Odyssey through Turkey: Phase Two

28 May 2012 – Day 2, Part I.

There is room here—scope and space between the clouded ceiling and the outstretching of fields.  The land in this part of the country is a mosaic of brown and green.  The trees here either short and shapely or tall and lithe—all tinged a deep, full green.  I have the urge to simply inhale—even sitting on a coach behind moving glass—knowing there is an abundance to take in across the low rolling land.

Earlier, coming directly out of Ankara on the start of our bus journey, we were amidst the mountains.  The towns we passed were set at the bases of these angular, steep hills, the ascending ridges—covered in a multitude of trees and shrubs and rocks—looming over them.  This is certainly a breathtaking place.

It is work to pull out the descriptions as I sit cross-legged in my bus seat.  It is a challenge (just as it was in India) to capture the essence of a place so culturally different from my own.  It is refreshing to be out of my box though.  No journey without a little fear—a dose of uncertainty—is worth having.  Because as I’ve found, once those uncertainties are overcome, the satisfaction that fills you and expands in your chest afterwards is a feeling of freedom that cannot be summoned from anywhere else.

…later…

My favorite sights thus far are the small silhouettes of people walking across the lush fields.  I like to wonder where they are going—where they have come from.  My imaginative curiosity takes hold as I begin trying to piece together an image of their lifestyle.  What does their home look like?  What do they wake up to every morning?  What do they cook for dinner?  What do they pray for and what do they work for?

Then I think to myself, what makes a person?

28 May 2012 – Day 2, Part II.

We pass through a little town now and suddenly I am having flashbacks of Dharamsala.  The tiny shops that line the streets are very reminiscent to the ones in the little town I lived near in India.  And, amazingly enough, I smile to myself because it feels like home—or at least a certain brand of home.

In spite of this though, this particular town is still vastly different from Dharamsala.  The streets are dirty here, but free of rubbish.  The people are smiling and the air seems cleaner.  And as we drive out, I see my first glimpse of the ‘fairy chimneys’ to our right—the large, unevenly cylindrical structures made of stone, jutting out of the small hills.  They are surreal.

Through the window now, the land opens up again into equal parts grass and greenery, equal parts dirt and clay.  Plateaus are suspended upon the horizon in the distance—low, flat tables of earthy brown.  No wonder the people smile here…

The more I let my mind wander and explore the spaces and textures of this country, the more I feel the desire to do this—to travel and write and just…see.  I could do this, right?  I have scoffed at myself for wanting to become a ‘travel writer’ but maybe it’s not such an undesirable profession after all.  Maybe it’s the relaxation talking…

28 May 2012 – Day 2, Part III.

We have arrived to Goreme!  After five hours on a bus, my senses are alive and my mind feels at peace.  I am literally in heaven, sitting shaded at an outdoor café, watching people stroll past in the bright streets.  I am drinking the traditional Turkish tea.  This place is magic—that is the only way to describe it.

At one point when our mini-bus was driving us into the Cappadocia area, the road spiraled down and we found ourselves coming into a canyon of the ‘fairy chimneys.’  The area resembled an ant colony; the worn and smoothed stone formations are unlike anything I’ve ever seen.

…later…

My life just became “immeasurably awesome” (in the words of Katie).  I am sitting on a rock wall beside a cemetery, underneath a fig tree in the dead center of Turkey.  In front of me are the jutting cones of rock that are the ‘fair chimneys.’  To my left, down the stone road we have been following, is an enormous open-faced plateau, displaying layers and layers of pinks and browns in an incredible horizontal pattern down the front.  The sun is out and a warm breeze is tugging at my hair as I write.  There are birds chirping in the distance.  I feel restless though; the road and the desire to explore are calling…

…still later…

Katie and I have taken to exploring a hill that is littered with ‘fairy chimneys.’  Higher up, there is a rock face that resembles a building, with carved out windows and doorways.  It attaches itself to a more organic rock formation that appears as melted candlewax.  Both shapes are the same smooth texture and natural, washed-away color of earth.  The paths we climb are sandy dirt, the dust creeping into our open sandals and coating our gripping feet.  The landscape looks like something Salvador Dali created.

When we reach the top of the hill where the ‘stone building’ sits, we find that it truly is—or once was—a building.  A carved out, arched doorway leads into a dim room.  The ceiling is fairly low but completely flat; there are pillars and arches at the back, and it is clear that a fire once burned here because of the soot-covered ceiling and walls.  It is an odd sensation to step foot inside—almost as though we are intruding.  There is a contradiction at play:  we are amidst the clear presence of people, but met with their undeniable absence as well.  It is slightly haunting, but oh so intriguing.

28 May 2012 – Day 2, Part IV.

Katie and I have returned from our hike and are sitting on red-cushioned wicker chairs, at a small café in the downtown area of Goreme.  The Call to Prayer sounds at the mosque next door, the loud static sounds catching us by surprise.  Like a practiced routine, the men at the neighboring cafes rise and walk mechanically towards the building.  And almost on cue, the sky opens slightly and tiny droplets begin to fall onto our arms and the glass table before us.  The singing over the loudspeakers—a wavering, whining sound that lifts over the trees—continues as the men file in.

As the song ends and the streets are emptied once more, the rain begins to come in waves.  Katie and I are forced to move to another table under the awning as the Turkish waiters dash about outside snatching the red cushions.  The wind has picked up; Goreme has shifted faces.

I am sitting here now, still listening to the rainfall on the canvas above and drinking my second cup of Turkish tea.  I loathe talking negatively about people.  Katie and I were engaged in conversation about a mutual acquaintance just as the Call to Prayer began.  Fortunately it both interrupted and ultimately ended the discussion.

I believe that people are fundamentally good.  You cannot change this conviction for me.  Too often, we let the flaws in a person’s character distort our image of them far too easily.  It is one of man’s worst habits—and we all do it.  It is places like this though—where peace is tangible and smiles are easy—that are meant to remind us.  The challenge is to find this tranquility elsewhere though, or to at least grasp it and cling to it when none can be found.  I wish you could change a person’s mind…

…much later…

Listening to the Call to Prayer while sitting up in bed.  There is something quite restful about the voice coming in over the loudspeaker.  It feels as though I am a part of something bigger than me—that I am really a part of it and not just an outsider observing.  The notion is calming.

29 May 2012 – Day 3, Part I.

My body is sore from the long travels and the hiking in sandals yesterday, but I lie here in my yellow bed feeling very content nonetheless.  Birds are engaged in a full-fledged chorus outside the window and I’m staring up in the high, arched ceiling of stone that makes up our room.  I awoke to sounds of a rooster calling and was once again reminded where I am.

I wish for this.  I wish always for the ability to escape the anxiety and tribulations of the modern, technologically dependent world when necessary and find tranquility again.  I must never lose this sense of connection with the world.

29 May 2012 – Day 3, Part II.

This does not feel like real life.  This cannot be reality.  Katie and I are sitting on the faded cushions of a couch outside, beneath a canvas awning that covers the patio of a small ranch house.  Like many of the buildings in Goreme, the house is carved out of the natural stone of the region.  Before us is small, flat corral where horses trot about freely.  We have just finished our hour-long trail ride, followed by a glass of tea.  Turkish music plays in the background as the dark-skinned men who run the farm are shouting at one another in their mother tongue, examining a dapple-grey mare’s back hoof.  The sun is out and this sense of contentment refuses to be shed.  I am absolutely in love.

After a bit, the tall thin man who picked us up from the hotel that morning comes over and sits with us.  He offers us another glass of tea—which we accept—and then he begins talking.  He tells us about himself in his thick Turkish accent.  His hair is long and dense, ending at just above his shoulders and covered with a black leather hat.  His skin is dark and weathered from the sun.  He informs us that he owns the small ranch, and then he tells us that he has caught the majority of his horses himself—riding into the mountains and bringing back one or two from the wild herds that roam the land.  He explains how horses connect with people—how they fall in love with one person, and when that person dies or is sick, the horse will cry.

I cannot understand his every word due to his rich accent, but I listen to him.  I can hear his passion in his words and I can see the abundance of pride he has for his animals as he gazes out across the corral.  He points out a goose that emerges suddenly in the dusty horse arena, followed closely by at least ten goslings that meander about in uneven paths behind their mother.  Later, he hands us two month-old kittens that appear out from under a sofa in an open room off the side of the house.  He tells us we should come back later to watch him train horses and we smile because we know we will.

Earlier, as we rode through the vivid landscape that we had only begun to explore yesterday, my constantly referenced sense of peace fully unfurled itself.  My combustible senses were on fire.  After some bedtime research last night, Katie and I discovered that the unique rock formations and the ‘fairy chimneys’ themselves were all naturally formed.  With this knowledge tucked in my pocket, I rode behind our trail guide feeling an incredible harmony with the beautiful land.  The experience was organic.  My muscles shifted with the movement of the horse and with every breath, I inhaled the sweet fragrant air that emanated from the surrounding foliage.

We rode our horses—our guide, Katie, and myself—on narrow pathways that wove amongst the hills around the towering chimneys.  The uniquely sculptured faces of the hills made for a quiet and tranquil ride.  For the majority of our journey, there was not a soul in sight aside from the three of us.  Our guide stopped only twice, allowing us to take in the breathtaking scenery from specific viewpoints.  One was at the top of the hill, before our descent into the Rose Valley.  We peered out over the open terrain, surveying more fully the layered plateau that Katie and I had seen from a distance the day before.  The clusters of the pointed rock tufts made the chimneys look like a pack of pencils, all standing at attention, points reaching into the blue.

At one point, once we had maneuvered the horses down a steep hill and reached a flat road through the canyon, I sat back and inhaled.  I could not help but feel grateful that we had foregone the hot air balloon ride over the valley and opted for the less expensive activity of our trail ride.  I felt then as though I was a part of the landscape—that we were partaking in something that was in sync with the region’s history and culture.  I knew then, as I lifted my chin to the wind, that Goreme and the Cappadocia area would be forever ingrained in my soul.  I had fallen in love—a deep, always-home type of adoration that I will forever carry with me.

As I sit here on the terrace of the hotel, sheltered from the sun by a large wooden umbrella, the Call to Prayer sounds again and my heart sighs.  I do not want to leave this place.  Both the scenery here and the people themselves are nurturing to the soul.  I could listen to the moans of this Muslim song, staring out over the town for days.  This, my friends, is happiness.  I wish I could fold up this beauty—these sensations—and post them to my loved ones.  Everyone deserves to feel this.  Everyone should see that life can be like this.

29 May 2012 – Day 3, Part III.

We have just been deemed “tea sugar.”  We are back at the ranch, after an early afternoon spent writing (me) and napping (Katie), followed by a lovely lunch and afternoon climb about the chimneys (i.e. big people’s playground).  We were sipping tea though, watching the horses and shooting the shit with an Australian and a Canadian, when the thunder spoke and the rain swept in.  The owner, our thin, hat-wearing Turkish friend, teased us—insinuating that we were delicate as we dashed about grabbing our bags to take cover from the drops.  We laughed.

Katie and I spent the better portion of our late afternoon there, watching the various farm animals in action and observing the influx of visitors that came and went as the time passed.  The place was a breeding ground for new faces and friendly smiles, and we were eating it up.

Earlier, as the two of us walked along a road passing through bits of sparse woodlands, we chanced upon a couple walking towards us.  I noticed from a distance that the man was wearing a ‘Virginia is for Lovers’ T-shirt.  As we neared them, I asked him if he was from Virginia.  So as it turns out, the chap was from New Castle, which is literally an hour from where I grew up.  As if that wasn’t enough, he also attended Virginia Tech (please insert several exclamation points here).  It is a small damn world.

Tomorrow we leave Goreme, travelling all day until we reach Canakkale at a ripe 12:30 in the morning (Thursday morning, to be precise).  Katie and I are both positively dejected at the thought of leaving this incredible place.  We met some wonderful people today and had a wonderful goodbye dinner on a terrace overlooking the small town and up into the hills.  Once the sun set, the mosque across the road was lit with an emerald spotlight.  We heard our final Call to Prayer and reveled in the comfort of it over our glasses of wine.  Goreme has been kind to us, but tomorrow we move on in search of other adventures.

Fortunately, I am ending my time here in style—with a full-fledged, ninety minute hamam (or Turkish bath, complete with scrub down, peel, massage, and sauna).  After bruising a rather inconvenient part of my body riding a horse for the first time in over five years, I will be ready for a rub down before hopping on a bus for five hours.

Farewell, Goreme.  You will be in my heart forever.  Bring on the rest of the Odyssey.

Odyssey through Turkey: Phase One

27 May, 2012 – Day 1, Part I.

Reading The Geography of Bliss on the plane ride to Turkey.  Turkey—the mystical country I have chosen for my eight-day holiday.  I chose wisely too; this trip could not have come at a better time.  When I think back on my last couple weeks living in London, one word comes to mind when trying to describe them:  frustrating.  So I am taking the easy way out and jetting away to the land of milk and honey—or at least to the land of tea and baths.  I am ready to, in the words of Eddie Izzard’s Beatles cover, “just tune in, turn off, drop out, drop in, switch off, switch on and explode”

So anyway, back to this book I’ve started.  I actually began The Geography of Bliss some time ago, though I cannot remember for the life of me if it was before my plans to move to London, or during my epic race to prepare for my departure.  Realistically speaking though, I began the book before—back when I needed things like a book documenting a quest for happiness to enable me to dig for, build, and draft my own versions of the concept.  There is no one reason why I felt a sense of dissatisfaction hovering over me back then like a proverbial cloud; the point is that it did and it led me to this book by journalist Eric Weiner.  In the very first chapter, he discusses the “science of happiness” which is a discipline dedicated to studying and measuring how people feel and know their own personal happiness.  SWB, they call it (which stands for “subjective well-being”).

This is all just writing fodder though and really just a way for me to introduce what my trip to Turkey is truly about (or at least what it will henceforth be about), which is [insert intense scrutiny here].

Okay so I cannot describe my intentions with a singular word.  In fact, I would like to see anyone take on this challenge in relation to any aspect of our lives; but I digress…  Upon inspection of what I aim to achieve on my holiday here, I believe that ultimately I want to open my eyes up to the world around me again.  I have existed in my own private and highly self-involved bubble as of late, living on my own (due to house-sitting) and doing absolutely everything that I want to do.  It’s a Friday night and my friend wants to go out for a birthday celebration?  Nope, I’m shattered from the last three nights; I’m going home and going to bed.  I have been living the epitome of instant gratification, some might say, and it has been the theme of my life: intense workouts and tanning sessions for the sake of my vanity combined with late nights, black out happy hours, and endless text flirting and an odd makeout session with whomever I feel the urge to grab simply because “I feel like it.”  In short, I need to burst my damn bubble and grow up.

This trip will be about doing just that—taking a step away from the narcissism and the ‘living life one day at a time’ mindset and really prepping myself for what my next stage in life will be post-August.  This journey will also be about my writing.  Recently, Yours Truly has neglected her own passion and frankly, it’s time I scheduled some quality time.  After all, what is a meaningful relationship without a little devotion?  What is a craft without practice and constant elbow-grease?

So, sitting here in my EasyJet airline seat and donning my cotton H&M genie pants, completely sans makeup, I think to myself mid-paragraph of my book: Turkey, here I come. 

 

27 May, 2012 – Day 1, Part II.

“Eyes open, Whitney.”  This is what I tell myself as we careen through the countryside, away from the airport of Ankara.

This place is a juxtaposition—so much green space between the buildings.  There are hills and grass and air.  There are brightly colored apartment  complexes and mosques absolutely everywhere.  The mosques appear out of nowhere, the twin pointed pillars like a field goal post saying quite resolutely, “You have arrived.”  Many of them flaunt shining glinting domes that catch the sunlight.

Further into the city, the houses are nearly carved into the hills, aligning harmoniously with the curvatures of the hills.  There are more trees in this area, less space.  There is less room for the mind to wander—in the mere span of a ten-minute coach ride—but it is more lush, the buildings more cohesive with the landscape.  I am grateful to be sitting beside a stranger and grateful for the silence; I am the willing victim to my observations and first impressions.

The bus makes its way into the city center and the juxtaposition persists with the large bold faced billboards and signs for shops or restaurants that contrast with the older and more ornate residences that neighbor it—the balconies of the latter hung with strands of laundry catching the last portion of the day’s sun.  There are basketball courts, more mosques and trees.

As we ride along now, I notice a staggering cloud in the sky that is shielding the sun.  Hues of pink and coral have been pulled from the edges of the blue-grey mass and smeared into the sky like watercolors.  The outline of the cloud is threaded with gold as the sun lingers behind it.  She peeks out in radiant glory as we pull into the bus terminal—the final destination to our second half of the journey.  I can feel my exhaustion pressing in but Katie and I still have miles to go before we sleep.  Miles to go before we sleep…

 

27 May, 2012 – Day 1, Part III.

“Those who have spent time in other Turkish cities may find Ankara something of a culture shock.”  This is what our Turkey guidebook reads as we sit in our cushy hotel room, completely contrary to our original plan.

The culture shock hit us both in the face when we stepped foot into the Asti bus terminal, after our coach ride from the airport.  Before us towered a huge lit-up board with the bus destinations and their departure times listed out; beyond that loomed the deserted information booth.  It was not two minutes later though, after both Katie and I spinning around several times in confusion, that a Turkish gentleman approached us and asked if we needed assistance.  We nodded, expressing to him our desire to purchase bus tickets to Cappadocia.  He offered to take us to the ticket booths upstairs, leading us all the way up the two flights of stairs.  Once we arrived, our sense of culture shock deepened.

Along the entire length of the left-hand side of the corridor lined a row of desks with large and colorful signs above them, and tall Turkish men standing in front of each one, shouting loudly in their language.  As we walked by, led by our gracious guide, the men would step out and look directly at us, repeating the same thing over and over again—what sounded like bus destinations.  The floor was a flurry of these men all holding the distinguished clear glasses of Turkish tea, and as we wove our way through, I could not help but notice how much notice we were receiving.  We were the proverbial sore thumbs, standing out with our Westernized outfits and rucksacks on, most likely looking incredibly lost following our friend.

Once we reached a desk, the news we received upon translation was not good.  In short, after requesting several opinions from various desks along the corridor, we discovered that the next bus from the terminal would not leave until 1 am the following morning.  Katie and I looked at one another in fear.  What would we do?  We were five hours (by bus) away from where our hotel was booked; we needed to reach it that night.  Our Turkish friend glanced from one to the other, asking with his eyes what our decision would be.

We panicked inwardly for a moment but in that moment I ultimately I decided we needed a safe haven.  We could purchase the 1 am tickets, but where would we stay until then?  Surely restaurants would not be open that late and I was not keen on sitting in a loud bus terminal with Turkish men staring us down for the next five hours.  We needed a hotel.  We needed to set our bags down.  And we needed to let our guard down.

With the help of our impromptu guide, we bought bus tickets for 7:30 the next morning.  He then led us through the terminal to an area outside where he waved down a mini bus for us, instructing the driver in Turkish where to take us.  “He’s going to take you to a good hotel,” he told us.  He put us on, shook our hands, and waved us off.

We rode the bus for no more than ten minutes.  The other passengers disembarked but the driver motioned for us to wait.  He parked the bus and had us follow him—a brief five-minute walk to a bustling area of town where several hotels lined the sidewalk.  He motioned, asking if these would suffice and we picked the first and most grandeur one we arrived at.  We nodded, thanking him, and walked into a plush lobby where several other Turkish men fawned over us, setting us up quickly with a two-person room for 150 TL (70 Euro), escorting us to our accommodations, and with a smile, leaving us to our devices.  Once the door was shut and our bags were set down, we breathed.  We had arrived.

The age of worry

I am wolfing down pan-fried salmon at a rapid pace at nearly 9 p.m. on a Friday night.  I have a bad case of FOMO (Fear Of Missing Out) and an even worse case of alcohol withdrawal from the past week of heavy drinking which I am simultaneously worsening by nursing a glass of red wine.  I haven’t worked out in two days, I haven’t written in four, and this is the first evening meal I have consumed since Monday.  In short, I am a disaster.

I am partaking in one of those CTRL-ALT-Delete evenings because I basically need to check myself.  I depart on my journey to Turkey in less than 48 hours and I have done nothing to prepare for it apart from printing my boarding passes (one point to me at least for remembering to do that while I still had access to a printer).  Upon my return, I will need to be hitting the job market/networking scene HARD.  But more than that, I really just need to begin visualizing the kind of life I want for myself when I return to the States.

Over the past couple weeks, I have begun to feel like the kid who’s playing outside in the summer as the sun is setting and the lightning bugs are coming out, whose mom is yelling for them to come inside for dinner.  But Mom! I want to scream.  I’m not done yet!! 

I’m not done yet!!  This is what I think to myself as I stare at the overturned hourglass in front of me.  I don’t want to go home!!

A friend told me today that I didn’t live in the real world.  As he listed off the reasons (some of them silly, some of them true), I thought to myself how right he is.  I also believe that the ‘real world’ just isn’t suited to me.

But back to the point and the point is…time is short.  I am flipping through old photos at the moment and drinking in memories as they wash over me, but also reveling in the fact that I don’t have much of a feel for what a real or ‘normal’ life resembles anymore.  At one point, I had a routine and a schedule and a core group of friends that I saw on a regular basis.  Now, I seem to go out with a different set of people each night.  I have my core players in my life, naturally, but nights vary so much here that a norm doesn’t seem to exist.  I now also have a true appreciation for what it means to miss people. I posted the following on my friend Tim’s Facebook wall last week:

I experience the crux of this saying nearly every day.  Earlier I expressed to Lauren that I would love to be sharing a bottle of wine with her tonight, bitching about guys together and laughing at the ridiculousness of our lives.  I also just told my mom that I would kill for an Ocean City beach trip with her and the other women in the family, enjoying a home-cooked seafood dinner on the porch by the bay.

But yet again I digress.  All in all, time.  Is.  Running.  Out.

I need to decide what I want.  Sure, I don’t want to leave London yet.  I thought at one point that I would be finished by the time my year was up– that I would be ready to go home after the wild ride I’ve been on.  But I no longer feel that.  I am gripping onto my remaining days here with such tenacity that my knuckles are white, but it doesn’t seem to matter.  My carefree world is quickly coming to a halt and I don’t want to leave the United Kingdom without some sort of semblance of what my next steps will be.

So consider myself checked.  I have work to do (yet again).  The holiday from worry was nice for awhile, but now it’s time to crack on.  Until next time…

 

Close your eyes and clone yourself
Build your heart an army
To defend your innocence
While you do everything wrong

Don’t be scared to walk alone
Don’t be scared to like it
There’s no time that you must be home
So sleep where darkness falls

Alive in the age of worry
Smile in the age of worry
Go wild in the age of worry
And say, “Worry, why should I care?”

No your fight is not within
Yours is with your timing
Dream your dreams but don’t pretend
Make friends with what you are

Give your heart then change your mind
You’re allowed to do it
Cause God knows it’s been done to you
And somehow you got through it

Alive in the age of worry
Rage in the age of worry
Sing out in the age of worry
And say, “Worry, why should I care?”

Rage in the age of worry
Act your age in the age of worry
And say, “Worry, get out of here”

 

Alone with Post No.123

It is 5:20 p.m. London time (GMT, if you want to get precise) and I am donning leggings and lounging on a leather couch in a borrowed flat.  The flat is a garden apartment in Belsize Park and belongs to a set of friends who are away; I have been house-sitting intermittently for the last week or so and I have got to say: I am in absolute heaven.

After a weekend of class/preparing for a presentation that was due today, I have elected (hereby and by royal decree) that the rest of my day be dedicated  to all things good for my soul.  I will dub this evening my Simply Soulful Sunday.  And what is more soulful than writing, I ask you?  Nothing.

So as I sit here draped on the sofa, I have logged into my WordPress account and immediately noticed (according to WordPress) that I have contributed 122 posts to my WordsofWhit site, which makes this addition No.123 (just a fun number, if you ask me).  So because this will be my one-hundred and twenty-third post, I am going to have an absolute blast with it and make it as eclectic as possible.

When I first began writing this, I wanted to touch on a piece I started that goes back to discuss my theory that “Maybe art is born of fear.”  As I delved into the subject though, I found my eyes wandering elsewhere and my mind getting absolutely lost in the explanations and conveyance of this thought.  So I stopped.  This post is meant to be lighthearted.  Van Gogh and art can wait for another day.

I found a post earlier titled ‘Seven Things that are Underrated if you Ask Me’ (http://sarahpalma.wordpress.com/2012/05/17/seven-things-that-are-underrated-if-you-ask-me/).    As I read through it, the very second item is ‘Eating dinner alone.’  I absolutely love this point because I thoroughly enjoy time alone.  I sometimes even look forward to dining out sans company, and I absolutely adore cooking for myself.  Take tonight, for instance.  Since I am house-sitting, I have the entire kitchen to myself and the freedom to cook whatever I am in the mood for.  Today I want to try out a vegetarian recipe; I will be making myself Courgettes (i.e. zucchini for those readers back in the States) with Chickpea and Mushroom filling.  I have not decided what I want as a side dish, but that is the beauty of the experience!  I can waltz into the grocery store and choose whatever grabs my attention.  There is no need to ask a second opinion, or use the phrase ‘No, you pick.’  Sometimes I want to pick and tonight, I will!

And while I am on the topic of living/being alone, I must confess that I have discovered the absolute best late-night pasttimes since house-sitting: 80′s music dance-offs with myself….and quality time spent with the Voice Memos app.  Let me explain:

I went out last Saturday evening to a flat party with some fellow Mountbattens.  I had a great time socializing with everyone but when the time came for me to leave in order to catch the Tube home, I was saddened that my night had come to an end already; I was not finished partying.  When I entered the empty flat, I began fixing myself a late-night snack and wound up playing an 80′s music station on iTunes for some background noise.  Well as song after beloved song continued streaming through the playlist, I found myself cranking up the volume and dancing around in the narrow kitchen.  And once I started dancing, my energy level spiked so I turned off the stove and jumped into a full on groovy blitz about the apartment.  I was having a blast…by myself.

Along those same lines, I have noticed how little I sing (like, really belt out) here in London– unless I’m inebriated and serenading fellow Underground passengers with Lady Gaga tunes.  I miss it (the belting out, not the drunken Tube performances).  But here, living alone, I am free to sing as loudly as I want and to whatever I want.  It is beyond likely that the residents in the upstairs apartment can and do hear me, but as they say, ‘out of sight, out of mind.’  If I can’t see them, they aren’t there.  And besides, it’s not like I have a bad voice.

Last night when I returned home, I decided I would record me singing for a friend’s upcoming birthday.  Once I recorded the song I know she loves (Lauren, if you’re reading this, surprise!  You won’t know the actual song until next week though..bwa ha), I decided to fiddle around with other songs.  I wound up recording acapella versions of ‘Don’t Know Why’ by Norah Jones, ‘You Know I’m No Good’ and ‘Valerie’ by Amy Winehouse, and also ‘Put Your Records On’ by Corinne Bailey Rae.  Fun right?

So yes, that was a rather long-winded way of me saying that eating dinner alone is, indeed, a vastly underrated experience.  And I think to end this one-hundred and twenty-third post, I will insert a little list of things that I find to be quite underrated (goes quite well with my Simply Soulful Sunday experience).  Enjoy, and as always, stay tuned!

1.  One-on-one time with a friend. [I am a huge fan of 'friend dates'.  Doing dinner or drinks with one other person is such a different experience from going out in a group.  I think sometimes we forget how good it feels to really connect with people.]

2. Corny jokes.  [I told a friend of mine yesterday who was off to grab a drink with his chiropractor that I hoped he had a 'cracking good time.'  Enough said.]

3. Surprise video or picture messages.  [Literally five seconds ago, I received a video via Whatsapp from my friend in the States.  The video was a live recording of James Morrison on stage at a concert.  I had no idea that my friend was even going to his concert (we both love James) and seeing the video made me smile so much that I had to insert it into my list.  Thanks, Tim ]

4. Emoticons.  [There once was a time when I utterly loathed emoticons.  I cannot even begin to describe the shift in opinion but for whatever reason, I thoroughly enjoy them now.  What can I say?  A smile in a text makes me smile.]

Ode to my mother on Mother’s Day

Today is Mother’s Day– the holiest of sentimentally invented, Hallmark-inspired holidays.  It has always been a tough holiday for me because I am extremely close to my mother, and how do ever really say ‘thank you’ or ‘I love you’ to the extent you wish to convey on a cheesy, forced occasion?  It’s tricky.

If I were living in the States, I probably would have made an effort to be with my mom in person.  I think that a really good breakfast would be in order, perhaps something involving fancy pancakes and eggs with mimosas of course.  I would have provided flowers.  Or perhaps I would have gone all out and prepared some grandeur feast for dinner, maybe preceded by a mani/pedi day out.  Cooking is one of the ways I exhibit love and affection.  I adore cooking for people because it is a subtle and telling way of saying, ‘I care.’  And let’s be real: good food is always appreciated.

But the sad fact of the matter is that I do not live in the States at the moment, and it is simply impossible for me to cook my fabulous mother a great meal today, given the time difference and postal constraints.  So what’s the next best thing I can do for her?  Write a blog in her honor, of course!

Now, without trying to make everyone else on the planet insanely jealous, I quite literally have the best mom…ever.  It’s true.  As some famous dead writer once said, ‘Let me count the ways…’  Now, I won’t create some long and excessive list or anything, but let me just break down how lucky of a girl I am.

Firstly, my mom is beautiful and fun.  She is the best person to have a laugh with because her laugh is contagious, as is her smile.  I like to think I inherited this smile (fingers crossed), which makes it all the better because I can share the effect she has on people with others.  Additionally, my mom is smart and opinionated– traits that I absolutely acquired and am grateful for every day.  My mom is strong too.  She has dealt with her own personal kinds of tragedies and yet, she does not wear them on her sleeve.  She moves on, regains her composure, and is happy day after day.  My mom is always taking on projects too– always being productive and welcoming challenges.  In short, she’s one hell of a role model.

But beyond the traits and characteristics that make my mom who she is, what makes her such an amazing mother is her love and support.  I have never gone a day in my whole life where I felt alone– really and truly alone– or unloved.  I have always worn the jacketed layer that is my mother’s love; I never leave home without it.  Not only that, but she has instituted herself as my biggest fan when it comes to dream-chasing– whether it be through my singing, through my writing, or through travel.  No matter what my venture, she is there to support me.

She wrote to me once, “I’ll always be your defender when others will say that you don’t have a grasp on reality, that you need to quit chasing rainbows. I don’t want you to settle either. I want you to find what you love. And I will always be behind you while you are pursuing it. Love you very much!”  Re-reading it still brings tiny tears to my eyes because I know that I can never fail.  With this kind of encouragement forever lingering in the background of all that I do, how could I possibly not succeed?  I am already successful because I am trying.

So here’s to Brenda, my amazing mother, my friend and supporter.  You are forever loved, adored, and admired by your eldest daughter.

 

With more love than I can write,

Whitney

 

Morning thoughts told in haiku screen shots.

 

 

 

I sat with the sun today.

I sat with the sun today.  I watched her nod and blink sleepily, the sky and clouds swarming in around her to bid their adieus.  They were all ablaze with color—the clouds were adorned in violet grey hues while the sky was alight with swirling pinks and tangerine.  The sun beamed contentedly, casting her final rays upon the city skyline as she sidled gently down the earth.  I could not disunite my gaze from the spectacle—the view was breathtaking.

It is a challenge and a game that will never be over: the task of describing a sunset.  Tonight, in particular, was a deliciously unhurried affair.  I took my time with the descriptions, fiddling with words as I sipped my Chardonnay.  And still I feel I have done the sun no justice.

I live off of moments like these, letting the music emanating from my laptop speakers lift me and wrap around my heart like cellophane.  I squeeze it tightly—the moment—pressing the air out and sealing in the sensation.  I wrap it tighter, drinking in the final sorbet-sweet tastes of the sunset.  I feel everything and nothing right now.

I stop worrying for a moment.  All of my planning has been discarded—all of the future talks and scheming.  I am tipsy on the beauty of the sky and I crave more.  Sitting here breathing in the chill apartment air, I wish more than anything that I could be wrapped in a breeze.

 

I am young.  The world is my oyster.  And tonight, as I take advantage of my for-once empty apartment, I am burning with the simple fact that I am in London.  I am in London and I am living my dream and nothing else matters.  Except maybe the sun.

 

Dam Shenanigans

28 april, 12:30 p.m.  The sky is grey.  Awaiting a reunion in the tourist office by the Amsterdam Central station.  Haven’t seen much of the city yet and am itching to walk, to explore, to settle.  Hunger is hitting…

3:30 p.m.  It is 3:30 on Saturday and our hotel room is not constructed.  Yes, that’s right: they are literally building our room– or at least our beds.  We sit now in a makeshift lobby where there are exposed wires on the ceiling and drill sounds emanating from a room down the hall.  “Your room is not ready,” the girl at the desk told us when we walked in.  Yeah no shit, I think now, shaking my head at the absurdity of the situation.  When they said the new building had opened recently, we did not realize they meant yesterday.  In spite of the situation though, my friends and I are laughing hysterically.  Could be worse, right?  Could be bedbugs and cockroaches.

Things do not go according to plan.  This is something I have long since learned, but also something that is never quite easy to retain.  In fact, it can mostly be said that things go according to everything but plan.  When we arrived to the capital city of the Netherlands early Saturday morning, we didn’t really have many expectations– my two friends and me.  We knew we wanted to meet up with the other three of us staying in the city.  When we finally reunited, food was the first objective.  The second was to drop bags off at our hotel.  Once that task was accomplished (after much amusement), our group of six split up to tackle separate Amsterdam tourist highlights.  Two of us headed into the Heineken Experience with pre-purchased tickets in hand, and the remaining four of us (chased away by the massive queue out front) left to pursue the Van Gogh Museum before it closed.

The hotel experience should have been our first hint that shenanigans were bound to ensue.  I am not sure how I ever could have imagined otherwise…

29 april, 11:30 a.m.  It figures, really.  In one of the most culturally diverse cities in the world, I wind up locking lips with a chap from Essex.  Oh, the odds…

But as I sit here thinking about traveling, I am reminded of how different people do it (traveling, that is).  “All we do is eat, drink, and walk when we travel,” I told Ana yesterday.  This is just our style.  Oh, and meet people of course.  Like Essex.

Last night on our pub crawl around the city, Ana and I met an incredibly sexy bartender who gave us one of the most incredible sensations I’ve experienced to date.  Now, before your mind goes all dirty and Fifty Shades on me (yes, I’m reading the E.L. James books too), let me explain:  we were in Chupitos.  Chupitos is a shooter bar that has hundreds of assorted shooters to choose from, all ranging from 2-4 Euros (about).  Our group had all taken turns ordering various shots off the menu and– naturally– Ana and I decided we need the ‘Quick F*ck’ (hey, I told you I was reading the Fifty Shades of Grey series).  The flavor of the shot was sweet but left much to be desired (basically Bailey’s with something else…i.e. dull).  So Ana then appealed to our sex pot bartender, requesting that he give us something a little more thrilling.

He nodded at her and filled two shot glasses with a clear spirit, then handed us each a tiny yellow bud– what looked to be the center of some sort of flower.  “Bite off the yellow part, chew it around in your mouth for about 15 seconds, then take the shot,” he instructed.  We followed orders, chewing the bitter bud, completely bewildered.

“Keep going,” he assured us.  After a few more seconds he nodded and we took our shots.  Suddenly, my mouth came alive.  Every nerve ending awoke then and was…sparkling.  That is really the only way I can describe it.  My tongue, my gums, my teeth– they were all humming and sparkling and ablaze with sensation.  Ana and I looked at one another in awe, then back to our bartender who wore a cheeky expression on his face.  He grinned sexily.  “Christian,” we both uttered under our breath.  Then we laughed.

The rest of the night was a whirlwind of flashing lights, loud music, and dancing. It wasn’t until our last bar that I was overtaken by the exceedingly tall Christopher from Essex.  We were not dancing for long before he swept me up and kissed me on the empty dance floor.  My friends watched from the sidelines and I laughed.  Public displays of affection seem to get the best of me on my weekend jaunts.

But this is just how I travel.  This is what it comes down to.  I have been contemplating lately how to document my travels.  Travel blogs, writers, and pieces in general are not lacking in our media-driven society.  Anyone can write about their first time in new places, about the things they see and the food they eat.  This is certainly not a new concept.  So maybe, in order to mix it up a bit, I shall continue to write exactly how it is that I travel, which all boils down to the people I meet, the shenanigans I experience, and the boys I kiss.  Keeps life interesting anyway.

30 april 4:00 p.m.  The good news is that I’m sitting in the airport, waiting for my flight.  So we made it.  Amsterdam released me from her grasp.  Earlier, however, I couldn’t be sure that she would.

The streets were buzzing with good feeling this morning when we left the hotel.  The sun was out, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, and I was wearing sandals!  Oh happy days!  The weather gods were kind to us.

The plan was to meet up with our two other friends, grab food and drinks, and then explore.  However, we arrived to Leidseplein around noon (the designated meet-up time) and received a text from them saying they would be late.  Shocker.  The atmosphere was amazing though with people milling about drinking beer, loud music blaring from speakers, and just a general sense of well-being (corny-sounding though it may be).  We decided to sit down to a nice meal, each of us ordering Dutch pancakes and Heinekens (because you do).

We sat outside enjoying ourselves as the clock ticked by.  Our friends were still missing in action though at around 1:30, so we decided to proceed directly to one last coffee shop (again, because you do) before heading out to grab our bags from the hotel.  We purchased the (legal) goods and plopped ourselves down at the bar of the coffee shop.  We lit up and shared.

After the first one (aforementioned goods came in a pack of four), I was lifted.  I was quite aware of the time though so after the second one, I warned that perhaps we should take it easy so as not to miss our flight.  My one friend shrugged his shoulders, seemingly unfazed by time restraints.  He lit up the third and began to share but my whole world was smoke and mirrors at that point so I declined.

I could not tell you what caused it, but I began to sweat then– the cold anxious sweats of nerves.  The world was bright– far too bright– with the bright Amsterdam sun streaking in through the front door to my right.  I glanced anxiously around, unsure of what to do with my quickly diminishing consciousness.  I checked the time on my phone and decided it would be best to leave the shop, to get fresh air and to attempt our way back to the hotel.  I stood up and encouraged my friends to do the same, prodding them along like a mother hen.  However, as soon as I began to walk up the stairs and out of the coffee shop, I became acutely aware that I could no longer walk.  I am going down.

When I came to (approximately 30 seconds later), I was being supported by the bouncer at the door, and a man in a striped shirt was flailing about in front of me claiming to be a doctor.  He felt my pulse and looked me in the eyes.  “You’re going to be fine,” he assured me.  “You just need to cool down, drink some sugar water, and sit down for a few minutes.”  They helped move me to a booth in the corner where I sat and relaxed, trying to get a grip on what had just happened.

But the good news is, we made it.

 

Maybe sometimes you don’t need incredibly profound revelations every time you travel.  Sometimes life is about creating the stories, not their morals.  The moral of this particular story though is this: do Amsterdam again.

The End.

 

Scottish Stories

…Albeit a bit delayed! 

I cannot explain the fixation I have with the country of Scotland.  In fact, it makes very little sense as I have grown up with the knowledge that I come from extremely Irish roots (on both sides, mind you).  Yet there I stood on the concrete beside the plane, rucksack strapped to my back and staring out at the delicious blend of clouds and sky resting elegantly above the low mountains in the distance.  I inhaled deeply and immediately felt myself relax.  I was back.

This time, though, I had landed with my mom in a city I had yet to visit: Glasgow.  We were lucky to arrive that Friday evening with some daylight left, which made the cab ride from the airport to our hotel all the more enjoyable.  Even though we were forced to strain our ears to understand the thick local dialect of our driver, he was still gracious enough to point out various landmarks and highlights of the city as we sped through.  We landed at our hotel near George Square, which– we learned quickly– was quite central.  Once our bags were dropped, Mom and I headed out into the chilled Glasgow night to the Counting House pub down the road for a late bite.    

Our first stop in the morning was to the local Visitors Information centre (conveniently right down the road from our hotel, yet again proving the centrality of its location).  After purchasing postcards and snagging a map, we ultimately determined that we would head to the Glasgow Cathedral, and then over to explore the West End.  The city, however, had different plans for us (as cities often do if you let them).  In the middle of George Square, next to the ferris wheel, was a man dressed in a dog costume and prancing about.  “Go and get your picture with him,” Mom told me.  As soon as we approached him though, a woman in a blue T-shirt appeared and handed us a sheet of paper explaining that they were sending people on an Easter egg hunt through the city and the prize for finishing was the promise of chocolate eggs.  At the mention of free chocolate, Mom and I were sold; we took off down the street right away, sheet in hand, in search of clues.

The scavenger hunt was a great way to see the city as it led us around the shopping areas that we might not have seen otherwise.  Once we finished (and secured our large Cadbury milk chocolate egg), we headed towards the cathedral per our original agenda.  And once again, we were in for another unscheduled treat.

As we stood observing the Gothic style architecture of the old church, we noticed immediately the well-dressed people trickling in through the front.  We then realized that a wedding was about to begin.  Fortunately for us, the front section of the cathedral was still open to the public, so we made our way in and continued to watch the procession of attendees.  We also saw the groom and his groomsmen milling about inside, dressed in their kilts.  The best part of the experience, however, was of course the entrance of the bride.  She arrived with her bridesmaids, who proceeded to fix her up in the grand foyer of the church, while the organ began playing and her father took his place at her side.  All the tourists present were conspicuous in their picture-taking; it very much felt as though we were all a part of the beautiful ceremony.  Once the wedding march began though and she entered the main area of the cathedral, the doors shut behind her and our involvement was over.

The rest of our trip spent in Glasgow consisted of a great pub lunch with a friend from the States, a quick walk through the Kelvingrove Museum, and a delicious dinner at Brown’s.

Easter morning, we awoke and packed our things, then made our way to the train station for our journey to Edinburgh.  Once we arrived, we found that our hotel (our FOUR star hotel, mind you) was a mere 5 minute walk from the train station, and just down the road from the beautiful Calton Hill.  After we checked in and dropped our bags, we decided to make our way up to the ancient monuments on the hill.  The sky was threatening to open up as we trod the saturated grass, snapping photos of the mystical views of the city.

After our photography escapade on the hill, we walked down towards the new section of the city.  We treated ourselves to a delicious snack of wine and cheese, then visited the Scottish National Portrait Gallery, followed by a brief shopping trip along Queen Street.

That night, after a quick lie-down and a change of clothes, we headed off towards the old part of the city for dinner.  We stumbled upon a quaint Italian restaurant right off the Royal Mile where we shared eggplant Parmesan and tiramisu.  Afterwards, I led Mom to a bar that I had read about online that was due to offer up a good selection of live music to end our night.  Whistlebinkies from the outside does not look like much, but as soon as we descended the stone steps into the cellar-like setting, my drunken recall kicked in and I recognized the scene immediately.  “I’ve definitely been here,” I told Mom.  It was a bar along of the stops of the pub crawl I had experienced a mere seven months before.  My, how time flies. 

The music at the bar was incredible.  We caught the last leg of a performance by two men with guitars, which was followed a bit later by a lone performer and his acoustic guitar, covering an extremely wide range of popular songs.  In addition to the great music, we also found ourselves amidst a large group of locals who were out celebrating their basketball tournament win.  Yes, that’s right– a Scottish basketball team.  And Kevin, the adorable and lanky Scotsman who befriended us, had us laughing and dancing with him until after 1 in the morning.

Once we returned to our hotel after the bar, Mom was ready for bed but I was left feeling…restless.  As we walked into the lobby, I heard people laughing in the hotel bar and I opted to stay up for one more drink.  I walked up to the bar and treated myself to a glass of red wine, taking a seat at a table in the corner where I could observe the other guests and relax in my still-lingering alcohol haze.  As I sat there contentedly, I heard a voice and then realized it was directed at me.  I looked up and saw a man in a kilt addressing me.  I cannot remember his first words to me, but he engaged me in conversation quite easily and I discovered that the small group had been part of a wedding.  The man I was speaking to happened to be the father-of-the-bride and his two fellow kilted companions were the best man and another groomsman.  Shortly, the mother-of-the-bride joined us and I wound up stepping outside to have a conversation with her.

“Do you know when I knew it was going to work?” she asked me.  “How I knew that my daughter was truly in love?”  I shook my head and she explained that for over a week before the wedding, her daughter had been a nervous wreck.  “Pre-wedding jitters,” she stated in her thick Scottish accent.  I nodded, only imagining what those must feel like.  She continued, saying that in the morning– that morning of the wedding– her daughter woke up, cool as a cucumber and said to her mother, “I just want to see him.  I just want to get to the church and I want to see him.”  I smiled at the story, pulling my phone out and typing the exact phrase into my iPhone so I wouldn’t forget it.

People never cease to amaze me– the stories we all share.  I have said it before and I will say it again: people are more alike than we think.  We all relate to one another on a much deeper level than most of us will ever truly accept.  It’s miraculous and terrifying all at the same time and it is one of the reasons I love traveling so much and meeting other people.  I collect stories like other people collect photographs or post cards.  It’s the best hobby.

Mom and I still chuckle at the memory of our funny friend, Kevin and I will forever beam at the thought of the Scottish newly-wedded bride living somewhere deeply in love with her husband, and the couple married over 30 years who shared her story.  I love Scotland for these stories.  But I also love the world them.

Hungry and foolish. Forever.

The nerves began attacking me approximately two hours before I was due to leave the office.  I was, quite frankly, freaking the fuck out.  And it’s not that I was concerned in the slightest that I was making a permanent life-changing alteration to my body– no, no that bit didn’t phase me at all.  It was the prospect of pain that had my stomach in more knots than a Cub Scout handbook.  In fact, there was an innate promise of pain.  I was not naive; I knew a tattoo on my ribcage would hurt.  So I sat at my desk with my nerves aquiver, waiting until 4 p.m. when I would set off on my journey.

But then– miraculously– thirty minutes before I was due to depart, something switched in my head.  My confidence– which had previously been laying dormant– suddenly roused and shook itself off.  You’re going to be fine, it assured me.  What’s the worst that could happen?

And it was true: what was the worst thing that would happen to me?  I cringe a bit or shed a couple painful tears?  Maybe emit a few swear words?  I would survive regardless and so my fear was entirely unwarranted.  And so the freaking out ceased.

“You’re quite the badass,” my tattoo artist told me mid-puncture.  “You haven’t flinched at all yet.  I’d be screaming by now.” 

Yes, it hurt.  There were several moments during the brief, fifteen-minute process when it literally felt like she was driving a needle between my ribs and into my core.  I breathed through the pain though.  I focused on my lungs, my oxygen, and the fact that I was finally doing something I had long been wanting to do.  More than simply getting body art done, I was making a commitment. 

I’ve been good at making commitments lately.  It felt like I had been forever afraid of committing to things once I graduated from uni– men, jobs, the future, life changes in general.  I was exceedingly unsure of what I wanted and so I was always afraid to take any sort of plunge.  Choosing to let go of my old life and venture to London was my first big jump in a long, long time.  Luckily, it was a decision I made quickly and therefore was sucked into once made.  Getting to London was such a whirlwind that I barely had time to think before I arrived, let alone pause to reconsider.  But then once I got here, the commitments kept coming.

I discovered my calling here– or rather, figured out that I had known it all along.  And once that realization occurred, I made the commitment to myself to never settle for anything less than my passion.  This is the reason for my newly inked tattoo:  “Stay hungry.  Stay foolish.”  It is not a Weight Watchers tattoo (as my friend Henry has so kindly jested at).  It is a dedication to continue searching, to keep chasing dreams without abandon.   “You can’t connect the dots looking forward,” Steve Jobs once stated.  “You can only connect them looking backwards.  So you have to trust that the dots will somehow connect in your future.  You have to trust in something– your gut, destiny, life, karma, whatever.” 

I arrived in London 23 and lost.  I arrived not knowing what I wanted or where this year would take me.  I will leave London 25 and still lost.  But at least now I know what I want, and I know that I actually don’t mind being lost.  I have an ambition that I refuse to let go of, and a desire to keep trying things until I figure out where my niche is. 

Hungry and foolish.   Forever.