Paris

The movie, Paris Je’Taime, features a variety of small vignettes about love in what is arguably the world’s most romantic city. Some are happy, some are sad. Some are of romantic love, others feature the love between family members… but I found the last one the most relatable: it tells the story of this woman, a post-woman from the US, who dedicates herself to the study of French and saves up all her money so that she can visit Paris, a city she’s dreamt of all her life.

She narrates her experience of the city in heavily accented French, about her trying the food and walking the streets, admiring the buildings and talking to the people. The end features her eating a sandwich in the park, and getting this overwhelming feeling that Paris, the city she has dreamt of and loved for so long, has fallen in love with her.

Paris is like that. There are so many young romantics there that it is like the excess of love produced floods out of apartments and cafes and restaurants to wash the city streets with it, to coat the buildings and lampposts, to seep into the gardens and the leaves of the trees—to catch in the wind and get caught in your hair and your clothes and the air you breathe, and before you know it, you feel like the city is carrying you lovingly in her heart.

I only had a day in Paris. I walked her streets, as I am apt to do in any city, and was delighted by her quaint architecture and modern styles, by her being a city of the world while still keeping her tranquility. She is lovely and she is kind.

And for me, she is familiar: I have been here before, with my father, when I was in grade school. I walked through the streets noting things that seemed familiar to me, things I vaguely remember. As I passed into the gardens beside the Louvre and passed the sculptures, I felt like I was re-entering a dream, half remembered. I have been here before; my father walked beside me, and I had the whole world before me.

It reminds me, I suppose, that some things haven’t changed much. My parents are still there for me, and the world is still before me; there’s just more of it behind me than when I was young.

So am I in love with Paris, and is she in love with me? Well… not yet, I think. Like the kind stranger you meet at the wrong time, the circumstances were not quite right; kismet, a smidge shy of favorable; the constellations, just barely unaligned.

There is always time, though, to reacquaint with the kind stranger, always the possibility to meet again, fall in love, and find happiness together, even if it’s not the kind of happiness that lasts forever. Maybe one day, Paris and I will find that, but not today. C’est la vie.

And now, after 28 months, I’m finally going home.

Misse

Many of the places I’ve visited have been a tumbled day or two that vanished in the dust of a bus or the rails of a train. I was entranced by the history and food and winding streets and lovely buildings… by all the things that make cities what they are. I extract from the brief stay in them their character. I meandered through them listening to their heartbeats, and find meaning in the rhythm.

But Misse and its surroundings—where I stayed for a sigh longer than two weeks—wasn’t like that; it wasn’t as a place that I experience it, but as interactions with different people in certain situations that led me to trusting strangers until they became a second family, truly understanding and embracing the small joys, and proving the true strength of those hidden parts of my character.

For all the chaos and uncertainty I experienced in the last two weeks, I found intense moments of peace, as well. There were many I experienced with others: singing and dancing in the kitchen with another volunteer helper at the house where we were working; collecting the branches of a pruned plum tree with a retired English detective;—and later, going shopping with his wife at a small, inexpensive store after a lunch out.

But I also experienced many alone, and I feel the need to record at least one because there is no one who can remind me of my memory if I forget: in the last week, I took out Echalote (“Echelles” for short; the darling cocker spaniel owned by the two men who’d hired me) for a walk. She was a bundle of energy, and it was stated that she needed to get out and burn some of it off, so I and the other volunteer helper went out with her.

My companion shuffled his feet, and Echelles pulling me as she did, and he tending to stop to ponder something or other and seeming generally to enjoy the time to himself—soon Echelles and I were by ourselves. She pulled the leash and I, in my flats, ran with her as best I could until the pain in my shins obliged me to stop, though I couldn’t stop smiling and laughing at the little dog’s excitement.

We walked up the road, through the forest, and in between two pastures—one which lay fallow and the other filled with sunflowers, their heads bowed as though they’d all fallen asleep in the senescent sunlight. We turned and went back the way we’d come, through the forest and back out to the road where some of the trees were already beginning to show the colors of fall. Past the lake and the blackberry bushes, and up the small hill.

As we approached the end, I stalled and walked with light, unhurried steps. The sun was beginning to set, the colors disoriented and confused in the mess of clouds above us, but seeming all the more peaceful for the lazy way they painted the sky. I could see the steeple of the old church, darkening into silhouette. The fields around us were pale hues of gold and pink and brown. Distantly the wind was blowing through trees; Nearly, it was in my face and my hair.

Not meeting the expectations of others, not feeling like I was absolutely the best at everything, used to really bother me. For much of my life, I have judged my self-worth on the worth others attributed or seemed to attribute to me. Now I can see myself for who I am instead of how others see me, and I can value the skills I do have rather than always worrying over those I don’t (and think I should—or think that others think I should).

 I feel like the last few weeks have been validating. But now, it’s time to move on. Paris will be my last city. Then, I will finally fly home.

Nice and Lyon: One long trust fall

In these last few weeks of travel, my lack of constant companionship has engendered a desultory collection of responses, from something resembling admiration and respect to unadulterated surprise and thinly veiled suspicion (that I’m not entirely right, you know, mentally). Many remark on the dangers that traveling alone may invite—in particularly, people with ill intentions who may take advantage of a young lady traversing the world alone.

Yet, of all the things we put our trust in—companies and organizations, structures and transportation, brochures and what we read on the internet—I can’t help but feel as though the average stranger you meet on the street is less likely to disappoint you, all things considered.

I set out from Florence to Lyon on September 9^th. The first of the four trains I was meant to take was delayed 40 minutes, thereby causing me to miss every other domino in the delicate line-up… including the day’s last train to Lyon. I arrived in Nice tired and fully expecting to be camping out at the station. I inquired with the ticket office about tickets, and was informed that the station would close at 12; if I slept there, it would be outside the doors.

As I made my way toward the exit, one of a group of three guys called out to me: what followed was a string of apologies for overhearing, an invitation to get a hotel room together, and then explanation of being gay and not wanting to be creepy and apologies again. In short: three young American men I’d never met before inviting me to share a hotel room for the night in a city where I knew no one in a country that wasn’t my own and spoke a language I didn’t know.

I said yes.

And you know what? It was fine. Great, in fact. So much better than trying to make due with a park bench or a place against the closed train station. We got a cramped room with one single and one double bed (they gave me the single) for 15 euros each, with a bathroom door that not only didn’t lock; it didn’t even quite close all the way.  But it was fine. We dropped off our bags, had dinner together at a late-night kebab place, shared stories and experiences, and slept soundly in our crowded room.

As one of the guys revealed the issue with the bathroom door, I commented, jokingly, that this experience was like one giant trust fall. One of the other guys said that was an apt analogy.

—And thinking on it, I realize that the best times of my life have kind of been trust falls. Deciding to move to cities where I didn’t know anyone, sharing secrets and deep emotions with friends, even joining Peace Corps—trusting they would take care of me and send me some place where I could reach my goals and be happy… my life has become one long trust fall.

I trust three strangers in a hotel room in a city in France to show me respect and kindness, and they do. I trust a friend I haven’t seen in over three years to find me at the train station in Lyon and take me to a place I can sleep unharmed, and he does. I trust a guy I’ve only known online to shelter me and feed me, and he does.

There are people out there with ill intentions, sure, but whenever I’ve fallen, I’ve always been caught. Of course I try to be cautious, but too often people let their cautiousness prevent them from taking a chance, and experience the world outside their comfort zone and miss a great opportunity or amazing adventure. I don’t want that.

And I think, even more, I don’t want to be the kind of person who mistrusts a stranger for no other reason than that. I don’t want to believe that people are inherently evil or mean or selfish—because in my experience, they’re not (and at this point, I’ve had a lot of experiences!). I want to trust the goodness of humanity. I want to believe people are good. I want to give opportunities for kindness.

I want to trust that if I fall, someone will catch me.

Florence

I can say nothing of Florence that hasn’t been said before. I cannot hope to capture in words the artistic pleasure of wandering through its Galleria Dell’Accademie and Galleria Uffizi where each turn ignites a firework of delight within me; the streets so filled with people to foster the simple joy of feeling small and light and ethereal as snow; the sudden, wide-eyed wonder of stumbling across the Basilica di Santa Marie del Fiore by chance and feeling overwhelmed with awe.

Florence is the favorite city of so many, and it’s not hard to see why. Looking out at the city from the Copula of the Duomo, which dominates the cityscape by its scale and height—or from the Piazzale Michelangelo just across the Arno River (in the fading lights of a striking sunset)—one finds the city holds its Renaissance-era charm: the panoramic is untouched by the tilting skyscrapers and dominating condominiums of modernity. The only indication of its presence in the world of today is the collections of solar panels laid across the brick-red tile roofs.

Millions of people come to Florence every year—young and old alike. My days here were few—only two full days to scrape the surface and see the major sites before being whisked away on another adventure. It was difficult to get here, to the this city, difficult to find a place to stay the night, and the largeness of everything, the pure bold majesty of it all, makes me feel a bit like a child, and I somehow feel like Florence is too much for me. Maybe she’s too much for any of us.

I want to come back. Many of the cities I pass through I can say goodbye to feeling that I have seen what I needed to see, but Florence is one of those cities that still has secrets to uncover, mysteries to reveal, delights to discover. She is a city that bids me, in a knowing whisper, echoed in the rustle of her leaves and the quietness of her ancient stony structures, to return when I am ready.

Until then, she will be waiting for me.

Ciao, Florence. Ciao, Italy.

Bonjour, France.

Bari

From the time I arrived in Bari until the time I left, I feel as though my time was something of an eclectic mix determined in large part by the strangers to acquaintances to friends with whom I spent my time. Traveling alone, I often make my own current through the wide waters of the world, but while in Bari, I let myself flow along to the currents of others.

I arrived in Bari in the morning after an overnight ferry that took me from Montenegro to Italy. I stepped off the ferry with a new friend, a middle-aged Russian woman named Tatiana, who had chatted happily to me the night before we fell asleep in the cabin we shared. We spent much of our first day in Italy together, checking into out hotels/hostels, getting lunch, and window-shopping at the myriad fashionable outlets lined about the stone-paved streets.

Like a boat carried along a river, I let her lead me through the streets she knew far better than I did, through the shopping districts and into Old Town, where we sat quietly in the Basilica of St. Nicholas. It’s a quiet place, with a strange calm and peace that does seem somewhat mystic.

She left the day after that on a ferry back the way we’d come, to Montenegro, but we had lunch one last time before she went.

Fortunately, I got picked up by a group of young people at my hostel, lead by the youngest of the group, a French girl studying architecture outside of Paris. She invited me to go out with her and two guys from Australia the first night, and as our time together grew, so did our numbers, such that it began to pull in other hostel-goers—the gravity of camaraderie.

I leave Bari a little sad to see the camaraderie forced apart, but the memories stay. I will remember perusing the shops of Bari, exploring the nearby city of Polignano, and taking late into the night while taking shots of Tabasco sauce from tablespoons. It is remarkable, the delightful experiences that come with letting go and letting yourself be carried by the currents of those around you. You never know what you will learn about a city, a culture, a person, or yourself.

Now I again set about my course and look onward to Florence.

Kotor

I remember when I was leaving Mongolia, I met another RPCV (Returned Peace Corps Volunteer) in a little café where expats tend to go. We talked for a while, and at one point, he posed a question to me: ‘What are the three most important things you’ve learned living in Mongolia?’ The first thing I said, so quickly and with such certainty that it surprised even me, was, ‘It’s all in the people.’

It was true in Mongolia, and it continues to be true as I travel about Europe. It is my last day in the Balkans: tonight I go by ferry to Bari, Italy. Kotor, Montenegro is the last place I laid my head, and where some of my best memories have been made—not necessarily because of the sites, but because of the people I’ve met.

I arrived in Kotor on the 30^th of August, somewhat weary, but not so much that I couldn’t hike the fortifications, which snake up the side the mountain beside which the old town of Kotor is built. As in Dubrovnik, the Old Town is girded by walls and contains meandering alleyways and side-streets, filled with shops and restaurants and little ice cream parlors and stray cats.

The next day, the weather was still nice, and so I took a bike ride around the area—one that ran along the coast and introduced me to a variety of small, coastal communities and quaint pebble beaches. At 40km (about 25miles), it took me about 4 hours or so, and proved a nice way to spend the afternoon.

But it wasn’t until later that night, when a bunch of hostel-goers went out for dinner, that the true enjoyment of my time was realized. We ate, drank, talked, and laughed—people from Australia, New Zealand, Germany, Ireland, the UK, and the US. All the next day, rain kept us cooped inside, but during a reprieve, a small group of us ventured out to explore what we could until rain drove us back inside. We stayed up playing card games and talking until late into the night.

By the time I left the hostel, all the friends I’d made had left. It’s strange, this life—how all at once, strangers can come together, and within a short time, become friends, and then, in the blink of an eye, be once again be scattered across the globe. Like a beautiful day passing the hours, a sand castle on a windy beach, a quaint town going by, a flower in full bloom, the joys of life are so often temporary; you embrace them when they come, knowing they are fleeting.

Kotor is already behind me, another city I’ve tumbled through, another leaf blown through the wild winds of my wandering. Zephyrs take me onward, and I wonder what I will see, where I will go… and who I will meet at my next destination

Dubrovnik

Another bus; it seems like I’m in them so often. Such a wayward life.

Dubrovnik lies at my back. The two nights I spent there were lovely; it gave me one full day to see the city, which is really all I needed, I think, to see what I wanted to see—in short, Old Town, which lies on an outcropping of the rocky Dalmatian coast. Surrounded by walls, Old Town is like a castle, surrounded by turrets and ramparts.

I like to wonder through places like Old Town; places where the streets wander like casual conversations, slipping in and out of shadows and happening on small, pleasant discoveries. Though clearly a historic site, Dubrvnik (like Splt) is alive with activity: restaurants and little shops, and even people living within the walls in apartments, hanging their laundry out to dry on lines between stonework buildings.

I walked the Old Town walls, which ring the entire city, and as I looked out over the red tile roofs, I imagined what life would have been like here hundreds of years ago, what it would feel like to be in such a place: from food to clothing to shelter, all one’s material needs could likely be met without ever having to leave the protection of town.

But then again, man cannot live on bread alone.

On the east site of the city lies the port, where ships and their crew could find haven and respite. I imagine what it would be like to be a merchant sailor here, how comforting to return home after a long trip abroad—to come back to the safety of these strong, tall walls after so long at sea.

We don’t build walls of brick and stone anymore. But I think the safety we derive from walls, be they physical or emotional, can’t be denied. Like food and water and clothes, safety is one of our most basic needs—the presence of which gives us courage to take risks, meet challenges, and make extraordinary discoveries.

For me, my adventures are possible only because I have the safety of emotional walls, built by the love and support of my family and friends. I can set sail to distant places because I know I have that kind of home to return to.

And in about a month, I will, after 28 months away.

Right now, it’s hard to think so far ahead. Right now, my mind is all filled with Kotor, and what new adventures and discoveries it might bring. 

Hvar

By the time I finally reach my next destination, I will have taken one ferry and at least three buses to get there—about 10 hours from hostel to hostel. Some distances are more difficult to cross than others, regardless of how such distances are quantified, but each is a new adventure.

Hvar is a lovely port town that lies just off the coast of Croatia and has a tendency to attract a lot of young college students. I stayed at a hostel where I was fortunate enough to meet a group of young college girls from Britain. We went out together my last night in Hvar, and I left them at close to 1am when they boarded a boat to continue the drunken festivities while I returned to the hostel to prepare for the next day of traveling. (I am, after all, not as young as I used to be, and have never been overly fond of the Dionysian revelry so common among college-aged youths). But it was nice to go out and see Hvar’s nightlife.

As we walked out to the loud, crowded bars, I talked to one of the girls and conveyed to her the similarity I observed between Hvar and New York City. She seemed surprised at this, but for me, they have a lot in common.

Hvar, like NYC, has a lot of history. In fact, Hvar’s history is far longer than New York’s, but like the bustling city, you wouldn’t think to look at it that it had much history at all. Sure, there are buildings here and there that give an echo of what the city’s been, but for the most part, it denies its history, living in the current moment.

You won’t see much of all Hvar’s been walking through the city, besides maybe a distant fort or old church or piece of stonework. Hvar was colonized by the Greeks in about 384 BC, and since then, it has been under control of Romans, Byzantines, Venetians, Neretvans (Slavs), Austrians, French, and English… and has been passed off a countless number of times. Yet, you’ll find little to tie the island to its historic roots; that’s not what the city is, not who the city purports to be. It is a city of the now; a city that doesn’t look back, and therefore, like New York, it makes the perfect destination for youths who also don’t have much of a past, and who are interested in the now.

In Mongolia, there is a saying that to visit a land you should drink the water—kind of like a “when in Rome” sort of saying. It’s one I try to follow, so while in Hvar, I tried to forget my history and live in the now: lounge on the beach, go out at night, lose myself a little. But though all of these things are fun, I realize that this culture isn’t really mine. (Accept maybe the lounging on the beach and swimming in the sea; I think I’ll keep those).

And maybe it’s good to lose yourself a little, to live in the now and not let yourself be restrained by old fears or regrets. Traveling, I think, does that: already Hvar is part of the past, and I live in the now of the lovely Croatian coastline moving past me. Dubrovnik is just ahead.

Split

Thus far, the view of my travel from one city to another has been hills and fields and forests and mountains. This time, I look out the window and see the beautiful blue waters of the Dalmatian Coast, islands sprawled over them, peacefully sleeping in shades of blue-green.

I had expected to only spend a day in Split, but ended up spending two; there is so much to do, so much offered up, in this coastal Croatian city. It has an activity that summer elicits and, though I don’t know what Split is like during other times of year, it seemed like the city was in full bloom: young and old enjoying the warm sunlight on both pebbly and sandy beaches; the herds of yachts and boats in the harbor that form a familiar forest of swaying masts; families traversing the white stone streets where stalls pop up like dandelions, selling everything from indistinctive hats and overpriced souvenirs to some beautifully-crafted jewelry and hand-made woven bags.

Pizza shops and ice cream parlors, wine gardens and beer gardens and expensive restaurants and cheap fast-food stalls….

For me, the most remarkable thing about Split is that you’ll find all of these things within walls that are literally hundreds of years old. The Diocletian Palace was built by the Romans in the early 3rd/late 4th centuries A.D., and while it appears like ruins, there are still parts that are well reserved—and still functioning: people live in some of the palace’s old apartments, there are hotels that operate out of pieces of history.

Some people might stand aghast that such an ancient site isn’t partition and conserved and turned into a giant museum with fees for entrance and an exorbitant souvenir shop and café installed. But I love it, just the way it is: it’s a living monument. Churches and mosques were meant for worship, ships were meant for sailing, and palaces were meant for living and working and life: the palace is a statement that beauty shouldn’t be the abandonment of function, but the elegant coexistence with it.

I think there’s something universal about that message. Appearance is just how something looks: appearance is fickle and changes; it doesn’t build anything; it doesn’t create. That comes from the inside, from the drive and motivation of a person, from the way one functions and moves through the world. For me, the world is teaching me how to move through it, with every city I visit, with every site I see, with every person I meet.

Split shows how me how I can transform and re-appropriate the past to enliven the present. California, North Carolina, Tokyo, Pennsylvania, New York, Mongolia--places and people I've loved… somehow the relics of my past form the structures I see and live through, not the walls that confine me, and not the monuments I lock away.

The ferry shuttles me on to Hvar; I look forward to relaxing on the lovely Croatian Island.

Zagreb

Croatia passes by the window in green fields and forests. It was raining when I left Zagreb.

I got lucky in Zagreb, where the weather held out for the day I there. I arrived in the evening and ended up staying out late with a group of other travelers from the hostels, including two girls from Poland, one boy from Germany, and one boy from Australia. It was fun to go out; I really haven’t since I’ve been to Europe. I slept in until 9 or so the next day; by then, the weather was a little cloudy, but not rainy.

Maybe because of its size (which feels small compared to many capital cities I’ve been to) or its traditional culture (which, it would seem, involved knitting, crocheting, and sewing), Zagreb seems like the city that “quaint” was coined to describe: it’s cobblestone streets run through down meanderingly, and here and there you’ll find a farmer’s market or hobby-craftsman selling jewelry or knitted tablecloths. The motif of a red heart (sometimes paired with a boy and girl) is everywhere: the reason, it would seem, is this:

There once was a boy who loved a girl very much. As a gift, he gave her a red heart with a mirror on it, so that every day she could look in the mirror and know that she was the only one the boy loved. Now the heart, sometimes with the mirror, is everywhere: on knitted clothes and painted saucers, jewelry boxes and keychain charms. It’s lovely, cute… quaint.

The cobblestone streets lead to old buildings and churches, too—I think Zagreb Cathedral may be one of the most intricately-decorated churches I’ve ever seen, small but impressive. St. Mark’s is also lovely and very distinctive with its tiled roof.  As afternoon began to wear me out, the streets led me to the botanical garden, lush with flowers and ferns and trees.

Now I head toward the city of Split, enjoying the mountainous, arboreal, quaint beauty of the Croatian countryside through the window of a slow-moving train.

Belgrade

Ah, I feel the ground below me rumble and move and the reflective state comes over me like a familiar tide. Belgrade slips through channels leading to the past, though I sincerely hope it will flow back in the future.

Belgrade was, for a me, a town that echoed with a hum of the familiar; with each step I take westward, with each city I pass through, the geographical and cultural arias  more and more contain melodies that resemble those of my home, and I know I'm getting closer.

There were a few melodies in Belgrade that rung familiar: the architecture contains motifs characteristic of Greco-roman art so popular in much of western Europe (including women in togas and reliefs with laurel wreaths); the people adore their pets, particularly their dogs (I saw one small white lapdog with its ears and tail dyed pink); the number of familiar fast-food chains (McDonalds, Burger King, KFC) that have popped up everywhere.

However, perhaps one of the more subtle melodies was the melody of newness than underlies the city.

Don't get me wrong: Serbia has a long history, with its own prehistoric cultures and times of subjugation and rule. Yet, it's Serbia's last hundred or so years of history that tears down everything that came before. Within that time (the time of two Balkan Wars and two World Wars), the city has been bombed about 70 times, and rebuilt more than 40 times, crumbling into dust those structures that once defined its landscape, its skyline, and its culture (or cultures). The poor attempts of the government at preserving what artifacts remain to Belgrade only encourage the disappearance of Serbia's history under the layers of new brick and stone laid above it.

Belgrade, therefore, despite some of its classically styled buildings, is all fairly modern. Familiar for me, whose country is so young. But Belgrade is unique, too. All cities, I think, have something to teach. Maybe Belgrade teaches people not to be fooled by appearances: what's most important--what a city or who a person truly is--is sometimes buried just below the surface.

Now, I listen to the song of Belgrade fade away, and look forward to hearing the one Zagreb sings.

Sofiya

The sweltering heat of Turkey melted into the temperate cool of Bulgaria under the light shower that greeted us at the boarder. All of us flowed in and out of the bus as we passed through passport control, with the moon and star of the scarlet Turkish flag on one side and the bright white, green, and red bands of the Bulgarian flag on the other—along with another, more familiar one: the yellow ring of stars on the EU’s blue flag. Though the US is not part of the EU, there was something comforting about seeing it waving me onward.

Bulgaria held many small signs of my approach westward, from commercial signs in the form of Subway restaurants, to arboreal signs in the forms of maples and other trees similarly native to the Americas, to cultural in the form of second-hand stores (which I never really saw in Mongolia, ever). Yet, the presence of Cyrillic felt like a comforting tie to the past two years.

Despite its reminders of places past, Bulgaria was still awash with the delights of distinctness. Sofiya, its capital (at least the part of it I saw), is pleasantly walkable, dotted with small shops, parks, etc.--and has all the quaintness of a small town. It carries 6,000 years of history as easily as a bard holds a hum, and the architectures and relics of its time as part of the Byzantine Empire, Ottoman Empire, and periods of independence exist intermixed throughout the city, like a garden growing organically as it would. The arrangement lends itself to pleasant surprises and hidden delights.

I took a free walking tour that mazed meanderingly through the streets to many of the city’s major sites, including orthodox churches, catholic churches, mosques, and synagogues, all of which exist harmoniously together. My favorite was, perhaps, the Alexander Nevsky Cathedral, topped with gilded domes and decorated with ornate carvings.

Sofia is small, and while I likely could have found this and that to see and do to encompass another full day, I feel compelled to press onward. Right now, I am on the bus to Nish in Serbia (where from I can take a bus to Belgrade), watching the hills rise and fall, the cities resting sleepily, and fields of corn and sunflowers soaking up the sun (and the latter splashing bright yellow across the landscape). I am sleepy from rising so early, but it just lends a dreamlike quality to everything.

By the time I post this, I will be in Belgrade.

Istanbul

When I close my eyes, I can still see the lights of the street glowing in hues of yellow and red, hear the currents of voices and laughter, and smell the scent of hookah and beer drifting through the warm air on my last night in Istanbul. I see the lights of the fountain situated between the Hagia Sofia and the Blue Mosque, its waters warbling, laughing in the dimness of evening, surrounded with couples sitting close and children playing with glowing toys that street merchants sell for a handful of liras.

Istanbul is one of those cities that holds on to its history while embracing modernity, that keeps its past in every heartbeat of its present. Its efficient trams bus tourists through site-seeing districts and across the Bosphorus. The Grand Bazaar is as it always was, with merchants calling its wears and trying to persuade customers into its stores, only that the stores are filled with western brands of shirts and shoes right alongside traditional Turkish pants and textiles.

For me, Istanbul’s architecture rises above all else, from the intricate designs of the Hagia Sofia to the steep obelisks of the hippodrome to the minarets that steeple over the city like totems to the religious and historical texture of Istanbul. I think, of all of them, I loved the Blue Mosque best; its lovely domes and towers stand as quiet testaments to the beauty of geometry; the unity of its structure, the regularity of its design, the simplicity of its coloring…, stalwartness with solemnity, unostentatious and unobtrusive and unaffected… majesty with modesty.

The cats in Turkey are, for me, utterly delightful; they have little of the skittishness to which I am accustomed, and I found them lounging about wherever they could find a spot of shade: on carpets being sold just in front of shops, in the middle of sidewalks and beneath chairs and tables in restaurant… even on the footpath half-way up to the old church that lies on Prince’s Island.

Istanbul is certainly an international city; it has that feel, and as a tourist, especially one staying in a hostel, I felt the internationality fairly directly: rooming with people from Spain and Croatia and Korea, touring Galata Tower and Dormabahce with a Pakistani, doing breakfasts with a Canadian, and spending my final evening talking with a couple, one from India and another from Serbia.

It’s one of those cities that I could see myself living in one day, if fortune is kind to me. It’s certainly a place to which I hope to return, one day.

Today, the weather has turned a little chilly. It was raining as I passed from Turkey to Bulgaria. The scenery has changed, and while I am loathed to leave Istanbul and those I have met there, I look with eagerness to what may await me in Bulgaria.

Cesme

I’ve always found transit an ideal time for reflection. In life, the stillness of place sometimes hides our momentum through the world—the feeling that, because we stay in one place, we’re not on a journey. Of course, we always are. I am fortunate that my life has been filled with moments of movement and meditation.

I journey from Cesme (pronounced Cheshme) to Istanbul by bus, and enjoy watching the Turkish cities and countryside swim by in the form of clean white houses, fields of corn and orchards of olive trees, and occasionally a delicate-looking minaret or two.

Cesme was quite beautiful. I arrived on Saturday evening after missing my flight from Istanbul to Izmir after torrential rains grounded flights and breathed chaos into the functions of the crowded airport. I arrived in Izmir at about 10:30. My bags did not.

My host greeted me at the airport, good humor unaffected by the wait, and carried me to the resort town of Cesme, right next to the startlingly cerulean Aegean Sea. His sister was kind enough to let me borrow her clothes—ones admittedly much nicer than mine. Fortunately, I didn’t have to impose on her for too long; my bags arrived the next evening, and my host and his sister took me to fetch them.

The days I spent in Cesme with my host and his remarkably hospitable and generous family were eye-opening and delightful: my host took me out to a beautiful sea-side restaurant, gave me a tour of the lovely houses and harbors of Cesme, and took me out to the sea, where I enjoyed swimming in the warm waters.

Compared to Mongolia, Cesme is a place of overwhelming color and diversity—the deep greens of the trees, the brilliant blue of the sea, the demur whites and playful pinks of the flowers… I have always felt the environments around me transforming my inner landscape; Cesme has bloomed that landscape into a myriad of color.

More than anything, though, I enjoyed spending time with my hosts—losing myself in conversation as we lost our way through cobblestone streets in labyrinth-like districts, ensorcelled by quaint cafes and darling shops—spending evenings in the fading light of day surrounded by gardens and the harmony of the rushing sea and the rustling leaves and purring cicades. … All the places where words find fertile ground to grow and bloom.

 I owe my host and his family a debt of gratitude for these last several days in paradise.

And now, Istanbul awaits me.

Saying Goodbye

I’ve been utterly remiss in keeping this blog updated. I tell myself I will, that I’ll record everything in due time, but between the lack of internet, the preoccupation with projects and events, and the feeling that most of what I did isn’t necessarily worth recording, I never got around to it.

Maybe it was worth recording. I am always surprised when I’m told people actually read this blog. To them: Thank you, and I apologize.

The last few months have been a bit of a whirlwind. I suppose all my life in Mongolia has been a whirlwind, even when a frozen winter seemed to deaden the progress of things. But spring in Mongolia makes things teem and stir, and in summer, happenings occur with the corybantic desperateness that accompanies the understanding that, in a place like Mongolia, winter is always just around the corner.

My life in spring was, for the most part, consumed entirely by the dental project. After literally months of working and planning—checking teeth, checking hotels, checking schools; arranging schedules, arranging lodging, arranging transportation; talking to directors, talking to teachers, talking to doctors and governors and NGOs… —it happened. The dental clinic happened.

6 days, 5 schools, 9 dentists, 5 dental personnel… 2126 children.

Countless volunteers helped us. English teachers from every school helped out, and even went to other schools to help with translation. Students came out to help, working with dentists, training adults to do fluoride or dental education. School staff pitched in—school doctors, accountants, teachers, directors.

World Vision provided transportation and printing. Mercy Corps helped out with logistics. The Education department helped with printing and communication. As I planned and put this together, I was witness to something truly amazing: an entire town—people from different and sometimes competing agencies helping one another, working together—all coming together to help the children… strangers becoming colleagues, people becoming friends, and individuals becoming a single community, filled with common purpose.

In other countries KIDS visits, I heard, they sometimes need to hire translators. They sometimes need to bring food for the children. They sometimes worry that children aren’t taken care of at home. Not in Mongolia. Mongolians cherish their children; all the children are well cared for, well loved, well fed and taken care of. And people need no more motivation to give their time but the knowledge that they are making healthier Mongolia’s most precious resource: the children. And it makes me proud, because, though I am a foreigner here, they are ‘manaikhan’—my people.

Every day during the dental clinic I got up at 6am to get to the hotel to deal with any issues that had come up (the hotel was really bad). Every evening I helped resolve any issues that came up. I arranged impromptu meetings, planned for the next day, fielded questions, … and I went to bed late and utterly exhausted. Every day was a struggle to get out of bed, but once the dental clinic began, I didn’t feel it. It always subsided looking into the eyes of the children who came to the clinic, not to return until the clinic ended for the day.

By the last day, the weariness was all-consuming. I was so utterly spent; I don’t think I’ve ever been so exhausted in all my life. As I told my parents, though, it's that weariness that you get when you give everything you have, not just physically, but emotionally--when you put your whole heart and soul in something for a long time, until you're spent and can't give any more. But it's not a bad feeling, per se, because I know it comes from caring so deeply that nothing short of all you have is enough.

When the dental clinic had finished and the dentists had gone home and I was left with only the weariness and the memory, I realized that, though it would be heart-wrenching, I was able to leave Zavkhan. I gave everything I had and I achieved something good and can leave knowing that I have nothing to regret.

Now I have left my site. It has been hard: in soft, quiet moments I feel the ache that comes from leaving a home that will be difficult to return to.

Some people think the hardest part of being a Peace Corps volunteer is the hard work—the making fires, the irregular power outages, the washing clothes by hand in a shallow bucket. Others think it would be the culture shock, trying to learn the language and integrate with the people. But for me, the biggest danger was falling in love with a place I would have to leave, and the heartbreak of that departure.

 No, not danger; inevitability.

You don’t even realize how many people you know, how many friends you’ve made, how many brothers and sisters and mothers and fathers you have, until you have to say goodbye. I’ll never know the full impact I made, but I feel the impact in me as big as a crater. I feel the loss in me as a deep ache in my chest. I stay moving because if I slow, I feel the longing for that home so acutely and the distance so distinctly and the difficulty of return so painfully that it’s hard to keep the tears at bay.

The ache is great. But the joy is greater.

Dortai. Hairtai. Bayartai.

Baking for Tsagaan Sar

Tsagaan Sar is always an interesting experience. One part awkwardness, one part frustration, but still somehow worth it all: you get to see how your friends and colleagues live, meet their families (with both adorable grandmothers and adorable children), sing songs and play games. It also gives me the excuse to don my deel—which I never really have an excuse to wear any other time of year (the lack of pockets makes it impractical for daily use).

Tsagaan Sar occurs at a different time each year, aligning to the lunar calendar, and despite the ‘official’ dates—a vain attempt to limit the celebration to a few days each year—it undoubtedly lasts for a week or more. The whole holiday, which celebrates the new year and, simultaneously, the end or ending of winter, is steeped in traditions—some perhaps newer than others.

Tavgiin Edee: a round comestible object made of fried bread (havse)
and covered on top with 'white' foods, usually hardened
yogurt (aral), candies, and sugar cubes.

Regardless of age, all these traditions are followed with great alacrity, from the customary ‘greeting’ (laying arms atop each other and sniffing the cheek) to the exchange of snuff bottles by the men (and some women!), to the stacks of fried bread (havse) covered by hardened yogurt (aral) and the convivial calls of “Saihan Shineleerei” (“Please have a good new year”… or something like it).

Mongolians singing songs in a ger at a hair cutting ceremony during Tsagaan Sar, with the traditional spread of foods, including buuz (Mongolian dumplings), sheep's back, slices of hyam and pickles, dried fruits and candies, and of course a tavgiin edee, one made with havse and topped with candy, the other built of aral.

Most people wear deels, and the site of Mongolians going about in an array of brightly-colored fabrics is, for me, enough to make the world seem a little more magical: crisp crimson, iridescent amaranthine, shimmering chartreuse, popping pink, bright blues ranging from sky-hues to ultramarine… all in different styles with different accessories. It’s a lovely display.

Gifts are given at each home visited—usually by the host or hostess. I’ve received a bottle, two pairs of socks, a shirt, a pen, sweets enough to kill a diabetic, and enough tugrik to cover my taxi costs for the next month. Usually the younger people visit their elders, and so are the recipients of such gifts. However, since my last birthday, I’ve decided I’m a grown-up now (not to mention a victim of American cultural brainwashing) and so the thought of going without bringing SOMETHING is a difficult one for me.

So what do you give the Mongolian who has everything (including, apparently, numerous pairs of socks)? I generally opt for baked goods.

Baked goods for Tsagaan Sar!

This year, I baked up a variety of gifts for the various homes I visited. My oven has been getting a lot of use lately! So here’s what I made for Tsagaan Sar:

Peach Raisin Muffins

Pear Raisin Muffins. Muffins are kind of nice because they don’t require any cutting (yay individual servings!) and they’re kind of novel as far as a baked good goes in Mongolia. To make a batch, I used about two cups of pears and maybe about half a cup of raisins (soaked in the milk that muffin recipes generally call for in order to make the raisins a little plumper). I’ve been looking for more creative ways to make use of all the canned and jarred fruits available here. (Pears courtesy of a gift I got during the last pizza party I hosted.)

Oatmeal Raisin Cookies

Oatmeal Raisin Cookies. I made these a while ago and threw them into my freezer for whenever I might need them. I decided it was time to finally cook them (and make room in my freezer, already filled with cooked beans and pie crusts!). I’ve always admired how easily cookies can be made cute. After baking and cooling, I wrapped them in stacks of four and tied them with strips of cloth left over from my current quilting project (shout out to Bianca!). Adorable, right?

Wrapped Apple Cinnamon Raisin Bread

Apple Cinnamon Bread. I sort of consider this my signature baked good at this point. I adapted it from a recipe for zucchini bread and it’s been a big hit whenever I’ve made it. I’ve gotten SO many requests for the recipe (even to the point of my hashaa brother invading my house so he and I could make it together!). So of course I chose to make it for Tsagaan Sar. I usually make two loafs in one batch (which is super useful, because here in Uliastai, there’s always someone who helped me with something and who I want to thank).

It takes time to make, though, (no food processor, so chopping takes me about an hour and a half; about the length of a movie, which I almost always watch simultaneously) and I have had so many homes to visit, so I’ve been making mini-loafs. In one batch, I can make six of these little guys, and they’re super cute. Making time is usually about 20% shorter, too.

Apple Cinnamon Bread Mini-Loaf

All the baked goods have been well-received, and I expect a fair turnout for a baking series I’m planning on launching (hopefully) in the next few weeks (along with an exercise class… hopefully to negate some of weight-gain baking tends to precipitate!). When I leave, I hope people will still be able to enjoy the breads and muffins I made for them when I was here—and maybe take some joy both from the process of baking and the memory of a Peace Corps volunteer who was also a friend.

I don’t usually dedicate blogs, but this one is dedicated to Bianca, who instilled in me a love for baking—not for myself, but for others. Thanks, Bianca!

Cheers,

Karen

The Holidays

The last few months have been super busy, and I’ve depended on the Facebook updates of others to spread the word of my various projects and activities. But, as a friend recently reminded me, I should write for myself, too—to crystallize the moments, little and large, that I may forget, and yet that carry weight and significance—to my heart, if not others’.

I suppose I’d like to start my recollections of the last two months with those centered around the various holidays that have come and gone.

Halloween

Halloween has always been one of my favorite holidays; I prepared for it in advanced by going over ghost stories in my beginner TOEFL class and watching a documentary on Halloween in my advanced TOEFL class (being a teacher has its perks).

As was the case last year, Undermaa invited myself and the other volunteers to the Halloween Party at Chandman-Erdene (School 1), near where I live. I agreed to come, and Bryan and Zak later joined me. Virginia had a school function, and so unfortunately couldn’t come. It was fun to see the performances and costumes and to help judge.

This year there was a dance contest. One of the teachers from the school—a hefty, friendly woman none of us knew—wanted to dance. She looked to Bryan and Zak and eventually chose Bryan as her partner; he politely agreed. In the confusion, I stood up, and so did Zak, not sure what exactly was going on, and the two of us ended up unintentionally entering into the dance contest as each other’s partner.

Fortunately, both of us can dance.

When the music came on, we danced, just for fun. I think there might have been a Mongolian waltz in there, and neither of us really had any idea what we were doing, but we had fun. Zak’s a really good dancer—much better than me—but I’m a relatively good follower, and don’t mind getting spun about.

When the music finished, we returned, breathless, to where we were standing before, and Undarmaa went around to judge the best dancer based on the applause each couple got. Zak and I were the last, and we received a resounding applause, thereby winning the dance contest—an honor worthy of the additional torture of dancing through the entire playlist of songs all over again.

Last Halloween, I expended so much energy preparing for the party that I had utterly depleted my energy stores (not to mention my immune system) and fell ill on Halloween day, much to my chagrin. This year, I let one of my CPs handle the affair and was content to be more of a participant rather than an organizer.

My costume was devised somewhat extemporaneously. I dressed in black and, upon seeing there was face paint about the department office, set about painting ears, a nose, and whiskers on my face. Upon completion of this task, I was a passable black cat.

In addition to the face paint, however, the department was also filled with adorable little girls—the daughters of my teachers. Upon seeing my face, they shyly requested their faces also be painted. It began with two little girls—then went to three and four. Soon enough I had five adorable little kittens. … Thereby transforming my costume from Black Cat to Black Cat Mother. But seriously, my kittens were adorable.

Thanksgiving

 [Photos courtesy of Bryan's camera]

I think, for many Peace Corps Volunteers, Thanksgiving is one of the more difficult holidays. It fills you, simultaneously, with an aching patriotism (we are, after all, here as representatives of US, to do good work on behalf of the US) and a desperate loneliness for friends and family back home. Thanksgiving is an American holiday, and last year, we celebrated it as such—all the Peace Corps Volunteers gathered together and made food and talked and watched movies.

But this year, my Mongolian family is more than my Peace Corps family. This year that family has grown to include people for whom America is not a home, but still a place and a culture about which they’d like to learn.

Usually for Peace Corps Volunteers, Thanksgiving is celebrated during the fall break. Secondary schools always have a break sometime during the month of November—and this year it came quite early: the first week of the month. We had invited other western volunteers to come in and celebrate with us, as Zavkhan is a central aimag in the west of Mongolia, but no one took us up on the offer.

Fine, I said. Their loss!

I spent a few days preparing for Thanksgiving. I deboned a LOT of chicken. So much chicken.  And marinated it all. And boiled the bones up. And rolled out a lot of piecrust. In Uliastai, your chicken doesn’t come deboned; you have to do it yourself. And your piecrust doesn’t come at all! —you have to make it yourself. (Shout out to Bill for teaching me how to make piecrust!).

Fast-forward to Thanksgiving: Virginia made a delicious fruit salad as an appetizer with fresh oranges, apples, kiwi, etc. stirred up in fresh Mongolian yogurt. Bryan was in charge of the first course: baked fish with roasted vegetables (fish courtesy of Virginia’s CPs and my Mongol dad, Tsogoo). I was lead organizer on the second course: creamy chicken potpie with carrots, potatoes, and peas. And the third course was marinated chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, and cranberry sauce (from the States). Desert was a traditional pumpkin pie.

Bryan provided both apple cider and a sweet mead. Ganaa brought beers and juice from the local store. Sanaa brought wine. Later in the night came spiced chai.

We all helped each other with the courses, and the Mongolians helped, too! Ganaa chopped onions while Sanaa helped with the carrots. I chopped veggies for Bryan while Virginia helped with the chicken potpie and Bryan checked on the marinated chicken. It was definitely a group effort.

Zak provided musical entertainment, playing both guitar and his Japanese shamisen. Sanaa brought out her keyboard to play a little. Mongolian friends came and went. Some could only stay a few hours, while others stayed for the whole shebang. All and all, anywhere from 10 to 12 Mongolians passed through my doors.

I didn’t have enough chairs. We sat on the floor of my bedroom, using a plank of wood covered with foam as a table. As the meal progressed, each of us—each person, American and Mongolian alike—said what they were thankful for. It was a wonderful evening, one I was delighted to share with these people who have become such amazing and lasting friends to me. For me, it was a truly memorable evening.

And the best part is, my Mongolian friends did all the dishes! (Shout out to Duya, Ganaa, and Sanaa)

For those who might be curious, on Thanksgiving proper the Uliastai volunteers made the trip out to Zak’s ger and made horsemeat chili. I made cornbread muffins the night before, and the combination was delightful. The company, even more so.

Christmas

For me, Christmas is one of the most difficult holidays to be away from family. A few years ago, missing Christmas with my family might not been quite so bad; but when there are young ones in your family for whom Christmas is still a time of pure joy and excitement, you feel like you’re missing out on witnessing that kind of yuletide magic and childlike wonder.

Henry, my nephew, is still just a little boy. I would have given anything to be able to share this Christmas with him—and my mom, brother, sister-in-law, father, stepmother, grandmothers and all my aunts, uncles, and cousins. I was thinking of them, and missing them.

This Christmas, as tends to happen around this time of year, I got sick. It happened on Christmas Eve-Eve (the 23rd) as I was engaged in cooking. I managed to make 6 loafs of sweet apple bread (a favorite among my teachers) and umpteen blueberry muffins for my school’s Christmas party (along with soup for one of my site-mates; I’m dedicated to the task of keeping my ger-dwellers well fed!). Though Tsogoo (my wonderful Mongol dad) was able to transport the baked goods to the party, I, alas, was too sick to attend, and spent the day a-bed.

Feeling somewhat better Christmas day, I rose and proceeded to clean my kitchen, wash dishes, wipe down counter-tops, sweep and scrub the floor, and wash my hair and face in preparation for the day. Virginia came over early, with ingredients, and we prepared lasagna.

So, there’s a lot of stuff that goes into lasagna that you just can’t find here in Mongolia. Fortunately, we do have beef and tomato sauce (spiced courtesy of care packages—thanks Touchan and Marie!). Noodles we had to make ourselves—which was actually kind of fun. We made egg noodles, and they came out really nice. We also don’t have ricotta—only Edamer. The recipe we found called for sour cream. None of that either.

Since my time in Mongolia, I’ve become slightly mad-scientisty when it comes to cooking. So, here’s what I did: I heated two cups of whole milk (Mongolian: “milk”) and added two tablespoons of lemon juice to kind of curdle it. I wanted to make it thicker, but adding flour or cornstarch seemed weird, so I went with egg. Added two eggs, then added grated cheese, threw in onions and garlic, and viola! A delicious cheesy concoction that in no way resembles ricotta but is cheesy enough that people don’t care.

For dessert, apple brie flatbread (brie courtesy of Ulaanbaatar, apples courtesy of Zak) drizzled with honey.

We opened gifts later in the night. Virginia and I got the boys each a snuff bottle. I was able to get a good deal on them because I know the shopkeeper—she’s a good friend of Tsogoo’s. I picked them out especially for them, and they seemed to really like them, which makes me super happy. For Virginia, I put together a little craft box that includes thread for making friendship bracelets, string for making necklaces, and a bunch of beads of all different shapes and colors. I also gave her a friendship bracelet I made. She, in turn, gave me a beautiful silk scarf from Thailand; it’s so elegant—I love it!

New Years

New Years, I was still sick, though I’d spent the last few days recovering from my malaise. The day before New Year’s Eve came a flutter of texts from sitemates inquiring what our plans were. I had none, but to be honest, we’re all pretty happy just spending time together.

New Year’s Eve, I went over early to Virginia’s place, laden with ingredients for our evening.

So one thing I’d ask for from home was pudding. Pudding is delicious, and absent from Uliastai. My father, being the wonderfully thorough person he is, sent me both chocolate and vanilla pudding—along with four different flavors of gelatin, which is made by the same company. I had no idea what I would do with so much gelatin. Until New Years came around.

A little gelatin, a little warm water, some vodka, and a fridge, and ta da! Jell-O shots. So I picked up a bottle of cheap vodka from the store, went to Virginia’s apartment, and filled her fridge with a colorful army of plastic cups of red, green, and yellow Jell-O.

So, I rarely deep fry things in my house, because the noxious fumes hurt my eyes and can sometimes make the air thick with oil. So I fry at other people’s dwellings!

We first made onion rings. Onion rings is one of those things I love to make with others, because everyone can take up a job. Virginia dips the rings in flour and drops them into the batter; I take them from the batter and cover them with bread crumbs; Bryan takes them from me and fries them up.

Afterwards, I cut up and floured pieces of chicken, and Bryan fried them up. I threw them into a buffalo sauce inherited from Bill and Bianca, and they were delicious!

Later in the night, I tipsily deboned some of Virginia’s chicken (no injuries!—I have come to debone masterfully) and Virginia and I made chicken alfredo pasta. Delicious!

As the hour turned the year from 2013 to 2014 (a change that, even now, I struggle with!), Zak opened the bottle of champagne Bryan had brought for the occasion and we toasted to the New Year. And we continued talking late into the night until at last we all made out way out into the night.

So that’s been the last few months of holidays for me. There have been a myriad of other events and projects we’ve worked on, of course. Maybe, in due time, I’ll compose similar bricolage-blog posts to commemorate our various activities. Maybe.

I’m still too close to 2013 and everything it’s contained to really be able to take a step back and forth. I suppose chapters of our lives rarely follow a strict annual cycle beginning on the 1st of January and ending on the 31st of December. I’m currently in a chapter that promises to last two years, and maybe when that chapter finally concludes this year, I’ll be able to shake away the residue of this life and reflect on who I am, what I’ve gained, and what I’ve had to leave behind.

Until that time, there’s something to be said about enjoying where I am now—the place I live, the things I’m doing, and the people I’m with.

Cheers,

Karen

P.S. As a final note, I thought I would include a short reflection I included in a letter to my mother:

New Year is supposed to be a time of reflection, but I really should be reflecting more than one day a year. You know how I am--I've always been somewhat self-reflective (maybe, at times, to a fault). I haven't been reflecting as much as I should, maybe, because everything seems so hazy. Maybe that's life, though. During this time of life, when there are so many unanswered questions, so many dreams yet unachieved, and those dreams seem to shift and change and you can't decide what will make you happy... maybe this is the way it is. I am increasingly aware of a need for faith--not faith in any particular religion, or in any specific god (in my life, I feel like I've had many)--but faith that I'll be OK. In spite of all my insecurities and concerns and trepidations, I truly believe that. I truly believe that I will be OK. I am in the maelstrom of my twenties, but I will be OK. The purposes of my heart will manifest in a calling, and love will somehow find me.