun, and truthfully, we all nodded off at some point like true lovers of the theater.
After dinner, everyone decided to take a cab except for me and jon, one of the british gents. in our heated discussions of life, travel, and politics, we got completely lost amid the market streets that all look the same; each street promising to know the way back to our hotel. the drizzling rain made a cooling respite from the day, and we each voiced our willingness to tough it out and refused the many offers of taxi cabs. we ended up making an hours journey out of a fifteen minute one, and most of that time circling the same street only four blocks from our hotel, but as we were greeted with cheers in the hotel bar, we laughed and smiled and I said, beer has never tasted quite so good.
We board a night train to Hue this evening after visiting the entombed body of Ho Chi Mihn.
More adventure awaits....and thank you for the supporting voices from home.
love, emily
p.s. sorry if this is rough, very short on time here, writing before breakfast!

how many wat puns fit into a chili pepper?

ejpredny — Fri, 20 Jun 2008 18:33:00 GMT

hello there,
it has been some time since I dusted off dusted off my faded army backpack. The painted flowers are several shades lighter and the musty smell of africa still lingers in the leather straps. But now it is time to journey to the other side of the globe in pursuit of adventures and understanding.
Four years seems an interminable amount of time to forget all of my tricks. I packed and packed again until I fit a months worth of life in under 30lbs.
The flight itself was a new frontier- 20 hours on a plane without stopping- Chicago to Seoul, South Korea. The airplane meals were korean dishes that came complete with directions for the foreigners staring at the ground meat and vegetables wondering what to do with the tiny little vials of sesame oil and hot chili paste. Landing in Seoul, the airport was a mimick of the Lost in Translation set. Bright Harsh florescent lights and glitzy Neon ad campaigns seared the eyeballs with blues and pinks not found outside of the 1983 resale bin. I found myself a corner of a sushi bar and watched, fascinated at the parades of people that did not look like they had intentionally left the united states.
My flight to Bangkok, Thailand was filled with more white people, specifically more americans than thais. By the time we landed at 1am, I was shocked to find the airport as bustling as if it were 3pm on a friday afternoon. The city never sleeps. I had booked myself in the airport hotel, even though it was putting on the Ritz, and was grateful that my time clock had reset enough from the deprivation of 28 hours of wakeful preparation the days before that I fell right into a coma.
The next day I was not letting any dust settle on my heels- only one month of time before work begins again and not a day to waste recouperating any losses. I flew straight to Chaing Mai in the North. The clouds were putting on impressive impressions of celestial bliss as we crept away from the sea towards the bushy green mountains. The development of cemented mansions is impressively more than I had expected, but the tiny two carousel airport was much more my speed. It was easy to get a taxi, easy to find people who speak english everywhere I turn. They are a people of spoiling the tourists.
The first guesthouse I handed at was booked full of dreadlocked soldiers of youth hotly debating the superiority of their travel portfolios with the same vengeance that their antithesis trades stocks on the floors of the mercantile exchange. I managed to trounce my way to the next best on the list with absolutely no problem not reading the street signs. I have futilely tried to write down the thai script for important words, like Women (bathrooms) or Do Not Enter, or Please Take off your Shoes. but the squirmy lines and widgets just dance elusively out of the grasp of my pen. I try to say, okay its like a hat on top of a dancing loon, but the hat never makes sense, and is that a loon or a duck now that I really look at it.
Anyways, The Gap house is where I will stay until Saturday relieves Thailand of my folly and sends me skittering to Vietnam's Hanoi.
The $10 a night room is much like the little hovels of africa. Comfortable enough for a backpacker, but filled with lots of little antsy visitors and a toilet in the shower (hey, saves the age old debate of whether it is wrong to pee in the shower, doesn't it?)
There is even a primative air conditioning, and though the heat and humidity rival florida swamps in August, I prefer the fan and the night air.
I settled in to the friendly place and soon followed the bellowing sounds of monks chanting to the Wat (the thai word for temple, perhaps even the buddhist word for temple because it it used so often in the guidebooks for the region). The gilded thatched pagoda roofs gave way to solid gold statues of buddha facing all directions. I was beckoned inside by a friendly neighbor and sat with him listening to the prayers call back in time to the days that pandas kept their secrets in silence and tigers danced their moonlit prowls without humans to prey upon their stalkings.
My favorite part about this time of meditation was observing the harmony surrounding the temple. The lizards were not held in reverence of his shining glory, they crawled upon his back as welcome as creatures of the earth reclaiming their metal. And the ants took this time of preoccupation to scurry about lifting anything not tied down to make a new home up inside the branches of the mango trees.
It was all just perfectly at peace. It was a feeling that has been absent far too long.
The night market was an endless labyrinth of stalls- each selling goods more beautiful and original than the last. Buying souvenirs should be next to impossible, I am so mesmerized by everything that glitters under the lanterns and sure that I could never deserve to touch such graceful Things. Silks, jewels, charcoal portraiture that you watch the dirty fellows creating, just stunned that much artistry can be trapped into replicaing chubby tourist faces peering out of photographs dropped off by the hour.
I found a crowded restaurant serving up seafood and as I dug into my charcoal grilled whole red snapper (only 4$)- I found myself daring that inner chid to taste every hot red curling pepper and see if I had what it takes to make it in thai.
Dizzy from the sweating and the heat, I found the heaven that I have been waiting for my entire life. A thai massage- one hour for three dollars. The legacy of the people, an inaliable right that I could sign declarations to support- a little old lady that could kick mike tyson out of the ring in tears, I plan on going back every night that I am here.
Finding my way back to my bed was a blissful walk of contented sighs and peaceful wanderings. The city is alive and safe at Midnight, just the same as morning rush hour. The tour book said you are more likely to be charmed out of your money than robbed, and I believe it is 100% true.
Today was my thai cooking class. The market tour was full of alien containers of green paste and purple powders, and fear factor creatures in every shape and flavor. Worms, eels, snakes, frogs, they are for eating, for setting free in celebration of buddha, for buying and keeping as cute little friends, your choice.
And later, as I learned to master the chili and stirfry my way out of a box, I mused on how happy everyone here is. There are no harsh angry voices, no vying for my money and attention in ways that make me huddle my backpack a little closer to my chest. It truely is the Land of Smiles, and I am smiling, knowing that my smile is not interpreted as an opening for business. Knowing that the questions asked are really just a friendly curiosity and any help given is not followed by demands for payment of service rendered. my aged backpacker defense mechanism is left dusted in the closet at home. And though the "low season" is filled with white people, who very likely came for the vacation and decided to stay for the ease of respect effortlessly caressing every life into fulfillment; its not just the monks who are finding inner nirvana here.
love, emily.

don't you worry your pretty little head

ejpredny — Mon, 8 Nov 2004 17:00:00 GMT

hello! welcome to madagascar! i know it's been awhile, but there are no predators or dangerous animals on the island, so don't worry bout me!
i think i was separated at birth. the people here love that which does not make sense almost as much as i do. i hit a slow start, bronchitis (too much excitement for my runty lungs) but after a few days of CNN, i got out an about in antananarivo, or tana. the city here is a roller coaster, waiting for you to take it on. you board simply by leaving your hotel. there is no way to abort the loop de loops and cyclone turns until it safely lets you off again in front of your hotel. the in between, my friends, is where the action is. i know the main roads up the hill. they turn in different ways going back down. sometimes in the middle of what you thought was uphill, you go down a hundred steps and back up again without losing any vantage point on the city below. i usually find one of the two guideposts: the burnt out shell of the queen's palace on the highlands, or the reappearing lake which always seems to block what i thought was my way back home.
breathlessly i follow the twists and turns until i find myself at home again, exhilarated by the nonsense of it all.
the trees here decided long ago to compete with the beauty of the roses below and have turned their leaves to a shade of purple. the houses are built on awkward angles as though they wish they could tumble down the hill with reckless abandon. and some days, the cars all park facing up the hill like a one way street. though the next hour they will all face down. the money is counted in malagasy francs, officially. easy for a vahaza like me to be confused in a store where everything seems ridiculously cheap- you see, they count their money in an unofficial way. the ariary. which is a multiplication table of francs times five. ever wanted to be a whiz at math, just try buying your groceries five times over!
after a few days of phone tag, i met brice, a friend of one of the folks i met all the way back in dakar. brice did wonders to help me get over my culture shock. his parents are malagasy, but he is considered to be a bit of a foreigner as well, because he lived and studied for a long amount of time in france, then america for a few years as well, even stopping by chicago for a brief and not entirely well guided stint (i can't wait for a day when perhaps he and his fiancee will come visit and we can really show them how wonderful chicago is). we went out to a fantastic malagasy restaurant and compared america stories and malagasy introspections. it was a blessed relief to ease back into french by having someone to speak english to for a few hours a day. and i got to practice my french with someone on my level, anja, a vivacious five year old who took me in stride and made me remember the colors and read a book with me, one i could actually understand in french!
after a few days, i found myself once again in the throes of peace corps- what's a girl to do? every stone unturned in this galaxy of a wilderness is covered in americans. and in the paralyzation of culture shock, you quickly go from searching them out to desperately wanting to immerse yourself in strangers who know nothing of marlboro dreams and MTV hallucinations.
the malagasy are the most beautiful people. somewhere in between africa and indian, chinese and polonysian, and yet distinctly their own.
everything is alive here. the plants, the sky, the air, the dead are even alive and pulsing through the energy of it all.
i headed out to the rainforest to escape my preoccupation with the american election. (never good to fixate on that which you are helpless to change, i thought).
i headed out to the village in sunshine, in two seconds, it was pouring rain. i met a crew of road workers who asked me to ride on their steamroller and chat. i could have walked faster, but the friendliness here is infectious, so we laughed our way down the mountain. that night, i hit the darkness of the forest, only to find the paparazzi tourist flash. i was so filled with sympathy for the poor dear little mouse lemurs, blinded in their search for a good banana to lick. and i had my first experience of giving blood for conservation of natural resources. leeches. lots of them. i took it all in stride. ok, i was a little paranoid that every drip of sweat down my neck was a leech crawling towards my face. but i never screamed, not even once!
i saw so many lemurs the next day. big fuzzy teddy bears flinging themselves through the trees. so cute, so alien.
the trails were absolutely incredible. i have no idea how the huge groups of twenty senior citizens manage to traipse through the steep muddy inclines that i barely manage to not break my neck traversing. but they do, walking sticks and all. they were in hot pursuit, but my guide managed to keep us in a bit of isolation. beautiful wilderness so silent and strange. the rainforest is like a tangled mess of hair that had been wound into dreadlocks on the surface of the earth. and the plants and the animals lost their need for an independence a long time ago. i don't think the tree frog even knows it is not the tree when it stays still for a few hours.
i managed to outwit even my own intentions and went to the american research center to find out the results of the election. then i hit the rhum coco for consolation. i am still hitting the rhum coco. part of me wanted to see riots and john kerry refusing to conceded and americans standing up to their faulty electoral college. i have to explain to everyone how this happens. how we try to help other countries have democracy with having a clear cut winner of a presidential election for an entire decade. but i can't know what it is like back home. how peace is grudgingly made.
i met a group of other tourists, one of whom was travelling the same path as i. so we now have been traveling together for four days. from rainforest, through desert heated mountains, to the coast. Marc, my travel companion, reminds me acutely of my brother only much more hungarian. and he has the added bonus of having the same temperment as i- the wonder and amazement combined with a go with the flow sense of adventure.
we went to ranohira, which means the shower, or water of the lemur. i love that image. at the shallow pooling waterfalls, the lemur comes and washes his little armpits drying off with the giagantic palm tree leaves.
the taxi brousse there was a novel in and of itself. we were turned back at the city limits of fianaratsoa by the police and our driver had to go back by himself to get paperwork while we all waited by the side of the road, watching our bags fade into the distance with anxiety. then we were off again only to stop for three hours by the side of the road while our driver purchased twenty sacks of zebu food. and then loaded them all onto the top of the van until the tires wished they could be worms and slink off into the ground beneath all that weight. while we were stopped, i marveled that i had not seen a proper sunset since arriving in mad. two second later the grey sky was hot pink. we are talking the nailpolish color little girls prefer. and the lavender aftershocks were just as gorgeous as the warring riot of pinks and oranges. this country is unbelievable. we were off again again. the driver, who had previously liked to blast eminem, began to show his renaissance and chose instead to crank up the celion dion tunes. he rewound "my heart will go" on twice in order to sing along with proper abandon.
we were laughing so hard we cried the next two hours. the four hours after that we cried out of hunger and butt pains.
but isalo, the national parc of grand canyon status, was finally at the end of the road.
only they only had one room. with one bed. there is a speed of getting to know someone at which you just are too tired to care anymore. and camping out in the canyon for the next night, the tent was the most ridiculously small piece of tarp i have ever seen. so i now consider myself to HAVE a hungarian brother. we laugh at everything. it is too surreal to believe. yesterday the sun set in two directions at the same time. the east AND the west. both were equally as pink and purple and orange. the laws of science no longer apply. the stars have become rabbits having babies, and they streak naked across the sky every twenty seconds for your eyes. fireworks have never been this exciting. everyday has been rain and sun and rainbows to show their brushing elbows.
i have averaged walking fifteen kilometers a day. and yet i lose no weight. it is too much to believe. i am no longer on the same planet i left. though there is a little bit of reality. having to actually drink purified iodinizied water that was so refreshingly beautiful to splash into after attempting a tarzan swing from the ledge above. having the grass attack your feet with knifelike precision as you pass from the green movie sets of waterfalls and sandy palmtrees to desert heat, scorpions, boa snakes, and vertical inclines that my lungs and my midwestern flatfeet cannot believe i overcome.
but everyday, i wake up thinking that i am the luckiest girl alive. and wonder how long you can possibly hold onto this feeling of complete contentment. it has been almost a month of competeing days for the best of my life. and with that, i go to see what is underneath the waves of the indian ocean.if you look on a map of madagascar, tulear is where i am. who knows where i will be when you hear from me again. probably in paradise. love and still lots of missing yous, emily

the love of a lifetime: South Africa

ejpredny — Mon, 25 Oct 2004 17:07:00 GMT

cheesy firehouse 80s rock aside, i have found the love of a lifetime. South Africa. this is the only place i have ever traveled that feels like a place i could live. every moment here, every stop is even more incredible and beautiful than the last.
after cintsa i followed the rambling mountains down the coast to cape town. huge mountains overshadow the city, san franscisco in it's dreams of clean friendly tranquility. the cape malays, i believe a ethnic grouping that long ago mixed polynesian with african genes, are the most lively interesting and friendly people i have met. conversations start in a store i was only browsing by and continue for half an hour. the smiling faces, the shouts of "cheers" as you walk away. i really do feel warmed by the cheer they wish me. i walked the entire town in a day, as far up the hill as i could get without having a full day for the climb. to see the city foggily smiling back at me in the hazy colors of the setting sun soothed the sleepless nights of bus travel. i went out to a fancy restaurant, mama africa. they made me sit at the bar because they were so crammed. but the busboy came over with a napkin folded over his arm and lit a candle on the bar for me. i felt special and fawned over. i smiled to myself in that way that your thoughts roam over the happiest places of your life and in reflecting upon how perfect every moment of living can be, cracks of dimples and teeth peek through the stoic stranger face that you normally hold for public places. unfortunately this was an invitation for men to think that i wanted company. it took a bit of haggling between each course, but i managed to keep my peace and make an escape before the band played a kareoke tune dedicated and sang to me by the bloke who was bothering me. it was good eating though. game platter- ostrich, kedu, crocodile, springbok, and mixed game sausage.
the next day i woke at an ungodly hour and headed out to see the great whites. it was freezing and foggily raining. we chummed out the fish juice and sacrificed our rubber seal decoy "sammy" and soon enough, the sharks appeared. huge six feet long killers of the sea. viciously grabbing at sammy asd i screamed "run, sammy, run" while the crew reeled sammy closer to safety. after about two hours and four sharks, it was my turn to get into the freezing ocean waters and see if i had a date to the prom. sure enough, the minute i slipped down into the water, my beautiful pugnosed beast came for me. he smoothly glided by, bracing the cage slightly with his tail as he left me to find a better meal. i can remember every tooth in those blood red gums.
i got back from my adventure to rainy blustering cold, so i headed out for a movie and felt as though i was lost in chicago in my disorientation upon leaving. i had to leave capetown too early. everywhere in south africa too early. i am thinking that i might need more time here after madagascar. more time, the prayer of the traveler.
so i headed back to jo'burg to go for my tour of kruger national park. thank you thank you thank you to my mom and sister robin for convincing me not to be a cheapskate and skip kruger. this was by far the most amazing four days of my life.
i chose a walking tour, one with an armed ranger. (by the way, i was warned very earnestly by the british girls i have spent quite a few days with that there is nothing that brings out the girlish sighs of harlequinn romances come to life than being in the african bush with an armed ranger. i would have to second that fully. i thought i was stronger than those stereotypical damsel in distress sighs, but the daydreams do carry you away for a good hour when you first start hiking out there beneath the stares of predator eyes surrounding you.) our first night out, we walked in a single file line, rotating in a fashion for everyone to be at the front behind the ranger for about five minutes time. we found some rhino tracks, learned about the following of tracks, the freshness of dung (called scat if the animal is carnivorous!) and other soundless stalking techniques. i must admit. elmer fudd was preying in my brain singing "Kiw tha wabbit, (or in this case kiw the whino) and shhhh! we're hunting whinos". we returned to the car a bit unsuccessful only to spot a rhino by driving a few hundred meters (oh, by the way, i am now fully adapting to the metric system. forget feet, meters all the way, man)
we slipped one by one off the side and ranked into our line to stalk crouchingly closer to the calmly dozing rhino. so beautiful. he could twitch his ears, hearing us but unable to see us with his failing eyes. we got to within fifty meters of him, then my stupid flash went off on my camera and suddenly he sprang to his feet and leaped away in surprisingly graceful hops. thus we went back drinking beers under the sunset and starting our nocturnal hunt under the cover of the breaking moonlight. first off, we find lions lounging by the dam. we get within three meters of them in the car. the lions see the car as a solid object and never actually associate it with humans inside. thus we are safe as long as we are in the car. that philosophy fine and good, but when a lioness stares you straight in the eye from five feet (hee hee feet) away, your heart stops in its will to pump the frozen blood through your veins and you know what it would be like to be that deer in headlights unable to move as the car careens towards you with murderous intent. after the lions we returned to camp for dinner, coffee by the fire, and a night of trying to convince yourself that there is no hyena waiting to pounce on you as you walk from your tent to the toilet at night.
back on the trails in the morning. this time we find some buffalo (about 100 in one herd), springbok, impala (the mcdonald's of the bush, having a black M shape on their butts and being the favorite lunchtime snack for predators) and some giraffes. my favorite is definitely the giraffe. how can something so awkwardly self conscious of itself be so delicate? we walked back to the lions and they were less inclined to let us approach them on foot, so we only got about 150 meters away before they ran further in the bush. the night drive yielded a genet, a small leopard-like relative of the mongoose, and a chameleon that did NOT like life in the spotlight of the tourist flash. poor fellow.
the next day we moved camp to the other side of the private reserve. this camp is called tuskus. we soon discovered why. after an hour in camp, we spotted a herd of elephants roaming in the riverbed below our camp. the herd turned out to be a huge gathering of several herd, we are talking easily a hundred huge bulky elephants all playing in the reeds not 100 meters from our camp. we got in the car and drove all of 150 meters before we ran into elephants right out on the road from our camp. we turned off the engine while the hundred friends from the riverbed below came to munch on the green goodies closer to our camp. a huge bull, probably about 40 years of age, decided he did not like the look of our car (it is mating season and horny males tend to not like much of anything i guess) so he started to flap his ears and approach within three meters of the car. he pawed the ground, preparing for the charge. at this point, most of us tourists were frankly pissing our pants. our ranger, bret (isn't that the perfectly stereotypical ranger harlequinn romance novel name? hee hee. i love life like fiction) so anyway, our ranger then shouts "hey big boy, behave yourself" to this we get a full on trumpeting growl that means serious business. bret then slaps the side of the car so forceful we are all shaken, and shouts "F* OFF" and thus the elephant backs down, leaving us to gather what is left of our wits and puddle ourselves off of the jeep floor. luckily, elephants understand english. we returned to find camp surrounded by elephant. there was even one in the shower! it was the scariest moment of my life. i never imagined i would be more afraid of elephants than lions or buffalos or rhinos, but good god, there are so powerful, so fearlessly aggressive. the night was a tense one after they moved on. we went for a night drive, viewing hippos in the moonlight to the sparkling accompaniment of fireflies. magical, this place. completely enchanting. we returned to camp to drink lots of beer and huddle in a quaking mass by the fire as the elephants did a ballet between returning to our camp, munching over our tents and then retreating off to lull us into thinking they had finished with us. i drank a total of one beer in the three days previous, seven in the night of elephant's trumpeting in the not so distant darkness. that was a long night of no sleep. but the most exhilarating sleepless night one could have. we awoke to see the elephant accompanied by vultures on the other side of the river. the ranger said that this was the signal of an elephant birth, the vultures eat the placenta. that was the commotion of the night before. the noise that ceaselessly interrupted the silence. towards light, the lions started to growl in response. one of the other campers started taking light tranquilizers. valium and the like. we went for our last hike. indiana jones scenery, jumping across steep ravines and viewing the savanna in flowing as far as the eye can see into the horizon from the top of a mountaintop while refreshing mists of chilling rain clean the sweat from the face. i learned about plants, trees, surviving in the bush with nothing but the earth to live on. did you know there is bush soap (devil's thorn when wet produces antibacterial soap), bush toothbrush (stalks of bushes) and even bush toothpaste (we were looking but couldn't find it). i spent the week with brits and kiwis, being forever the strange american who dances alone in her tent while everyone else in napping. and says strange jokes that no one understands (alright, so that happens at home to me too...)
i never want to leave. but i want to see madagascar too. so tomorrow we are off to madagascar for three weeks. rain forest, diving in the indian ocean, lemurs, desert. what is there not on the island that is a world to itself. some of the most rare and unheard of plantlife and animal species found nowhere else on the planet, and only three weeks to fit it all in. so this has been a longwinded journey, and i am getting carpeltunnel syndrome from all the excitement. i love you all, i will be home (eventually) (hee hee) and my heart though split in two, still has a residence in chicago. so i will see you all on the other side of the indian ocean, i miss you and love hearing from all of you, emily

heaven and somewhere else.

ejpredny — Wed, 20 Oct 2004 17:12:00 GMT

so at the start of this branch of adventure, the official announcement is that we have extended our travels together until Nov. 15th. the two extra weeks hopefully sunning the the wild adventureland that is madagscar.

south africa.

so i am going to go out of chronological order here, and start with heaven. i am in transkei, the wild coast, breathing in the beauty of the ocean every minute of the day.There is a certain magic about the sea. Even those who fear it with all of their hearts are drawn into to return its endless gaze from the safety of the shore. I have been afraid; those awkward years when the thought of so many uncontrollable living things staking out the sand beneath your feet and waiting to fill you with the sting of their venom makes even a stroll in the shallow waves a heart pounding thriller. i stare because the vastness of the sea reflects the energy that is trapped inside of my body. that energy yearns to glide upon the water like the flying fish, turning fins into wings that take me as far from myself and my limitations as the wind will let me go. but i forget, the gills will not turn into lungs, and even the fish that can fly must return to the sea with a splash of finality. but this is not a story of coming home. and so i will tell you the moments of flight, the exhilaration of being myself without the harness of myself holding me back. the emily of the surf.

i started out with a lesson, surf school. there were two guys and me, we had to wait a couple of hours (watching a gruesome national geographic video of how people drown in the ocean) as the fog slowly retreated back into the sea and showed us our quarry, the pounding surf. once out there, i attacked the waves with as much strength as i could muster, but the sea was not willing to submit under my feet without a fight. i feel like i need to go to bootcamp for a few weeks then come back and show the ocean what i am REALLY made of!

in the afternoon, a few whales started jumping their support on the horizon.

i remember in hawaii a surfer telling my dad and i that he was surfing with whales jumping behind him at sunset, i could never imagine being in the magic of that moment, but there i was, well, not quite surfing yet, but flopping my tail back at them in a kind of primortal communicative rite that said "i am here. in paradise. the whales believe in me. i believe in me and the ocean is my home too." the other dudes laughed at me for saying the whales were offering a high five, a hang ten. well, i didn't get standing until the next day, with my usual stubborn determination i was smacked in the head by thousands of waves, slam both my knees bloody raw upon the surf, pulled every muscle in my arms and back- but never gave up, not until i stood for a full three seconds before bailing off into the sand. i plan to try again tomorrow- my last day for a really successful mastery of the board- a ride that lasts the entire length of the wave. at night, after leaving a legacy of irish car bombs in south africa (no one here has ever heard of putting a shot in a cup of beer, and they are mostly europeans, so it is really fun watching their confusion as i teach them how to spend a friday night american style)- i sit out on the porch of my dorm, watching the stars and tuning in to the symphony of the crashing surf echoing through the darkness. it is a peaceful life, one i wish could go one forever in warmth and salty perfection. but alas, a group of 20 americans has landed today. anywhere 20 americans arrive on a bus together, i know i don't care to stay.

but back in johannesburg where this all began, i am met with psychological complexities very triumphing to understand. the atmosphere of fear here is comparable to the week after sept. 11th 2001 in america. only the apartheid has been finished for over fourteen years now. first of all, no one actually seems to set foot in the city limits of jo'burg. when i mentioned wanting to go downtown at my hostel, i was met with shocking disapproval, snarky contempt, and warnings of grave danger. but when i asked the few africans that i have found to talk to, they said that there are plenty of safe neighborhoods downtown, just not to go too late in the afternoon and be sure to stick to asking only the tourist police in yellow vests for directions.

so i am staying in an affluent white suburb-a walled community in which every house has its own separate wall complete with signs of alarm systems, security guards, and gates that have speakers and codes in order to open them. i went for a walk down the street and everyone was marveling about how adventurous i was, and how finding a grocery store on foot was a feat of courage. this is like visiting orland park on vacation-or lincolnshire and saying you visited chicago. the big draw of the hostel is a free shuttle to the mall, and yes, bored on a sun. afternoon, even i went to the mall on an outing. and there is such a strange disjointed equality here. ALL of the patrons were white, ALL of the workers, save a few sparing managers or front desk employees, were black. even in senegal, at the most fancy of bars, there would be a few black patrons. there were NONE here. and there was a great parking lot in the mall dedicated to the minibuses that shuttle the workers back to their homes- i guess closer to downtown. it reminded me of a michael moore movie. i think it was 9/11, where the african mother was bused hours to work in a fast food joint in the white affluent suburb a couple of towns away. i went to the apartheid museum which was possibly one of the most well thought out museums i have ever been to. The end of the story is something i can claim to have lived through, though the only recollections i have are the occasional mention on the cosby show. I toured through soweto afterwards- a strange concept, touring both ghetto and affluent black neighborhoods. i tried to imagine a tour bus going through cabrini green, with its new million dollar development next to the projects. but it was only me and my guide, so we talked very political and philosphical discussions about race relations in both america and south africa and we got braai on the street- yes, i ate cow heart-ewwwww. and some shebeegan beers. one of the fellows was talking underneath his breath about wanting to take me out and show me south africa, so my guide told me to go flirt a bit.

i was met with complete shock and wonder. then he wanted to follow us on our tour, which my guide stopped for me. but evidently such humor does not happen here. my guide told me that most people are surprised by even a hello from a white person. if they are not engaged in business, a black person never really expects to meet a white person in any social form or function. i told him i wanted to speed things up a bit- i know that in twenty years or so perhaps jo'burg will fix itself, but i really wish i could create a colony of cool white people in soweto, and seed some non-shit-taking blacks into the white suburbs, though i have less hope for that working. white flight, you know. same everywhere. they all understand my political fascination and craving for american news on the election, they have a very complex election system that is still fragile and very heated in discussion.

so that was about it for jo'burg. mindless fear and suburbia, yeah. but fascinating history.

and that's what it's all about.

ejpredny — Sat, 9 Oct 2004 17:16:00 GMT

when i am traveling, there are some things that come back to me very easily- being able to work around not having street signs and only one bad map- and things that I forget how difficult and how long it takes to get over- the culture shock of being surrounded by what seems to be a never ending supply of people who want my time, and my money. This second time around in dakar has showed me how cautious i was in that first week of culture shock, how timid to take up space. I think it is because I am used to adapting to a culture and becoming as much of one of the people as i can by following the example of actions. here, you cannot do that. you must take up space because no one is going to give it to you. and they respect those who are not afraid. they respect those who are vocal and participatory, i am much more comfortable in the role of observer. but life is not always beheld in the eyes of the observer. sometimes you've just got to jump in head first.

when i was in tanji, i was writing in my hotel at night, when i decided to go see if anyone else was still awake. all of the servers were, and they were heading out to a baby naming ceremony. they invited me along too. i was hesitant at first. i was in my pajamas, and i pictured everyone else in their finest dress, all looking at my pajama pants in horror. but i went. and the first thing they did was throw me into the center of the dancers. the girls all giggled at me. i am the odd one. i am not supposed to be able to dance-i am white, white people can't and don't dance. then one of the guys asked if i wanted my picture taken. this turned into a frenzy of everyone wanting their picture taken. especially because my fancy digital camera showed them right away what it looked like. many of them had never seen themselves before-anyone under the age of 16 at least. no mirrors, no baby pictures. i was taken to the mother, handed the baby, and taken through the whole family from top to bottom. then given this really thick yogurt drink of banana and coconut.
my first experience of what was a cultural ceremony reminded me of the gigantic barbeques that always look like such fun in washington park, or on the green fields along the lake. a loud DJ, lots of food and dancing until the wee hours of the night.
there aren't many times when i am traveling by myself that i get to let my guard down completely. for example, i am really starting to convince myself that i have a husband who work on ships in france and when he is out at sea, i come to africa to visit friends. in just a day, i get to go to france to visit him and together, we go to south africa where his next job is. i was even getting a bit excited to see him! and a bit sad at the reality that there is no one familiar awaiting at my next leg of the journey....there is a certain amount of self-defense mechanisms and street smarts that prevents me from going along with just anyone. but i am struck here by how many times when i have needed someone to help me, someone was there, going out of their way, walking me all the way across town. it makes me contemplate the way we treat tourists in chicago. i know i may have stopped to recommend a restaurant, or point the direction of a street, but have i ever really gone out of my way for someone like the people here have for me?
in koalack, i was haggling in the market for some jewelery and a girl approached me and asked if i was alone. i was a bit wary, but when she said she would spend the day guiding me, i went with her. she explained to me that her sister was getting married today. (which only makes me more wary because it is a traveler's dream and a common scam) but she took me to a beauty parlor nearby where indeed, there were about seven girls getting full make-up and hair done. i was flashed back to the mornings of my sister's wedding where we all sat chatting in salon chairs. i said i had nothing to wear and was instantly swept into a back room where her other sister changed into wedding clothes and gave me her normal clothes to wear. all dolled up in my senegalese adornment, they stuck me in a make up chair and proceeded to torture my face in an african style. it was completely a kid playing with mom's make-up, completely cakey dark on my face, but they all kept saying, "jolie, jolie, ma belle jolie" so i thought i would not rub it off in the first three minutes after it was put on. we waited a bit for her sister to get done, during which time she told me that her name was sukee faye. faye being my mother's name, the superstitious side of me that can recognize a sign the size of a billboard told me to relax and enjoy this experience, mom is looking out for me. they twisted and pulled and pinned my head scarf into a peacock's tail of style and then we were off in a car to the tiny village about half hour away.
the driver honked the horn for a full five minutes before we arrived, heralding our car to the family. we were met by a receiving line of grandmothers, aunts, great aunts, cousins- a complete assortment of the women of the bride's family with nary a male in sight. we had to do little bows and curtsies while going down the line. then i was taken to a hut off to the side where the males of the bride's family were kept apart. after a quick curtsy, we were out and sitting in a huge circle of women with three ladies in the center who were griots, the town keepers of oral history through song. they were shouting the morality and accomplishments of the bride and her family to the rhythm of drums pulsing life into the song. soon it seemed there was a line of people indicated by the mother of the bride who were to stand up, dance for a few minutes in front of the bride, then pay the griots and/or the drummers for their dance. this spread down a line of hierarchy until my guide sukee came and got me up to dance. again, i was met will a little giggle at first, than hoots of what amounts to the wolof version of "ooooo, a white girl who can DANCE!!!" it was a day of laughing and singing and dancing. at one point, i was alone in the circle and the griot came out and threw an onion at my feet. confused, they seemed to indicate i should shake my ass. i did obligingly, they laughed then some girls showed me what the dance was REALLY about, the onion dance was a ceremony in which the girls get on all fours and show the bride a ceremony of what the wedding night will hold!! it made all the dancing of music videos look tame and prudish.
oh yeah, and it was a day of eating. all those days of bread and water turned into a day of eating left and right. in fact i am a little guilty because i think i ate an entire goat that day, and i have taken so many cute goat pictures that are useless but i can't delete because little baby goats are so cute....and i ate it!!!! then the picture taking started just like the baby ceremony. man do the people here love having their picture taken. at one point, i was not involved, i guess the highest females of the brides family, mother, grandmother, etc. took her to her hut and lectured her. then the makes arrived, the husband was accomplishing his "duty" and the rest of us and i think the husbands family too, ate again. i had not planned wisely for the day, and i ran out of water which meant that i had only soda to drink in the oppressive dancing heat. they put ice in it, and i was so desperate for een that bit of water that i drank it, and of course spent the next day dully getting over my mild stomach bug, from either the ice or the entire goat after a time of fasting. that night we stopped by another ceremony on the way home. this one with mali keyboards (like xylophones) and big circular drums. the griots and the dancing were similar, but if you earned your dance, you had scarves thrown on you by the spectators.
thus i got my day of dance and experience of west african music.
now i find that i am not so offended every time someone calls me toubab, a wolof word that means white skinned but is used for african americans too, so i guess it really amounts to stranger. and i am not so inflamed by the injustice of being charged twice as much just because my skin is white. i am tempted to start a revolution of white civil liberties movement here, but i guess none of us ARE native, so perhaps i should lay off for a bit. i do like to lecture the touts who try to guilt trip me for not wanting to talk to them by saying "we are all friends here, white, black, red, yellow" i tell them that this place has more racism than i can begin to explain because of the word toubab alone. and then i launch into a moment of how they do not even begin to come across the diversity of cultures that i experience everyday back home. that usually throws their sales pitch for long enough that i can get away. but i can make friends in the smallest places. sitting with a cigarette seller in the street who has watched me walk by all day and wants to say hello so that when i keep walking by, we can smile our cheerful smiles and be advocates, friends, in this city of faces streaming past in frantic business. i am going to miss this place tomorrow. i know that already. and with that i will see you all in sunny south africa. au revior, emily