When I was in high school, my Uncle Tom took me to see a National Geographic exhibit called "The 50 Places of a Lifetime." The show, conducted at NG headquarters in Washington D.C., was the result of internal polls of the magazine's writers, photographers and editors who were asked to name destinations that every traveler should see before they die. Uncle Tom bought me a book of the list, which was accompanied by photographs, articles and quotes. I've taken that thing around the world. I take it on vacations. I read it to friends. It's so torn up, that I finally retired it and bought a Turkish version last month.
Since first seeing the exhibit in 1999, I have gradually worked my way down The List. San Francisco, Barcelona and London: done. The Serengeti, Vatican City and Big Sur: seen it. I celebrated carnival in Venice, went zorbing in New Zealand and meandered down La Rambla in Barcelona. Hell, I moved to Istanbul (#40).
Uncle Tom, poor guy, worries that he unleashed a beast. Whenever I return home after a far-flung adventure, he'll look at me with eyebrows raised and ask, "So, what number are we at now?" Right now, Uncle Tom, we're at 14.
Today I'm going to start my trek to three more places on The List: Petra, the Sahara and the Pyramids of Giza. Due to recent events, Jerusalem (#29) will have to wait. I'll start by flying from Istanbul to Amman, Jordan. From there I'm going south to see Petra, a city that is made of carved stone and is believed to be the spot where Moses struck a rock with his staff, and water came forth. Following Petra, my Dutch buddy Wow and I are going to take a boat across the Red Sea (I think I have a thing for Moses) and into Egypt. We haven't figured out yet how we'll get through the Sahara and into Cairo, but once there we'll meet up with a friend from the Rotary Club of San Diego and the journey will continue to Giza and the Valley of the Kings, via the Nile.
I've gone on a lot of adventures in the past six years, but I think this may be the trip of my lifetime.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
Prenatal Yoga
Karen and I have been friends since we were 13. We lived together in college. I stood up in her wedding. She'll be in mine, if it ever happens. Still, when Karen stopped by the other day, our conversation was stifled. Karen, who is usually full of stories about her family and her work (which involves transplanting hearts), seemed distant. Just when I was about to panic she said, "Listen, can I tell you something and you won't freak?"
And that's when I knew. She's preggers. Thirteen weeks. A baby that is about the size of a pinkie is sprouting fingers and toes inside her. Whoa.
While this news is wonderful on many levels, perhaps the most useful thing about Karen's condition is the fact that her refrigerator is suddenly bursting with food. Last night I slept over and as Karen craved food, I fed the cravings with her. We consumed chili and cheese and quesadillas and orange juice. Then we had brownies and macaroni and ice cream. When that was done, she drank some water and I moved on to cookie dough. In between the chili and the ice cream, I began writhing on the floor. That's when I noticed a DVD called "Prenatal Yoga, Preparing for Your Baby."
"Kaaaaar," I said, looking at the video and looking at her.
"Shannon, that's for pregnant people," she said, as if the pregnant woman in mountain pose on the cover needed explanation. "You're supposed to do it when you're... you know... 'occupied', not 'vacant.'"
Vacant or not, Karen and I laughed our way through one hour of poses that included kegels, intense breathing and "expanding our bellies wide to feel our growing babies." Pregnant instructors with names like "Shea," "Britta" and "Poppy" demonstrated poses for the first, second and third trimesters. Karen, a former ballerina, stretched her way to the floor while I modeled my poses after the nine-month-pregnant "Poppy" and simply bent over in a show of effort.
We finished and felt very proud of ourselves, and - as the video instructed - very proud of the "child within us." Then we drove to a restaurant, ate some pancakes and laughed a lot more.
And that's when I knew. She's preggers. Thirteen weeks. A baby that is about the size of a pinkie is sprouting fingers and toes inside her. Whoa.
While this news is wonderful on many levels, perhaps the most useful thing about Karen's condition is the fact that her refrigerator is suddenly bursting with food. Last night I slept over and as Karen craved food, I fed the cravings with her. We consumed chili and cheese and quesadillas and orange juice. Then we had brownies and macaroni and ice cream. When that was done, she drank some water and I moved on to cookie dough. In between the chili and the ice cream, I began writhing on the floor. That's when I noticed a DVD called "Prenatal Yoga, Preparing for Your Baby."
"Kaaaaar," I said, looking at the video and looking at her.
"Shannon, that's for pregnant people," she said, as if the pregnant woman in mountain pose on the cover needed explanation. "You're supposed to do it when you're... you know... 'occupied', not 'vacant.'"
Vacant or not, Karen and I laughed our way through one hour of poses that included kegels, intense breathing and "expanding our bellies wide to feel our growing babies." Pregnant instructors with names like "Shea," "Britta" and "Poppy" demonstrated poses for the first, second and third trimesters. Karen, a former ballerina, stretched her way to the floor while I modeled my poses after the nine-month-pregnant "Poppy" and simply bent over in a show of effort.
We finished and felt very proud of ourselves, and - as the video instructed - very proud of the "child within us." Then we drove to a restaurant, ate some pancakes and laughed a lot more.
Monday, January 15, 2007
Seeing Istanbul from America
Sometimes I wish I was traveling at a time when people saw the world by foot or caravan or ship and destinations were less shocking because the journey had slowly prepared you for change.
Air travel has changed that. Saturday, I hopped on a plane in Turkey. Yesterday, I arrived in Chicago. In the past two days, it seems like a completely different world has hurled forward. I think the moderate shock has allowed my vision of Turkey to crystallize.
In Istanbul, there are 18 million people (this is a guess as there are no accurate counts), and sometimes it feels like all 18 million of us are occupying the same square mile. Neighborhoods are a concert of activity. There are children racing down the streets, butchers carrying dead animals over their backs and merchants selling everything from socks to novels to DVDs out of a box or on a table or in a tiny, overcrowded store. There are begging mothers, begging children and beggars who are too proud to beg, so they offer a scale for you to weigh yourself for a small "fee". Adding to activity are the people who literally feed it: restauranteurs who bellow out the fresh offerings of the day, waiters who swerve through crowds with trays of tea, men with paper hats and large knives who slice lamb and chicken from a roasting spit. And above all of this is pulse of music coming from each store, the non-stop laughing and yelling of men who are sitting in cafes, and the honking of cabbies who are determined to cut a path through the mess.
When I teach on Thursday mornings, I walk down Istiklal, the busiest pedestrian thoroughfare in the city. Before dawn, the street is eerily silent with only me, delivery trucks and garbage men mingling. By noon, when I leave the school, it feels as if everyone in town got the order to get on the street and start playing their role for the rest of the day.
It makes sense that most Istanbullus don't pop in their cars and shop in strip malls or shopping centers. First, strip malls don't exist, second, cars and traditional malls are for the upper class, and third, conventional "Western" shopping strips away the life that is the street.
Turks think Americans are peculiar in that we are so organized. We carry planners, we stop at stop signs, we complain if others don't follow the rules. Our streets are straight, we save for retirement and (unless we want to be social pariahs), we don't litter. In a social sense, we don't run into each other on the street because we're not often on the street and even if we were, we wouldn't have time to grab a coffee or meal. Obviously, this is an exaggeration.
But sometimes I wonder if all of the traveling that I seem compulsively driven to do stems from a desire to find the most perfect mix of a society - one that successfully blends social interaction with helpful moderation. I guess I'll keep wandering - by foot, caravan, plane, train and boat - in search.
Air travel has changed that. Saturday, I hopped on a plane in Turkey. Yesterday, I arrived in Chicago. In the past two days, it seems like a completely different world has hurled forward. I think the moderate shock has allowed my vision of Turkey to crystallize.
In Istanbul, there are 18 million people (this is a guess as there are no accurate counts), and sometimes it feels like all 18 million of us are occupying the same square mile. Neighborhoods are a concert of activity. There are children racing down the streets, butchers carrying dead animals over their backs and merchants selling everything from socks to novels to DVDs out of a box or on a table or in a tiny, overcrowded store. There are begging mothers, begging children and beggars who are too proud to beg, so they offer a scale for you to weigh yourself for a small "fee". Adding to activity are the people who literally feed it: restauranteurs who bellow out the fresh offerings of the day, waiters who swerve through crowds with trays of tea, men with paper hats and large knives who slice lamb and chicken from a roasting spit. And above all of this is pulse of music coming from each store, the non-stop laughing and yelling of men who are sitting in cafes, and the honking of cabbies who are determined to cut a path through the mess.
When I teach on Thursday mornings, I walk down Istiklal, the busiest pedestrian thoroughfare in the city. Before dawn, the street is eerily silent with only me, delivery trucks and garbage men mingling. By noon, when I leave the school, it feels as if everyone in town got the order to get on the street and start playing their role for the rest of the day.
It makes sense that most Istanbullus don't pop in their cars and shop in strip malls or shopping centers. First, strip malls don't exist, second, cars and traditional malls are for the upper class, and third, conventional "Western" shopping strips away the life that is the street.
Turks think Americans are peculiar in that we are so organized. We carry planners, we stop at stop signs, we complain if others don't follow the rules. Our streets are straight, we save for retirement and (unless we want to be social pariahs), we don't litter. In a social sense, we don't run into each other on the street because we're not often on the street and even if we were, we wouldn't have time to grab a coffee or meal. Obviously, this is an exaggeration.
But sometimes I wonder if all of the traveling that I seem compulsively driven to do stems from a desire to find the most perfect mix of a society - one that successfully blends social interaction with helpful moderation. I guess I'll keep wandering - by foot, caravan, plane, train and boat - in search.
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Roman Holiday
Hello all! I've just returned from a two-week adventure in Italy. I'll post pictures shortly. I leave for Chicago Saturday and I'm heading to Egypt later this month. Soooo, there won't be too many postings before February. At least I don't think there will be.
I hope you're all having a fun 2007! I am!
I hope you're all having a fun 2007! I am!
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