Changing Colors

The Untaken Road

2010-08-29T09:25:00.000-07:00

For all travel updates I have a new website!! Please go to www.theuntakenroad.com, a series of women's voices across the open road of America!

Troncones: What a Happy Ending. ; )

2010-04-19T18:58:00.000-07:00

The sun licked off the remaining droplets of water on my stomach with a sizzling kiss. I was now dry, ready, to return home.

I deftly packed up my bikinis (pretty much my entire wardrobe of the week) and left the Present Moment retreat at high noon. Valerie left with me calmly ready to embark down the dusty road back to civilization. After our flight from Ixtapa, we had a five hour layover in Mexico City, an amount of time that would normally drive us mad and prompt a reckless purchase of luxe airline lounge passes or a taxi into town. However, the Present Moment Retreat had changed us. The two most Type A girls had learned to chill. The airport would surely have a bar and a burrito stand right? Tequila and tacos? We needed nothing more.

Troncones was an idyllic vacation, although not in the traditional White Chameleon travel sense. Instead of racing down undiscovered paths or challenging the locals to duels of whiskey shots, the days were mostly spent within 100 meters, internally navigating the soul and calming the mind. After enough days here one realizes the outside world, including its societal pressures and materialistic pursuits, do not matter. All that is important is the constant pull of the ocean toward shore. (and the papaya glazed Mahi Mahi...us Californians cannot ever let food slip in priority).

After the girls arrived, I nervously expected San Francisco to come roaring back to me: the work, the pressure, the gossip, the sheer frivolousness that can be city life. But as soon as Monica, Ali, and Valerie stepped foot in Troncones, they transformed just as I had. The usual ‘who is doing who’ conversations ceased. No one was interested in discussing the color selection of this season’s Tod’s handbags. And most importantly, any desire to run or explore instantly died Like me, all they wanted to do was slip into swimsuits and plop.

As we leisurely plopped, diligently yoged,and gracefully sipped our ocean side ginger cucumber elixirs, the rest of the world seemed to be entering Armageddon: Volcanic ash and travel paralysis in Europe, another earthquake in Mexico, and the Goldman Sachs fraud in the US. Not to mention the tragic news about Sandra Bullock’s cheating husband.

But to us, the sunshine drunks, none of this mattered. Our little world of morning yoga, afternoon massage, and sunset cocktails was very much alive and well. We forgot our worries, laughed over cards, and gave appreciative toasts to the fortune that was our life. Healthy, without attachment or concern, the world was our oyster….with a Mikimoto pearl set.

I do not understand the businessmen that slave away their best years under dimly lit excel spreadsheets. Nor the needy women who waste their youth in a state of panic over getting married and having children. Life is so fleeting-shouldn’t we just take time to enjoy it? Why worry, why panic…in fact why live anywhere that doesn’t allow you to wear your swimsuit 24/7? When you spend enough time on a beach reflecting, the things that usually demand brain space (career ladders, dating etiquette, ummm….wearing clothes) become so trivial.

Although I am returning to the apparel world shortly, I do hope to bring the carefree attitude of Troncones with me. Along with help from the girls, perhaps I can create a new look in San Francisco.

A 'Type A' Takin' It Easy

2010-04-15T13:35:00.000-07:00

You could spend a lifetime at Present Moment retreat without leaving its acre of Oceanside land. Each day offers a simple rotation. Yoga pavilion - pool - restaurant - bungalow. Rinse and repeat. Life is easy, the air is healthy and even the margaritas seem good for you. If it were not for David’s invitation to visit him in town, my body would have traced the same repetitive route for another full day, like a beached whale on steroids.

However, I abandoned routine to hop on the city bus, the highways bus, and journey to the central market of Zihuatanejo (Zihua). Navigating the Mexican bus system, or any Latin American bus system, is no easy task. There is no space (people and chickens alike spill out the windows), there is no designated ‘stop’ (you just hail the bus on the road like a hitchhiker), and there is no schedule. The driver just arrives when he feels like it. Construction, road accidents, passing cattle, and inviting breaks at taco stands are all reasons for delay.

Waiting is something Americans are not good at. Back at home I will become huffy if someone performs more than one transaction at the ATM, causing me to wait another one minute in line. Mexicans are different. They enjoy each minute as it is given, even if it is waiting for an unreliable bus along the highway. In comparison to my pacing and incessant clock checking, the locals laughingly watch the street dogs play, interestedly read the small town journal, or just blissfully stare out into the sky, recollecting a fond memory. Instead of merely just ‘waiting’ they are using the time given to them. There is no rush. There is just right now.

When the highway bus finally came, I breathed a sigh of relief, eagerly dolled out 15 pesos, and determinedly channeled patience for the additional hour into town. No time like the present to….er…enjoy the present.

And so I relaxed as Mariachi music blasted from the speakers, mustached cowboys in tall hats squeezed beside me, and the painted overweight bus scuttled down the highway like a Mexican bean beetle.

Two hours after leaving Troncones, I finally arrived in Zihua, a Mexican coastal town centered in a small bay with dramatic cliffs. The vertical earth supported tiered pastel housing of the wealthy and poor alike. I navigated my way thought the narrow streets, inhaling the smell of Mexico, a perfume that can be best described as a blend of roasted chili, chalky earth, and furious sun. As a type A American, I had given myself plenty of time for my journey and arrived at the agreed upon coffee shop destination perfectly punctual. However, true to Latin style, David was 30 minutes late. He was accompanied by his sun burnt friend Jerry, who has just made the long drive from Miami to spend the rest of his life in Zihua. As we sipped our coffees, David waved to passersbys he knew and more and more people came to join our motley group. Obviously no one was in a hurry to be anywhere at 11am on a Tuesday. Soon we were an overflowing loud table of American Jews, French Algerians, Mexicans, and Panamanians. We talked of Acapulco in its heyday, romances lost, the growing drug trade (we were on prime cartel territory, after all), and despite all the chaos, why we all had an ongoing love affair with Mexico. After a lingering breakfast of salsa drenched eggs, David offered to take us around town. According to him, there is only one place to go for each service or item you need. He has his preferred shoe repairman, the “most honest” dried chili lady, the ‘sweetest’ coco water stand, the ‘only’ place for calamari, etc. Mexican culture thrives on loyalty. We ambled through stands, streets, and shops, bartering and gossiping with the locals. It wasn’t long before I started to form my own allegiances. Now I just needed to move here.

Walking along the prestigious white sands of Zihua’s “Playa Ropa” I contemplated such a move. Life is cheaper, easier, sunnier. I speak English, Spanish, and most importantly, I speak adventure.

However I couldn’t start looking for property quite yet. My friends were due to arrive at the Present Moment Retreat back in Troncones. Too late for the bus system, I haggled with a taxi driver urged him to speed hastily up the windy road back to our remote village. I would arrive just in time for sunset cocktails. That’s one thing worth being punctual for.

Not Moving in Troncones, Mexico

2010-04-11T13:41:00.000-07:00

“Way down here
You need a reason to move
Feelin’ fool
Running your stateside game
Lose your load
Leave your mind behind

Ohhhh Mexico
Sounds so simple I just gotta go
The sun’s so hot I forgot to go home

Guess I’ll go now.”

I came down to this remote coastal town in Mexico’s southern pacific to surf and do yoga. But with fractured feet that refuse to fuse back to their strong selves I have instead resorted to perfecting the ‘Mexican plop’…a very complicated move that involves a bikini, 70 SPF sunscreen, and complete appreciation for the non-moving. I quite like this new sport….and honestly if I spend the entire vacation laying by the ocean and don’t put on real clothes the entire time it will be quite fine by me.

Last night I listened to a Cuban band play on the beach while practicing the ‘sitting, hand-clapping plop’, a rather advanced technique in the plop spectrum. I marveled at the sleepy happy town of Troncones and the eclectic mix of people who had sought it out. Musicians aplenty, Qui artists, surfers, yoga masters, and those looking to do nothing beyond stare at the ocean.

It’s a sleepy town and my main acquaintance to date has been a water loving black dog who insists on staying by my side. I call him Perrito blackie. (original, I know).

But since my Perrito doesn’t talk back much outside of an occasional soft ‘woof’ I decided to make more human sorts of friends. Against the background of Latin drums and soft breezes I drank tequila and conversed with three Harley driving renegades. One insisted on showing me his photo album of the region, which consisted almost entirely of his smiling head next to various sunset backdrops. Another spoke of life’s purpose, and a deep fear of commitment for anything other than an open road. The third had committed….to Mexico. He had been living in Zihua (a nearby town whose full name ‘Zihuatanejo’ produces pronunciation trouble even for the locals) since 2003.

“Life is just simpler here,” he said. This resort is called Present Moment and if you think about it, there is really no where else you should be.”

My newly acquired friend was from Detroit but spoke a flowery Spanish like an Argentine. Although Troncones was tranquil and full of bliss, he said a more vibrant ‘real’ Mexico existed in Zihua and invited me into town whenever I feel up to it. Inspired to see a ‘real’ Mexico, I decided to act like a ‘real’ Mexican plan on navigating the system of chicken buses tomorrow to head into town and see what it has to offer. Since it’s also a coastal town I hope I won’t have to change out of my bikini. One must have goals.

Remembering Paris

2009-10-27T13:59:00.000-07:00

It’s time for the journey to end, the photos to be uploaded, and the next chapter of the book to be written. Both London and Paris treated us well (and the south of France simply divine) but I expect that it’s Paris I will most dream about on my plane flight home. And long after we are back and settled in San Francisco, I expect Parisian nostalgic sounds, scenes and scents to continually haunt us, reminding us of the romantic interlude we had from our regular frenzied lives.

Like anyone infatuated, I can easily overlook the city’s faults. Paris isn’t the cleanest city (I managed to step, slip and slide on unmarked dog poop on several occasions). Nor are the convoluted streets easy to navigate (we got lost in side alleys about three times a day). However, it still maintains a unique charm that inspires one to revert back to a naive girl, prance softly, and fall in love with life.

LOVING LIFE AND LIVING WELL—LESSONS FROM PARIS
Ah yes, Paris is vibrant, it’s real, and it’s inspiring. The city made us think about our culture, our actions and taught us a few lessons to bring home.

FIND VICE
I suppose others may not find the smell of fresh baked baguette intermingled with smoky cigarettes appealing, but I feel I may slightly miss it in uber pristine San Francisco. Surrounded by super jocks and vegan eaters, I will miss the slim smokers and fois gras advocates that believe vice is the spice of life. After all, don’t the French live quite long after their diet of Bordeaux and Philip Morris? And they certainly don’t believe in a low carb plan. (a baguette under the arm is a fashion statement). And naturally all Frenchmen scoffed when I asked them about their exercise routine. In their eyes we are crazed overachievers that are only happy when we are outdoing someone else. Now, I will never stop running, but my competitive streak now resembles that of a sleepy French bulldog.. The only time you will see me pushing a sub 8 will be to race to the nearest bakery.

FIND ROMANCE

Paris also has am amazing ability to salvage your belief in romance. Past broken hearts can make us girls callous and cynical. We become overly independent, playing both feminine and masculine roles as if to prove a point that we don’t need anyone else. We rush through personal interactions, whether friendly or intimate and focus on masking our own insecurities. Luckily for us four girls, Paris has started to help us peel off those hard layers and make us much more in tune with life around us. For how can one stay cynical while watching lovers kiss in the street? (Never mind that half of the smitten people we saw were likely with their mistress). And even if not in love, people greet each other on every occasion with smiling Bonjours and Bonsoirs and Bisous and sound actually interested to the answer of "How are you?” Elderly gentlemen call us mademoiselle, and nice men across the bar send us wine….and er…small plates of sausage (nothing says ‘I love you’ like a pile of fatty pork!). Whether it’s receiving a kiss on the cheek or free piece of meat, you feel as if you had entered the land of possibility and are once again who you used to be; feminine and optimistic. In fact we even started to allow doors to be opened for us…

DON SCARVES
The French dress well. Full stop. In addition to building height restrictions, I feel Paris has also put a dress code on the city. Women run around in simple yet elegant dress combos while the men walk confidently in their suits and scarves. Conversely and sadly, most American men seem to think anything that isn’t wrinkled or denim must imply they are gay. “Why, if I wore those form fitting trousers and purple shirt, everyone would think I was a homosexual,” an American man once said to me on a shopping trip. However, I wonder if this notion isn’t really a lack of confidence. No French man feels uncomfortable in pastel regardless of sexual orientation. I would like to persuade all straight American men reading this that if the objective is to ‘not look gay’ and attract more women, scarves and lavender shirts will get you much further than ripped Levi’s and an untucked polo. For my gay friends—you already know you get enough action—pastel works!

STAY FUN, BUT NOT SMASHED?
French women, in addition to looking impeccably put together when they leave the house, also stay impeccably put together into the wee hours of the night. “French women”, one male friend explained to us, “do not really drink much. They don’t allow themselves lose composure and appear wild or coarse. French women are delicate.” Right. My mind immediately flashed back to a prior night where all of us American gals lost more than a little composure on mojitos and may or may not have made space in a crowded bar to do crazed lambada moves. We grinded with each other, with nearby strangers, and perhaps even with a few intimate objects. (I actually think one of us dry humped someone’s briefcase).
With a slight cringe I also recall that no one else in the bar was dancing that night. Right. Now I also do not think these delicate French girls came close to being as fun as us. After all, nothing gets the party started like us Americans. However, I do think pacing alcohol is a thing we may have forgotten how to do. Perhaps one should draw the line at dancing with someone’s work satchel? Then again, that was the highlight of the evening.

SPEAK SOFTLY
We also noticed that the French, and practically all other nationalities, speak much softer than we do. Now, on this trip I had been using the International Accent™ (uncanny and unintentional ability to imitate anyone who speaks to me) and thus had softened my voice to an overly articulate UK version. However even with this modification I still feared my voice carried much further across dining rooms that it should.

“We find the American accent hard to understand,” said one Frenchie. “Americans just speak abrasively.” This last comment was made by an older Australian couple. Now this does seem a bit like the pot calling the kettle black, but instead of becoming defensive us more feminine girls decided to pay closer attention. Sadly, out heightened sensitivity made us notice volume offenders everywhere.

CASE STUDY:
Monica and I entered the infamous Bar Heming way at the Ritz for a ‘last night in Paris’ martini (it may also be my ‘last martini in Paris ever’ as the sticker price on those things relieved my wallet of a day’s wage). No sooner did we step foot into the quiet bookshelf lined bar when we heard a loud Texan shout to his American counterparts at the next table. But he wasn’t shouting in his mind. He was having a normal (aka LOUD) conversation bragging about how he had the city of Paris under his thumb. He went on to detail out his fine dinners and luxurious spa services. Since I couldn’t hear Monica across the table over his voice and have our own conversation, I debated crawling under the table, martini in hand, in horror. This man’s wagging tongue supported why every European despises American tourists. He will be my first student in the International Accent™ soft speaking course for loud Americans. As for me, volume control remains a work in process-I have given the girls free range to kick me if they hear me sounding too ‘American’ in public settings.

All in all Paris is a treasure and an inspiration. We hope to bring back bits of it home and plot out our next adventure. Many of our stories have not been documented on this blog- “What happens in Paris, stays in Paris,” but further details of the trip and our delicate female psyches will be found in the aforementioned novel I am diligently working on (in-between glasses of wine that is). Due to multiple wine and cheese breaks, it may a while before its published, but Europe has taught me to have patience. At least I have material--our little month abroad gave me enough the entire thing! : )

Paris--and then we were four

2009-10-20T10:04:00.000-07:00

Paris-the city of love, lights, and life. Last time I was here I frolicked about in a lightweight dress and made my meals from iced Pastisse drinks. Now I am bundled up in Parisian scarves eating hot cheese and drinking hot chocolate (although not together) in order to stay warm.

Trent, the fourth, has arrived to join the journey and join us, the “three trenchcoats” for afternoon city jaunts, late dinners, and even later conversations. Like us, she is completely enamored with Paris.

Paris is a city like no other for its ability to inspire, confuse, and make one fall in love. The very air here makes one susceptible to feel l’amour, even if there is no one in particular to feel it for other than a pain au chocolat. I actually worry that one of us will swoon over a particularly flakey croissant and become so smitten that she won’t be able to leave the pastry shop for the planned tour of the day.

The day tours so far have consisted of modern art museums, funky boutiques, neighborhood brasseries, and the occasional crepe stand. It has never been my intent to write a guidebook (and it would bore the average tourist as all I would write about would be cheese and macaroon shops), but I will provide a tiny taste of a few neighborhoods we seem to frequent the most.

Montmartre: The site of the Moulin Rouge, Amelie Poulain’s kiss, and the infamous steps up to Sacré-Cœur for an unparalleled view of the city. The steps up to Sacré-Cœur were flooded with tourists and locals and multiple guitarists and bracelet makers trying to make a quick buck (or Euro which is today’s sad exchange rate equals $1.50). After walking up the steps we found a multitude of shops, one in which Valerie found a Parisian vintage necklace too perfect to let the exchange rate get her down. Afterall, we are trying to look the part of French ladies (even though our loud American voice usually give us away).

St Germain des Pres: The site of our humble home, zillions of sidewalk cafes (yes Parisians sit outside to drink even when it’s minus freezing out), and tiny tempting shops. I adore the French (and European) propensity to have a little shop particular for one thing. The Fromagerie for cheese. The Boulangerie for bread, and the Epicerie for small cans of pickles and jams. The quaintness makes one want to grocery shop all day long. And I would if St Germain des Pres didn’t have all these tiny restaurants to check out. Our neighborhood has been scene of many 3 hour long dinners fueled with wine and laughter. I am positive that our loud banter, very un-politically correct jokes, and repeat of amusing French words wherever possible (derriere) are offensive to our polite French neighbors but what can we do? We are from the west and even if we resemble cowboys in a tea shop, at least we are having a blast.

The Marais: The Marais offers eclectic charm, the up and coming designer shops, and the Picasso and Pompidou modern art museums. After a unexpected long visit at the Pompidou (for some reason modern art grabs me much more than the “yawn” pastoral paintings of more classical artists) we set off to think profound thoughts before entering amazing boutiques with visual merchandising that must have borrowed the Pompidou’s curator. Sadly no one can afford anything—we have spent all our money on pastries.

Enough of a taste for now—it’s almost time for the aperitif! More to come in Paris, Part Deux….

Ladies of leisure

2009-10-14T11:22:00.000-07:00

While at the British Library in London, I picked up a small book on the art of leisure by Robert Louis Stevenson. The famed author makes the point about how most Americans (and some Englishmen) are missing out on the core of life by focusing all their energies to achieving wealth or status for a future end goal. Little time is left to do absolutely nothing and enjoy the moment you are in.

Valerie, Monica, and I all decided that we would never be of that American class that Mr. Stevenson describes. In fact, we were heading to a country cottage in southern France to do exactly what he would want—absolutely nothing. For it is only when we have nothing to achieve that we really enjoy life.

What does nothing look like? A sampling of life the land of leisure.

DRIVING: A car is to get from point A to point B. Nothing more, nothing less. Gone are the German make fancy cars. We ladies are touring in an Opel Wagon and couldn’t love it more. The Opel may or may not have been stuck going around the same roundabout a few times while we try to navigate the country roads—but no matter. We are not in a hurry.

EATING:Eating is really the main mission of every day. When you have time on your hands the only stress you may encounter is not tasting every type of cheese and sausage from the region collected at the local markets.

This, ahem, means we are eating about 2-3 ‘market boards’ daily IN ADDITION to our main meals. We may pack on the lbs while staying here, but in our leisure state of mind, we don’t really care. As my granny says, ‘get fat and sassy!’ Granny, you know best--Bring on the sausicsson!

DRINKING: Cheese and meat trays cannot be eaten dry (or sober for that matter). It is imperative that one has the proper beverage to go with it and perhaps make you tipsy enough so that you forget you are eating encased lard. Although an American may watch us and be motivated to take us to AA, the southern French mind finds it perfectly acceptable to get drunk 2-3 times a day. There is the mid day rosé during lunch. Once sober again from our afternoon ‘leisure activities’ we move on to the ‘before dinner’ aperitif. We cook tipsy and finally enjoy the ‘during dinner‘ red wine while we eat the fruits of our labor. And lastly, we enjoy the very important ‘after dinner’ digestif. The digestif actually doesn’t help you digest anything—it just makes you pass out.

OTHER ACTIVITIES: While we are not passed out drunk or trying out another stinky cheese we amuse ourselves with other leisurely activities. I write, naturally, although most of my writing in La Broulie has to do with sausage wrappings and the mournful cows out in the neighboring field. Monica takes delight in taking the Opel out to go in roundabouts. Valerie has taken on the new sport of fly hunting (she keeps a swatter attached to her waist at all times). We nap. We read. We listen to eclectic French music and take photos of ourselves looking profound.
And we cook slow roasting-time consuming dishes that only the leisurely can do.

We are drunk, we are fat, and we are absolutement très content. We leave for Paris tomorrow afternoon, but since we are in the land of leisure, that seems like a lifetime away.

Being 'edgy' on the east side--Images from Shoreditch

2009-10-11T00:42:00.000-07:00

Inspired by punk eclectic, curry houses, and graffiti walls we left the comfortable upscale neighborhoods for a bit of a different scene. Although we collected quite a bit of writing material, photos, instead of my prose, captures the spirit of the neighborhood best.

Modern Feminist Femininity

2009-10-08T01:29:00.000-07:00

I am wearing purple plaid in Chelsea, attempting to look (and thus be) artistic. The girls are off hitting the Designer outlet shops while I, attempting discipline, seat myself at Bluebird café on King Street, with my macbook out ready for prolific prose and whimsical wit. I fear that my novel is starting to turn into a mythological creature and thus am motivated to reinvigorate its life with mad typing.

Monica and Valerie, two character studies for my book, have given me much insight into varying depths of feminism and femininity. As self created women, we realize we typically fall on the brazen end of the spectrum.

Yesterday we saw the Tate Modern’s “Pop Life” exhibit, full of Andy Warhol soup cans, Keith Haring’s dancing stick figures, and Jeff Koon’s 18+ room. We didn’t have to enter the 18+ room, but the curious bold women that we were couldn’t let it pass in favor of a more subdued Matisse downstairs. The room was definitely not for the faint hearted; it was filled with life size images of the artist’s private parts to “create powerful communication.”

After such a er...large…spectacle we felt that we ought to wash our hands and do something distinguished and proper, such as have high tea with the wealthy at Claridges. At the desirable time of 4 o’clock we rushed into the 5 star hotel lobby barely pausing for the front gates to be opened for us, and approached the hostess. “I’m sorry, she said, eyeing our assertiveness disapprovingly, “unless you are a guest at the hotel you’ll have to book out one to two months in advance.”

Two months in advance for colored water and small cakes? We got a bit puffy chested; booking a full set dinner at The French Laundry was easier! But instead of arguing, we fought against our rising testosterone and walked ladylike out of the hotel. In fact, we even waited for the doormen to open the doors for us.

However, do not think acting as ladies made us meek and tealess. We quickly made a new tea plan, opting for a recently written up modern tea bar, Sketch. Apparently a place called ‘Sketch’ was all us porn watching assertive gals could get into. Sketch, however, was a pleasant surprise. It was trendy and delicious; better than a snooty old ambience. And if the tea cakes and sour jams weren’t noteworthy enough, the bathrooms were. Each toilet was a separate porta potty enclosed in a giant white egg. Once you closed the door you listened to german language learning tapes. A DJ spun outside.

After spending too much time in Sketch’s toilets, we felt we should once again try for a classier British place. We headed toward the cocktail bar at the Ritz. The doorman (aka security guards) however wouldn’t let us in. Monica was wearing jeans. I am typically a huge fan of dress codes for they establish a sense of class and fashion. I am not a fan, however, when it applies to my group of friends and implies that we have no class. As if on cue, Monica started to unbutton her pants and asked if she would be let in if he took off her jeans under her (Burberry) trench coat. The doorman security didn’t find it amusing. We turned around, tails between jeaned legs, and decided to go back the next day in couture. But in the meantime we needed to save the evening. We went to a martini bar at Duke’s hotel where Ian Fleming wrote James Bond and apparently coined the phrase “shaken not stirred.” The white coated staff was beyond courteous and wonderfully charming. We let them remove our coats, treat us to appetizers, and make us martinis tableside with boutique gin and freshly grated lemons. We felt like proper Bond girls. Bond girls, after all, maintain a perfect balance of the feminine and feminist.

I see London, I see France.....

2009-10-06T02:52:00.000-07:00

Since the past entry on whitechameleon, written well over six months ago, my friends, family, and I have capitalized on life in a way that only self proclaimed San Franciscans can: Day trips to Napa, weekends in Tahoe, and city evenings sipping wine in-between bursts of laughter at slightly offensive jokes.

However, despite the fun there was still something pulling at me. I was yearning for another escape. I coveted time to think, inspiration to write, and freedom from capitalist puritan mores.

My girlfriends, Monica, Valerie, and Trent felt similarly. Although they didn't need designated writing time, they all wanted to flee material yuppiedom, romantic ambiguity, and walk down carefree down old world cobblestone streets to enjoy nothing but the present tense.

Naturally we found ourselves in Europe.

LONDON

The first part of the journey would focus on the city of literary genius. Marks of Oscar Wilde, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and Virginia Woolf were all over London.

Indeed, it was hard not to be motivated to put pen to paper. Unfortunately (or fortunately) there were also many other distractions. Quaint shops, fragrant bakeries, and cozy pubs all vied for out our attention (and share of pocketbook).

And trying to navigate the tube system made one much more thirsty for a beer than a novel. Our first tube journey put us in exactly the opposite corner of London we aspired to be at. Needless to say multiple beers and cider (and highly caloric pub pies) were necessary to commiserate the experience.

Also distracting me from writing was the adorable English accent that permeated the city. I just wanted to sit still and listen to the London voice and its uncanny ability to make commonplace words sound extremely educated. In comparison, I found my own accent ignorant and stupid and have a very hard time not imitating anyone who speaks to me. Not more than 2 hours into the vacation, Monica put me on strict accent probation. Hmmppff. Personally I think I sound much better English and do not understand why my friends insist I speak American.

Valerie, although diligently keeping her Midwest way of speaking and cursing, has embraced London dress. She has decided to wear leggings, a rain hat, and tall boots every day and looks decidedly chic. Given the never ending rain, I am about abandon my Californian attire soon. Wet jeans, stringy hair, and soggy shoes are very unattractive...especially when paired with my now unrecognizable accent.

We stayed up 36 hour yesterday to bite any jetlag in the ‘you know what’…but now are well rested and off for a day of small street walking, high tea at Claridges, and naturally multiple pub stops. After all, wants a sober vacation? Or a non alcoholic writer? ; )

Stay tuned as our adventures are truly just about to start.....

Christmas in Montana

2008-12-28T10:52:00.000-08:00

Last time I was in Montana with my highly eccentric and loveable family, I had just completed an epic journey around the world. At that time, Montana was homecoming-a welcome back to the core of my soul. This time, after six months of 15 hour days, multiple dating disasters, and a few competitive races, it was a reminder of who I was and most importantly, what really mattered in life. Ahh yes…..Montana always provides wisdom….even more so around the holidays.

MONTANA LIFE LESSONS

Dancing releases the soul

Somehow…some profound moves (I think) of mine had been…er “caught” on video. Thanks to the internet, my entire family was able to witness a drunken dance performed at a wedding where a friend and I did our best butt shake to Tom Jones’s Sexbomb. My brother passed the laptop around at dinner where UTube indulgence replaced the usual decedent desserts. When I saw my shaking butt doing a very bad impersonation of a Madonna move, I feared Granny was going to have a heart attack on the spot, but what do you know, she clapped her hands and tried to mimic the moves herself. Dancing and laughter (or perhaps laughter AT dancing) was bringing the family closer.

In this spirit, my aunt, fond of all things new age and meditative encouraged us to take a Nia class. I was VERY skeptical. I had harsh memories of my “Mediation through Movement” class in Bali. But Nia was uplifting. In Nia you are encouraged to release your inner self. Members of my family suddenly transformed themselves to dance as a warrior, a disco princess, and a karate blackbelt, and could it be a gasping frog? I saw my mother shimmy across the room seductively…my sis in law pretend to shoot an arrow during her ‘warrior set’ and my aunt flex the butt cheeks to the rhythm of the drum. Who knew moving around like idiots was well……inspiring? Dancing……even as a gasping frog….. is quite freeing.

Farting Dogs are still loveable
My aunt and uncle’s dog Beaux is cursed with a severe gastrointestinal problem. Sadly, regardless of food intake or exercise, Beaux cannot stop farting. It’s a serious condition, mainly because he doesn’t realize he is doing anything wrong. He’ll sit smiling in the living room and let them rip one after another, causing a mass evacuation as humans flee to other parts of the house.

There may have been a time when my aunt and uncle debated giving him up for adoption…they likely considered pawning him off on neighbors after giving him a box of Gas-Ex to mask his “issue.” But Beaux is such a sweet dog that they couldn’t bring themselves to part with him. They instead decided to purchases gas masks for the times the smell got really bad. Yes, we must accept family however they are. This means Granny’s reluctance to throw out expired food, my father’s insistence at finding a salsa dancing spot at every town we go to (yes, even in Montana), and my brother’s overly schmoopie behavior that only aggravates my tendency to turn to the bottle.

Schmoopie is as Schmoopie doesMy brother and his finance are famed for their schmoopie-ness. There are multiple arguments of “you are cute” No, you are cute” No, you are cuter!” Sometimes they even poll the audience as backup for the schmoop-a-thon. “Heidi, isn’t Lily’s butt the best butt you have ever seen in these jeans? Shouldn’t I buy here 10 pairs of these jeans to show off her cuteness?”
People wonder why I drink more over the holidays.

HOWEVER, even though we may roll our eyes, I am not sure we would want the schmoop factor to go away. For some reason every time Hans and Lily are present, the entire family loses its cynical edge and becomes more affectionate and attentive toward one another. My uncle starts offering to help clear the table. My father decides to give bonafide hugs as opposed to the standard high five. The cousins smile and plan more get-togethers. And granny stops cursing and demanding whiskey…..well for a bit anyway.

Ornery is where the heart is

Granny is a woman of maxims. ‘Quit yer bellyachin’” ‘eat til it ouches you’ and ‘I need a stronger drink.’ She is likely the most stubborn ornery woman I have ever known. She refuses help to walk down the street even if it means she’ll topple over into a snow bank. “Granny down!” And she’ll force feed you until you burst…there is no way to get out of second helpings—“fat and sassy is where it is at.” But no one in our family wants a sweet docile grandmother. We wouldn’t trust it! And due to her orneriness the love she sends out is more meaningful. She relates to her independent granddaughters all the more. Most grandmothers would be praying at church every day for me to get married. Not granny. It makes her proud. ‘You don’t need a man….you stay goddamn independent!” In addition we don’t have to mask our actions or speech while around her. She’ll encourage us to drink and curse and gossip about whatever we want….as long as she can chime in with her ornery opinions.

‘I love you means never having to say I’m sorry’…..for beating your sorry a** at cards again.

Besides the occasional schmoop syllable reserved for Hans’s finance, our family shies away from affection. I remember a time when my brother was little he tried to express “I love you.” My dad’s response: “Son! We don’t use those words in this family!! Now, let’s shoot pool.”

So how do we express love? Well, besides my mother’s “I love you” baking (who needs words when you get a cake?!), we share out emotions by trash talking over a hand of cards. Poker, crib, spades, tic, you name it. Those 52 pieces of laminated paper bring us together more than dissecting Grandpa Dick’s will or planning upcoming weddings. The only rules are: If you win, you must gloat, if you lose you must whine, and regardless of your hand you must boast and ridicule the others to no end. The one that gets their ego beat up the worst is indeed the most loved. Next time I’m home in San Francisco and my friends give me a hard time…I just realize that they are telling me how happy they are to have me in their life…..ahhhh….I feel schmoopie!

Eating Cookies to Win the Tri...

2008-09-29T21:02:00.000-07:00

So after three months of dragging myself to 6.30 am spin class, eating calories like Michael Phelps, and attempting to do more than doggie paddle in the pool, I did it. I finished my first triathlon. Correction—my first SPRINT triathlon. Most triathletes would mock my race… ”Do you really need to train at all for an hour affair?” I can imagine them saying. But I was determined to kick some butt, and excel at doing three sequential activities at once. The sprint distance is all follows: 400 meter swim, 11 mile bike, 3 mile run. I um…er….was a bit OCD on my training plan, completely doubling the distance to ensure my muscles could handle anything especially the dreaded swim

In fact, the real reason I did a Sprint and not an Olympic was my paranoia of the swim. Diving into cold water, flaying around as other swimmers kick and paddle on top of me, swallowing waves, and having strange sea life nip my feet just is not my thing. Plus I am not a strong swimmer. I have been told that my stroke resembles something a spastic frog would do. I needed to ensure my other ‘stronger’ activities would carry me through the race.

I would like to say that my friend Brooke, who encouraged me to sign up for the race, was my swimming motivation. She equally hated the water, but insisted that we power through.

On race day Brooke and I bravely got up at 5am, eat the breakfast of champions (peanut butter on whole grain bagels) and drove with Brooke’s supportive family over to the East Bay. After a few wrong turns and missed exits, we finally found our race destination. Brooke’s family cheered us on as joined the 800 other women about to embark on a morning sprint of adrenaline.

As they called our age group (30-35), Brooke and I held hands briefly in good luck wishes before we climbed over kelp and dove into the murky water.

Luckily for me the spastic frog maneuver did okay in the 400 meter distance. In fact, I think I scared enough people away that I had space in front of me at all times during the swim. I finished the swim somewhere in the middle and spent the rest of the race catching up and passing the other Sprinters with by bike and running shoes. After biking up SF’s hills the flat roads of Pleasanton were a cinch. And running—well, no one is going to beat me in that category! When it was all said and done I came out 5th in my age category and in the top 5% of the 800 person race overall. Not bad for a newbie. More sprint triathlons to come. And if I turn my spastic frog strokes into something that resemble swimming I may do an Olympic distance next year. Regardless, I am definitely adding peanut butter to my nutrition plan!

The Masks We Wear

2008-09-07T18:34:00.000-07:00

While In India I remember experiencing a unique state of being. This state of being didn't know the anxiety of overbooked schedules or the pressure of "making it" or any confusion about where I fit in. Things just were. And I just was. In the Ashram people were sappy and shiny and we joked around about our own elevated cheesiness. We all hoped to take our peaceful bliss back home to our respective countries and cities with us. Why were we so happy? I think because for once we were truly ourselves...all facets of ourselves at once.

Here in San Francisco the synergy of my combined facets has dissipated. Once again a different facet presents itself on different days to different people and different situations. I have revisited my closet of masks and carefully select a new mask for each day. For some reason I am too afraid to be all of myself at any one point in time.

To some I am the athlete, the over compulsive 'will try anything especially if it bruises me' athlete.

To others I represent the socialite that thinks in terms of hors d'oeuvres and guest lists; both must be equally attractive.

And what about the type A career driven women that even brings her blackberry to the toilet? Is this me? Or merely a San Francisco 'must have' mask---necessary as wine tasting to live in this city?

And then there is the romantic poetry writing side that I am not sure I have let anyone get close to since I have been back. Well, besides a few rhyming poems on Evite invitations anyway.....

Juggling different personalities is exhausting. After all going from introverted poet to high heel wearing party girl in the same evening is no easy task!

I wonder if a time will come when I can take all the masks off and just be myself, all parts of myself, at once and not be considered schizophrenic....

Hopefully the wine enthusiast personality will take a major role...

It's a Wonderful World

2008-08-31T00:00:00.000-07:00

Do you ever have those days when you are in love with your life? I think it takes a few sunny San Fransisco weekends, some laughs with friends, and the realization that the world is once again your oyster.

Last weekend some friends and I went to see a music festival in Golden Gate Park....I am not sure if it was the mellow tunes of Wilco, Jack Johnson, or Tom Petty that swayed my heart....or perhaps it was the wine tasting stand that only a music fest in California would have.....or maybe it was even the morning bike ride across the Golden Gate Bridge that convinced me.....I am so blessed to have this life.

I still fall off my bike with the clip in and clip out fiascos. (scrapes on my knees as evidence) Navigating the dating scene in this city remains next to impossible (scrapes on my heart as proof). My housecleaner still shakes her head in dismay at my perpetual disorganization. (my desk has never been more unmanageable). My body quakes at every 5.30 am wake-up call to either jump on a conference call or trek off to the gym for training (how I work 15 hours and still run 7 miles is an enigma). But somehow through all these trials great music, wine, and friends make it completely worthwhile.

It's a Type A city here and for once I have a motley self chosen family that understands the world is meant to be sucked dry of everything it offers.

Remembering the Lessons from the Waves

2008-08-16T16:35:00.000-07:00

What seems like ages ago, I wrote how surfing saved my purpose. I had serious misgivings about taking my three month "personal sabbatical" but somehow those Australian waves made my decision to take on the world make sense once again.
http://whitechameleon.blogspot.com/2008/04/surfing-my-saviour.html

After going back at it in the cold California waters, I think it may have done the same thing. Today was far from my best day. The new shorter board was wobbly underneath me. My turns were far from stellar as the rushing wind seemed bent on knocking me over. My first drop down was a nose dive to the bottom of the ocean.

But still I returned home exhausted and happy and much more at ease with what life threw at me.

Those that know me know I am not a laid back girl. Sometimes I wonder if redbull runs through my veins as I am more hyper than a terrier and more competitive than a soccer team. I tell people that just like most animals, I too need to be exercised every day lest I tear around the house and shred things. My mind runs faster than my limbs and the gears go on overdrive second guessing, scheming and trying to re-shape life into something I deem more appropriate. Can't I force my opinions on the world?

Surfing, somehow, calms me down. It teaches me patience. Afterall, not every wave is catchable. It makes me realize that timing rules the world and can take on strength and love any day. So better to relax and let the life run its course. You cannot hold onto things, or people, that do not want to be held onto. And I also know that even on the crappiest of outings, there is still a wave of the day. So I persevere waiting for it to find me.

It always does....mostly when I least expect it. And I commit to it, embrace it, and ride it in with the grin of somehow who just discovered love.

Offically a 30-something

2008-08-11T21:16:00.000-07:00

The week up to my 31st was depressing. I been back from my master adventure for over a month, started a new job, and had reconnected with friends and family aplenty. I had no right to be mopey. However something about passing from 30 to 31 felt odd...I couldn't shake the feeling that my fun was over and I needed to become a responsible adult. I panicked that I had one week to get my act in gear and act according to the number on my driver's license. No more gallivanting around the world, whirlwind (yet dead end) romances, or flitting from consulting gig to consulting gig. It was time to build things up. I was intent on driving sales in my new firm. Committed to focusing on yoga and triathlons instead of beer pong. I made a commitment to read my Wall Street Journal every day. No more wasted dates with unimpassioned (or the too passionate) men! And I was starting to think about real estate.

Then my 31st birthday party happened. Something about birthday parties with large groups makes us magically transform into 20 year olds at a frat party. But as I felt I had been responsible for 6 days of the week, this particular Saturday could be reserved for fun and silliness. Apparently every one else agreed with the concept as well. Bankers, start up founders, and attorneys regressed alike. In the 12 hour party marathon there were multiple embarrassing moments, and I think half the guest's livers are still screaming in pain, but it was, in all honesty, an amazingly fun day with youthful people of all ages. This is why I love San Francisco. There are no rules for when one has to do things in life.

The party itself was hosted at my friend's beautiful home. It was an all day BBQ with after parties and after after parties in the works. My big day was shared with another Leo who had a birthday two days later than I did. I at first was a bit miffed at having to share (Hey, it's the one day a year I am allowed to get full attention) but it ended up working out spectacularly. Mainly as the birthday boy was older than me and acted equally immature proving that the 30s don't have to be the deadbeat years. Perhaps I can lead a successful life and still maintain my energetic spirit?

The fun started with a dance off competition. I knew my friend's moves (mostly practiced in our Tahoe Ski House) were money. I challenged the birthday boy and his friends to compete against my crew. Immediately the competitive juices started flowing. People started doing leg warm up stretches and assigning certain people to choreography and others to break dance moves. Sadly I didn't know much break dancing but thought I could do a few impressive yoga poses....just really really fast. As I leapt into sideways crow my cousin offered to do cat-cow to a breakin' beat. Off in the other room contestants practiced 80's moves such as the Roger Rabbit, and the Lawnmower. Ali borrowed my birthday sash and performed the ever famous "lasso" routine.

Much to my dismay the rehearsals were brought to an end as the group migrated to watch a REAL 80's band play, the Human League, at a club downtown. The competition was off, but all sorts of new dance moves emerged. Some very interesting indeed. I am trying to remember why at large clubs girls always do those sexy dances together. It always seems like a brilliant idea at the time, doesn't it? But no matter. I have the rest of my life to stay home reading over powerpoints for work or Goodnight Moon to my children (umm..yet unborn). My 31st was meant to prove that no matter how much success I lust after in real life, it's okay to let loose and have some fun every once in a while too.

Trying for a Tri

2008-08-07T10:30:00.001-07:00

My friend Brooke inspired me to do a triathlon with her. You may recall her name as the interviewer on the Brooke Bryand show and author of Brooklyn's blog: http://brookebryand.blogspot.com

For some reason I agreed to follow her lead through a lake wearing a wetsuit, over winding roads on a racing bike (keep in mind I had no bike at the time), and uphills in my running shoes. I can run, but bike or swim??? Not since I was 12!

I think I agreed to this while in my happy ashram phase of life.

But as I never go back on my word, I started training. Training involved jumping into a pool to not sun myself but rather swim laps. The first time I went to the Sportsclub LA pool I went in a bikini. Please don't ask me why I thought this was acceptable. My bottom came off during my first lap. Oh yes, my first take off was apparently so full of force that the little Dolce and Gabbana bottom got left ..er...behind. I was immediately dinged as the silly girl newbie by the goggled speedo wearers. I hastily bought a speedo after that and hoped that my goggles and swimming cap would adequately disguise me. I never wanted to be recognized as the bikini lap girl.

Biking was no easier. I didn't own one, to start with. My dear friends, Nga and Clarence escorted me to the bike shop to help me pick out a suitable road bike. Long legs, once my pride, were now cursed as few bikes fit my odd shaped frame. The whole too much leg, no torso curse. After hoping on a variety of models, I finally decided upon the women's model of a beautiful Cannondale synapse. I selected padded biking shorts (try walking around in depends for a while), padded gloves, a helmet, and some sexy white racing shoes. The credit card total was more than I care to admit. After spending this much money I was anxious for my bike to arrive so I could start parading around with it. I was pleased to look the part! My bike took TWO LONG WEEKS to arrive. I was so excited to pick it up and be seen in my new gear, joining the cycling elite of San Francisco. Sadly luck was not on my side. For the non cyclers out there---Bike shoes clip in and out of the bike pedals, locking you in and making you one with the bike. For a newbie--this clip in deal was no easy task.

I jumped on the bike hoping to clip in immediately.....I flailed around unsuccessfully and jumped off. I leapt up again....and I strained my groin muscles trying to get up over the seat....to no avail. I tried another time...success one shoe clipped in..now the other....crap...crap..clip IN shoe CLIP IN!!!!.....about to fall...must clip OUT first shoe. Oh no cars---need to STOP! Clip out! clip OUT! Danger danger..oncoming cars...I finally clipped out and my feet flew to the ground. The cleats of the shoes were so slippery that both feet slipped out in opposite directions making me do a splits over the frame of the bike.

To prevent further disaster, I decided to walk my bike home. Yup, walk the bike wearing my padded bike shorts, my blue padded gloves, my white racing shoes, and my blue helmet...right up Pacific Heights hills. Someone was sure to recognize me. Mortifying.

I made it home safely and resolved to practice clipping in at the gym with stationary bikes before taking my new bike out again. Less mortification.

How terrible! My confidence was shook. I surf. I run. I snowboard. I yoga. I hiked Mt Kilimanjaro just a month ago! Please body cooperate and prove you have more coordination than a paraplegic. To the shoe clip in God please hear my pleas! I need to master this triathlon thing without killing myself! The cool outfit will only get my halfway there!

Goodbye Days of Leisure: Back to Work We Go!

2008-07-31T09:27:00.001-07:00

I am now gainfully employed. I am finishing one last contract gig in apparel before I start my full time status in Brand Strategy. Why leave the fashion industry, you may ask? Well, it's not all bling and bauble. I just got back from southern Cali where I had to visit factories in East LA. Driving my boss's large very uncool Cadillac I maneuvered around stakeouts, check cashing institutions, and about 100 taco stands. I walked through cutting and sewing factories where my 4 inch heels were considered a safety hazard. The catcalls started...but to the worker's dismay my cursing in Spanish will rival anyones. They promptly shut up and focused on putting the seat in a pair of pants.

I am happy to leave apparel in pursuit of new industries and challenges. However the pursuit of employment wasn't easy in this down economy. I may feel superstar, but I also did manage to let a little stress invade my life as I waited for an offer. The following details were transcribed over two weeks ago when my life changed from lady of leisure to full time worker bee....

The Job Saga

Wednesday: 11pm

I was feeling a bit down wondering why I, the quoted consultant superstar, had not yet been called back with an offer. I was getting sad to the point of overdosing on 2 year old chocolate bar found in my nightstand drawer. At this low point I instead decided to pick up the other nightstand item--(no, not what you are thinking) a book called "The Tibetan art of positive thinking." I read, I meditated, I felt fabulous, and ignored the decaying chocolate to fall into a restful sleep.

Thursday: 9am

After a long run to JT tunes I sat on my living room floor and meditated. I envisioned all obstacles to my life being crushed by a sledgehammer. (maybe one that JT was holding...hmmmm...)

Thursday: 12pm

Putting my positive thinking to use I trotted down the Pac Heights streets in new heels to meet a entrepreneurial women who had started up a handbag line. We had a nice lunch chat and at the end she informed me not only was she looking for a business partner, but I, the consulting superstar, had amazing credentials for this role. ("how did you do all this and stay young?"). I wasn't sure what to say and stammered out something unintelligible. We agreed to stay in touch...I would be better with words after a martini...or chocolate...was it still in the drawer?

Thursday: 1.30pm

Before I could get to my secret chocolate drawer I did a voicemail check. It revealed that the Brand Strategy firm had indeed called me back--right during the time I was discussing my role as a possible handbag partner. I was silly to despair-They still love me. Of course. A few more phone calls revealed an offer and bonus potential. Less than I wanted...sigh....but the entrepreneurial company offered lots of other opportunities for success, such as an eventual role as San Francisco managing director if I proved my salt. The firm actually was so ready for me Heidiness that they had already picked out projects for me to start on this summer.

So what did I finally do? Well I decided to mull over the offer while surfing on Friday, congratulate myself on the art of Positive Thinking all weekend with glasses of champy, and then came back with a counter offer Monday. We worked out a deal and I was thrilled to start with such a young engaging company. I'll stay in touch with the bag lady (handbag that is) to learn more about her business but for now it's time to strategize on a plethora of brands. For my new job I actually need to become an expert on Guitar Hero. Wow--certainly beats hiking around factories in east LA.

My Interview on The Brooke Bryand Show

2008-07-21T13:24:00.000-07:00

Brooke Bryand, friend, gossip show host, and author of "Brooklyn's Blog", decided to sit me down and interview me on my trip experiences. Before the interview began I saw her off with my girlfriends, devilishly putting together questions as they rolled in laughter. Hmmppff...I felt a bit taken advantage of, but anything for humor on the blog. And now, you will have the unedited version from Ms. Brooke Bryand.

Brooke prepping for the interview

[Brooke Bryand]: Thanks for joining us on the show. And welcome back! I have a few questions for you based on your fantastic experience over the last three months that the rest of us have followed on your blog while you were away. Let’s get started. What was your favorite moment in each of the major locations that you visited? Let’s start with Australia.

[ME]: In Australia, surfing, oh god the amazing surfing, and then learning to scuba dive in the Whit Sunday islands. In Vietnam, sailing in Ha Long Bay. In India, besides downward dog 4 hours a day it was certainly the art of Neti…clearing out my nose in the Ashram way. And in Africa…besides snuggling with Monica? Truth or dare in Zanzibar with strangers and reaching the top of Kilimanjaro…climaxing if you will.

Getting serious about her answers...this is a Live Audience after all

[BB]: What is the #1 thing you learned about yourself?

[HI]: I discovered more fully the type of person I want to be and how lucky I am to have my life.

[BB]: How did the trip change your perspective on your life in San Francisco?

[HI]: Yes, it made my life in SF more important to me.

[BB]: What did you miss most while away?

[HI]: Uhhh, toilet paper.

Recalling a particularly memorable aspect of the journey

[BB]: I’m sorry…your accent…can you tell me exactly where you’re from?

[ME]: Ohhh, you must be referring to my world-famous international accent. But of course. I can’t help it! I just mimic whomever I am speaking with. Who knows, my kids someday might be speaking eight languages because of me.

[BB]: And a follow-up question…what percentage of the trip was spent speaking with aforementioned International Accent?

[ME]: (without missing a beat) 95%. No question.

[BB]: How many bags were with you on this three month trip?

[ME]: This would the least amount of shoes I have ever had with me at one time. For THREE months I only had two SMALL bags, plus one more with a Sherpa. And I only lost one thing – my sunglasses. Well, and the visa for Vietnam, but who is counting?

[ME]: Finish this sentence…”I will never again…”

[ME]: “…clean out my nose with an instrument as I did at the Ashram.”

[BB]: Word Association. Say the first thing that comes to your mind.

[BB]: Scree [ME]: Misery.

[BB]: Yoga [ME]: Poga.

[BB]: Crocodile Meat [ME]: Swampy.

[BB]: Zipper (sleeping bags, tents, etc) [ME]: Cringe.

[BB]: Diarrhea [ME]: Monica.

[BB]: And let's get down to the nitty gritty. Did you utilize the one condom you brought? If so, what country?

[ME]: What?! What condom?! I was condomless in EVERY country! This was a SPIRITUAL journey, not a hedonistic one. Ahem.

[BB]: And another…. “After this trip, I now know I can…”

[ME]: “…go three months without being hedonistic.”

[BB]: Final question. Where is your next trip?

[ME]: Amsterdam.

That's all the questions we have for you, Heidi! Thanks for joining in on the first ever (and quite possibly only ever) "Brooklyn's Blog Interview". Fueled by vodka + grapefruit and lots of friends, I'd say we did okay!

There's No Place Like........

2008-07-13T09:07:00.000-07:00

It's summer in San Francisco. Normally this would mean being shrouded in a cold foggy mist wearing ear muffs and woolen scarves. However, this year is different. Northern California has been struck with heat waves. This means short shorts and long BBQs with friends. What more does one need in life? I have always been in love with this city but this warm weather is making me twitterpatted all over again. I am Bambi prancing around the urban forest in glee...

Why did I have to travel all over the world just to realize I live in the best place on earth? Why did I need to escape when all I need is right here in my backyard? My friends here are like family, and this eclectic 'family' rivals my real one in terms of crazy characters, patented dance moves, and tendency to OD on good wine and food.

I returned to my city right before the 4th of July weekend. My 'family' whisked me away to Lake Tahoe where we re-lived our ski house experience in 80 degree sunshine.

Is it unusual to do a shimmy while wiping down the table? Strange to bee bop around while frying onions? Or how about performing the worm while the BBQ warms up? Yes, welcome to our Dance Party USA.....the party that starts before the...er...party starts. Motivated by vodka, no once can wait until after dinner to dance. The boogie gets down as we prepare the food, continues while we eat, and keeps developing through digestion. The moves become more and more complex as Roger Rabbit morphs into headspins. On occasion, dramatic lifts and plies are performed. The largest injury to date: broken nose.

Dancing around and lounging around gave me time to reflect on my whirlwind journey. Everyone has asked me about it and it is hard to explain such an epic intense experience in a few sentences. I feel changed. I feel happy. And I have a newfound respect and love for the people of the world.

Laid Back Australia inspired me to new challenges with its non stop surf.
Overwhelming India taught me to love without judging.
And colorful Tanzanian people made me laugh til I ached.

I am ready to leap into my next adventure which is rebuilding my life in my lovely San Francisco. Dating traumas, real estate woos, triathalon attempts and career intrigues await. I have a feeling that living here may be even more exciting than my Serengeti safari.

Stay tuned.....

Home on the Range

2008-06-26T21:00:00.000-07:00

After a FORTY THREE hour flight from Arusha, Tanzania I (practically comatose and aged three years) finally landed in Montana. No one screamed at my zombie appearance. Rather, millions of smiling faces crowded the small airport corridor. Half the town of Billings had come to greet me. Not to mention the out-of-state Iserns. Everyone had flown home for my cousin Maggie’s wedding….including my crazy uncle Kurt internationally known aunt Jennifer.
The Setting:

Setting 1: Wedding Site, Billings Montana. Billings was more beautiful than I had ever seen. Usually dry, the land had gotten an unusual amount of rainfall (hurrah global warming) and turned the ground into a vibrant green carpet. The rock rims enclosed the city like a fortress. It was a pleasure to drive all over the beautiful town (stopping for fresh baked bread as always) to help my family with decorations and other last minute items for the wedding. Maggie’s ceremony was at the Zoo complete with flowers and a squawking peacock. I felt like I was back on Safari.

Setting 2: Cabin, Crazy Mountains. The Crazies are in between Big Timber and Livingston. A smaller mountain chain but incredibly beautiful. The cabin is situated among fields of wildflowers and views of snow capped peaks. On our daily hikes we got within feet of moose, fawns, and jackrabbits. I questioned why I had to travel all over the world when the most beautiful place on earth is home.

Cast of characters:

Maggie and Deke Winters (the bride and groom):
Never was there a more beautiful, warm and well organized set of 23 year olds. The wedding was planned to a T—and the minor mishaps that occurred were rescued bravely. When Maggie could not stop crying during the ceremony (for joy, naturally) during the repeating of “for richer or poorer” Deke just informed us that obviously “for poorer” just wouldn’t work out. When the buffet ran out of food before all the heavy eatin’ Montanans (ahem, that’s me) could get their fair share Maggie promptly ordered in pizza. Everyone danced, even my 81 year old granny got a groove on. And the best part was that after the wedding the two could relax in their 5 bedroom house. Yes, in Montana 20 somethings have massive homes with landscaped yards where 30 somethings in San Francisco squeeze into other peoples closets and barely make rent payments. Sigh.

Granny:
Granny is a pistol. Whiskey drinkin’ poker playin’ and internationally traveled (she’s been everywhere I have), Granny is no one to get into trouble with. Little Granny, even with her massive collections of antique jewelry and high society manners, has developed a mouth like a trucker. Upon seeing her son Kurt for the first time in two years she greets him with “Why you orny little shit……come give me a kiss.” Granny is the orny one. And even with severe dementia Granny still manages to whip us in all card games. However her trash talk and victory whoops quickly lose their intimidation when she stops mid play to ask ‘Now what card game are we playing again?” “And who are all you people?”

Uncle Kurt: Uncle Kurt left Montana when he was 18 for Alaska and never came back…well except for a few visits. Uncle Kurt lives in a man made shack, shoots grizzly bears daily (in fact wears a Grizzly vest) and has a huge head of wild red hair. We are not sure what Kurt really does for a living but we do know he doesn’t pay taxes. In fact engraved on his ceiling are the words ‘Red Fox beats the IRS-1999.’ There is a story to that as well as many others on Kurt but my favorite is the story of the pheasant. Kurt was driving through Montana and sees a pheasant crossing the street. Most people would stop to awe at the bird’s beauty. Kurt, on the other hand, screams “Pheasant!” and puts the pedal to the medal. He hits the bird, and loads in into the back seat. Sadly….about an hour or so later…..the bird comes back alive and starts squawking and jumping and losing all its fathers. Everyone on the road stares at the spectacle. Kurt sighs…..and gets the bird out of the back and wrings its neck in front of a terrified group of onlookers. Kurt had dinner on the mind. And sure enough Granny cooked that bird up for a feast that night.

Aunt Jennifer: My amazing aunt is only 10 yeas older than me but has lived twice the life. Jennifer works in development for a subset of the World Bank. In between meetings in DC and a zillion trips to countries like China, Togo and Blahblahastan, Jennifer found time to complete a PhD in three years. (After a measly Masters from Princeton and a wimpy CFA). However, the intellectual high flying lifestyle (literally as she spends most time in planes), has not made Jennifer lose her Montana roots. She drove us around in a Mustang convertible and insisted on a few games of lively pool over cheap beer at the diviest bar in town. How many academics hustle pool tables I wonder?

Aunt Candy and Uncle Dan: Recently retired Candy and Dan were my gracious hosts for the week. They own a house on the outskirts of Billings as well as a hand built cabin in the Crazies that we so love.

Candy is a woman of ritual. Every day she gets a square of dark chocolate out with her coffee, goes on a 5 mile hike, and performs yoga at home with a single lit candle. Candy, upon hearing my ashram tales, is about ready to book her own ticket to India. (I glossed over the self purging portion).

Dan, on the other hand, is less ritualistic and has random hobbies like scaring away bears from the cabin property by yelling and jumping around in his tightie whities and repairing his 1947 jeep (they had a 60th birthday party for the jeep last year complete with ice cream and cake).

Candy and Dan also own Beaux, the farting dog. This dog’s gas is legendary as most people leave the room as soon as he so much as sticks his nose in. Beaux was not invited to the wedding.

Eric and Nancy (my parents): Although I still visualize them reading bedtime stories to me in Paddington Bear voices, my parents remain an enigma to most. My lovely mother is a dignified chemist, my father a crafty engineer……but both live in eastern Washington, own Harleys and compete in ball room dancing. Their dancing is actually starting to take over their lives and the whole family is about to have an intervention. During Maggie and Deke’s reception they each carried in little suede bags. At first we thought these were extra presents for the bride and groom. But oh no,…inside the suede bags were special suede soled dancing shoes they changed into for the dance floor. (”Ack—we cannot dance in normal shoes!!! They do not slide properly!”). At the first beat of Ricky Martin, father whisked my mother off and they were absent from conversation for the entire evening. I tried to cut in, but since I didn’t know what the “One step quick turn slow step” was, I gave up. Sigh.

Lauren Anderson and Nate Kendall: Lauren, my cousin and her boyfriend Nate are the upcoming artists of the family. Lauren is most recently known for her photography shown at Yerba Buena in San Francisco. Nate is most recently known for his new album, Songbird Sing, that I shamelessly plug on any occasion I get. The two live in San Francisco and come to any creative emergency I may have (one was decorating Christmas cookies). It only made sense that the two were assigned as chief artistic directors of the wedding decorations. I tried to claim the “tousled tulle” look as my own…but we all know the streamers filled with fresh flowers were a byproduct of Lauren and Nate.

Hans and Lily (soon to be Isern):
My once fierce brother who used to yell at me for not skiing hard enough, hiking fast enough, or doing enough push up has now softened into a sweet mass of sugar. The change agent: Lily Chen, a beautiful woman who has claimed his heart (and ours) and will soon become my sister in law. Although we are happy for well, their happiness, they do deserve a bit of ridicule now and then. I like to refer to the two as schmoopie-do and schmoopie-de. Together they perform eyeball rolling acts of schmoopiness that the rest of us (including my dance happy parents) can only aspire to. “No you are cute.” “No you are cuter.” ‘No, YOU are cuter.” “Awwww…let’s kiss!” At Christmas the schmoopie acts were so intense I turned to the bottle and drank til I passed out. Lily redeemed the schmoopiness by taking random photos of me passed out on the couch with a magic marker mustache. Yeah, she fits in with the family.

After the Setting and Cast of Characters it would make sense for me to start a story. But you will have to wait…I am working on a book of ‘em! Afterall the adventures my family get into are much more exciting and hilarious than anything I encountered overseas…..

Dressed in Khaki: The H&M Safari Experience

2008-06-16T01:53:00.000-07:00

Although with a slight Kilimanjaro limp, Monica and I were ready to tackle the Serengeti plains and Kopjes (those fake looking zoo rocks) and check off Lion Chasing on our Africa "To Do" list. We were armed with everything we needed:

1. THREE cameras (the best one courtesy of Mr. Tang)
2. Swahili phrasebook (updated by our Kili guide Yusto with er..colorful slang)
3. Four bottles of Deet insect spray and creme
4. Fancy Safari suits...well okay we couldn't bring ourselves to be too matchy matchy in khaki least anyone think we were a middle aged couple (although we were starting to feel like one)...but we did wear light colored clothing with lots of pockets and zippers and had on matching sun hats.
5. Patience....it's not like the leopards will stop what they are doing to jump out of trees for us! We knew we would need to bide our time as the wild unfolded before our eyes.

We took off in a dusty Land Rover with our new guide Rama and headed for the Simbas and Twigas (lions and giraffes).

To get to the Serengeti was an amazing full day drive worthy of an explanation itself. We drove through Masai villages (the only East African tribe to maintain traditional clothing and lifestyles), monkey forests (those pesky red butted baboons), and many large shallow lakes teaming with bird wildlife.

To fully give our loyal audience a taste of an African Safari I will divvy up this section into three segments: Bush Accommodation, Land Rover Cruising, and Key Animal Factoids.

Bush Accommodation
Although we were very hopefully to get the Ritz in the Bush experience, our Safari company was a bit more rustic...and thus thoroughly legit. Our accommodation ranged from mobile tented camps with hot bucket showers (explanation forthcoming) to permanent tented lodges, to brick and mortar REAL lodges complete with organic gardens and game rooms.

At first the hot 'bucket shower' label scared us. After Kili we wanted to be done with baby wipes forever! Was a faucet too much to ask for? I had terrible images of me pouring a bucket of water over Monica as she stood outside naked in the shrubs rubbing herself with wipes. Eee gads....Was this some bad "Girls gone Wild" scheme..."The Bush in the Bush?"

Thankfully it was not so....there was some fancy contraption where the staff poured kettle heated water from a bucket into a pipe that did indeed come out a faucet in our makeshift bathroom. The water only lasted 4 minutes....but after Kili--this was luxury.

Most of Serengeti accommodation is in tented lodges--these are permanent solid tents (large as a small cabin) that are scattered around landscaped grounds. The tents are complete with 2 double beds, a small bathroom, and of course mosquito nets. The tented camps also had separate units for a restaurant and bar where all the khaki clad hung out to talk about their animal sightings.

Land Rover Cruising

For those who are inspired to go on a Safari--let me warn you....while an exciting experience it is A LOT of car time. A lot of car time on really bumpy dusty roads. So if you are prone to car sickness, short attention spans, or hate the "I spy..." game than a Safari may not be for you. Now if you can deal with all of this then a Safari can be quite fun. There are animals everywhere and Monica and I felt pretty darn cool when we could say "Oh it's just another Gazelle herd out there with the random giraffe. Yawn." After day one we were already on the hunt for the elusive predator cats. Leopards, lions, cheetahs, oh my! While we just finished a male lion sighting, we would often see a brand new Safari group ogling a lone giraffe. Monica called this the "starter giraffe," the animal that gets the safari going before the clients are ready to move on to the more dangerous animals.

Now, please note that the Safari Land Rover in no yuppy Landrover that San Franciscans take to Whole Foods. No, no...this vehicle has no cushy seats, leather interior, or fancy sound system. Monica and I affectionately (or not so affectionately) referred to the 12 hour a day vehicle as "the Metal Box." However, the really cool thing about the car was that it had a pop top--so we could stand like prairie dos with our heads outside the car scanning the plains for Cheetahs and Rhinos. We did indeed see every animal we wanted. Our guide throughly annoyed us with all the fake animal noises he made ("this is Wildebeest mating cry" "This is dying hyena sound") but he DID effectively scout out every animal we had on our list and then some.

Random Animal Factoids

We saw lions eating elephants, cheetah moms mourning their lost young, and Topis (Elk like creatures) mating. We were living the Discovery Channel. There were a few things that Monica and I learned that either changed our perspective on life or gave us good dinner party topics:

1. Male lions suck. You may have known that the male lion is lazy and leaves all the hunting to the females while it sleeps the day away. But did you also know that the male lion who heads up the lion herd changes every few years? Every time a new male lion takes over it kills, yes KILLS all the baby cubs in the herd(as they were offspring from the past male). The lionesses try to defend their babies but to little avail. As soon as the cubs are killed the females immediately go into heat again. Talk about male dominance. I am so happy I am a homo sapiens.

2. While on the subjects of males...Monica and I would like to add in a new phrase--'Hung like an Elephant'. We are going to change the whole horse saying after we saw our 3rd male elephant...er...unit...dragging on the ground. 5th leg is an understatement. Very disturbing.

3. Male ostriches turn their necks and legs bright pink when they are ready to mate. I guess this is a sign to all the females out there who like the rosy color? Kindoff like flashing a Thomas Pink shirt and a thick wallet?

4. Conversely, female baboons turn their little behinds pink when they are ready to mate. From our personal observation it seemed all the females we saw were primed and ready to go. They must have been the human equivalent of the older women we see hanging out of their tops in cheesy bars in California. Also similar to some human females we have seen on Jerry Springer, female baboons fight each other aggressively with baring teeth and horrendous shrieks....again another phrase change...no longer is it a cat fight but rather a baboon fight.

5. Wildebeest are as stupid as they look. The migrating animal often gets lost on its way north to Kenya. Therefore the poor dumb beast has taken to befriending the smarter zebra and following the white and black stripes up the migratory path.

6. Hippos have a terrible life. In addition to winning the ugly award, their skin is extremely sensitive to sunlight. So that they do not get sunburnned, they spend most of their life hiding in cesspools, completely submerged underwater. Their only friends are crocodiles.

Animals are amazing creatures......but although the Safari was an experience of a lifetime I am ready to happily go back to random human cougar sightings in the Marina or stripe (shirt not zebra) outings in the Mission.

Kilimanjaro--The Detailed Climb

2008-06-08T21:25:00.000-07:00

****UPDATE: KILI PHOTOS UPLOADED****FOLLOW OUR JOURNEY! : )
(I am down two toenails now but both Monica and I have recovered nicely from reduced oxygen)

Monica landed safely in Tanzania and indeed discovered me coming out of yogi bliss and ready to tackle the Africa wild. Today, one week after the start of our Kili climb, limbs sore and backs aching, we decided to give you our personal play by play of the daunting climb's itinerary and our own personal sentiments.

Day Zero: "Today your guide will come to your Movivaro Coffee Lodge and brief you on your climb."

Monica:
We were told we would meet our tour rep and climing guide (aka, the man who would be entrusted with our lives over the next 7 days). I wasn't expecting the climb to be that huge of a deal. Many of the people whom I told I was attempting to climb Mt. Kili responded with something like "Oh, you'll totally make it to the top. My 80 year old asthmatic paraplegic grandfather did it." This is where I call bullshit. During this briefing, we learned:
- Mt. Kilimanjaro, at 19,344 ft above sea level, is Africa's highest peak and the world's fourth tallest free-standing mountain.
- Only 50% of climbers who attempt to reach the summit actually succeed, and many die.
- To date, only 31,000 people have reached the summit.
Oh sure, sign me up! It was during this briefing that it totally hit me what we were about to do. My mind was racing...was it too late to escape? The Seychelles! I had always wanted to go there. Where else could we divert to? I tried convincing Heidi we'd have a way funner time drinking pina coladas while frolicking in the Indian Ocean, but she was too distracted by the cute tour rep to notice me freaking out. Apparently there was no turning back.

Heidi:
After the briefing about the freezing cold, muddy paths, and in-depth details about altitude sickness, the cute tour rep went to do an equipment check to ensure our balaclavas (Darth Vadar face masks) and trekking boots were Kilimanjaro-worthy. It then dawned on me that I was willing to sacrifice part of a house down payment to put myself in harsh misery for 7 days. Sure, I love the mountains but I despise the cold. Monica was trying to tempt me out of the climb to some unheard of island off the coast of Africa. Hmmm...

Day One: Today you will climb to Machame hut on a moderate climb to the edge of the Kilimanjaro forest. Altitude: 3,000 meters."

Heidi:
We decided not to go to the Seychelles. Instead Monica and I found ourselves outfitted in gaiters, hiking poles and "Outdoor Girl" fleeces staring the 20,000 ft ascent up Mt. Kilimanjaro. Despite the fact that we were accompanied by cheerful guides, laughing camp cooks and a zillion singing and dancing porters, we still knew we'd be spending a LOT of quality alone time together. We quickly drafted a discussion list in case our usual topics (Jimmy Choo sales and world peace treaties) grew stale. However, we never had time to use it. Even after our first day of climbing, we collapsed at the campsite in sheer exhaustion while the porters threw up their hands and leapt into a Swahili song and dance around us.

Monica:
The best part of our first day was arriving at the campsite, tired and muddy, to find all 20 of our porters singing and clapping to greet us and congratulate us on our first day’s accomplishments. One note about the porters….they are the BOMB. It takes about 20 porters to carry equipment, food, supplies and luggage for a party of 2 from campsite to campsite. These guys hustled up the mountain past us, balancing huge gear bags on their heads, muttering “Jambo” as they passed. They always arrived at the campsites well ahead of us and would have a bucket of warm water and soap ready for us (heretofore known as “washy washy”), tea and snacks set out, and our sleeping bags set up in our tent. Dinner our first night was served in the mess tent, complete with tablecloth, candles and real glassware. We enjoyed carrot ginger soup, coconut rice and Swahili-style stir-fried beef and fresh veggies. After dinner came bedtime prep. This usually involved crawling into our tent for a quick wipe down with baby wipes and piling on layers of clothes (5 on top, 3 on the bottom, 3 pairs of socks), then struggling to stuff ourselves into our sleeping bags. Nighty night.

Day Two: “Rising early, you cross a stream and climb up a steep ridge for 4 hours and then onto the moorland of Shira plateau.” Altitude: 3,840 m.

Monica:
One of the most fascinating aspects of climbing Kili is moving through the different ecosystems. Day One took us through mist and lush vegetation. Day Two was very different. Trees became shrubs and dark green became pale green. The ground changed from damp earth to dry and rocky. Now, these are no Mickey Mouse hikes. We averaged a vertical of 2,500 ft per day, working our way through loose gravel and rocks, boulders and volcanic formations. All the while, oxygens levels in the atmosphere were quickly dropping (at the summit there is half the amount of oxygen as the base). There is a neat little contraption that the guides have to instantly measure our body’s oxygen level. It’s non-invasive—you just clamp it on to your finger and a mere 15 seconds later you have a read-out on your body’s oxygen level and heart rate. Having Yusto, our lead guide, measure us became a nightly ritual. The first two nights both Heidi and I proudly provided a read-out of 98%. It appeared as though we were well-prepared for our ascent to the rooftop of Africa.

Heidi:
After we cleared the forest, Monica and I could appreciate the beauty surrounding us. Lush, exotic vegetation framed the views of Mt. Kilimanjaro’s peak in the distance. The views made the tiresome uphill day going “Pole Pole” (slow) worth it. Our enthusiasm with the scenery helped us bond further with Yusto. In fact, in the evening he challenged us to a game of cards. If we played “Yusto-style,” he would teach us more Swahili words. Playing cards with Yusto was a true cultural experience. He grinned broadly, flashing his shiny white teeth with every hand he won. “I am king!” he declared proudly. “I am Simba! (lion)” “I must win many, many times!” Yusto was indeed good at cards. However, I think he took advantage of our high-altitude loopiness. He had chosen a game with complicated, convoluted rules that our oxygen-deprived brains could not follow. Even though we lost every hand, we still laughed over our candlelit game. Our gruesome tiring midnight “F.A.” (Final Ascent) up to Kili’s peak seemed years away.

Day Three: “Today you will climb up and down for 6 hours over mountain vegetation and scree with rewarding views of Baranco Valley. Altitude: 3,950 m.

Heidi:
Today Monica and I incorporated two new activities into our daily climb. Rock climbing (actually quite fun as it broke up the monotony of our slow echoing steps) and scree. Scree is a miserable dry rock formation that loosely covers steep vertical inclines. Its sole purpose is to undermine climbers, causing them to slip, sprain or die. It ranges in size from large 10 pound rocks to small pebbles forming gravel. Scree comes in many varieties: muddy scree, dusty scree, icy scree, slippery scree, ankle-spraining scree, etc. It crunched underneath our feet before rolling down the mountain to torment other climbers.

Monica:
Scree is evil. Scree sucks. We hated scree so much we made up an “Non-Ode to Scree” (yes, even Heidi ran out of stuff to talk about).
“Scree, scree, miserable scree
How I hate thee
You cause so much miseREE
Especially when it’s raiNEE
You cause injuREES
Why are you so slippeREE?

And on and on…

Day Four: “You ascend up the Baranco wall and walk across more scree and ridges to the Karanga Valley with views of the glaciers.” Altitude: 4,100 m

Heidi:
More scree. To relieve the tension of climbing in scree, eating meals made from powdered milk, and seeing each other in the same muddy, unwashed pants every day, Monica and I decided to forego the recommended evening acclimatization walk to play Beauty Parlor. This consisted of using extra wet wipes, a basin of tea kettle-heated water, “Pssssst”-brand dry shampoo, and a toothpick to remove dirty from under our nails. Yusto and Boniface (trainee guide) laughed at us, asked how the jacuzzi was and asked if we wanted a hair dryer. We ignored their snickers and pranced into the mess tent for dinner. We felt like African mountain princesses. Yes, we had on dusty ski hats, head lamps, and the same ol’ muddy pants but we truly felt mountain clean.

Monica:
The star of the camp crew was Nico, a shiny, happy man who was in charge of waking us up (“wakey wakey”), administering “washy washy,” and serving our meals. Before each meal in the mess tent, Nico would stand proudly over the table and pronounce “Welcome dinner! Bon appetitti!” While his English was generally passable, he must have fallen asleep during the class on food. He would often say “Tonight we eating fried potatoes!” as he spooned baked beans onto our plates. Whenever we declined seconds, he would scold “No eat, no go up!” Our obsession with the evening oxygen monitoring continued. However, things turned grim when my read-out dropped to 81%. While Heidi flaunted her 95% readout, I was certain I was going to die in my sleeping bag that night. Not helping matters was Heidi asking if she could have my shoe collection if I were to die. Yusto assured me my reading was perfectly normal for this altitude and that I had nothing to worry about.

Day 5: “The last stage to Barafo Hut is quite steep and we advise taking it easy as you must rest before your final ascent this evening.” Altitude: 4600 m at camp.

Heidi:
Yusto gave us a long briefing for our F.A. (Final Ascent). I realized the sheer insanity of our trek. We were going to sleep for three hours and wake at 10:30 p.m. getting out of our tent in SUB-ZERO (no, not the fancy fridge) temperatures, climb up a mountain, cross glaciers, and breathe in half the oxygen of dear San Francisco. Hello. I have circulation problems and was likely to get frostbite. Monica previously experienced altitude sickness in Tibet and was likely to collapse and pass out mid-journey. We plagued Yusto and Boniface with frenzied questions and concerns. Yusto, true to his nature, laughed at us and brushed our fears aside. “Trust me. I know path. I am Simba.” He then resorted to Swahili swear words and insults to take our minds off of F.A. “Gori” (foreskin). “Unafirwa” (you f***** anus). And our favorite: “Kuma kubwa chupi ndogo” (You’re vagina’s so big your underwear can’t fit in it.

F.A.: “You rise late night and begin your climb to the summit. You pass through glaciers to Uhuru Peak where you watch the sun rise from the top of Africa.” Altitude: 5,896 m.

Heidi:
I couldn’t sleep. I was too nervous. And it was too damn cold. We had on millions of layers and two sleeping bags each but it still wasn’t enough. Before I left the tent I put on enough layers to resemble Ralphy’s brother from “Christmas Story.” I teetered out of the tent ready to go. I couldn’t be sure but it felt like negative 200 degrees outside. Why was I signing up to climb for seven hours up, three hours down and ANOTHER four hours down to the next campsite in freezing cold non-breathable air? I was entering my personal hell. My very expensive personal hell.

Monica:
The Final Ascent...this was the dreaded event that had loomed over us for the last five days and it was finally here. I was petrified. I was voluntarily entering my version of hell -- extreme physical exertion, arctic climate, very unflattering attire. Sigh. Let's face it. I'm not "Adrenaline Girl." Nor am I "Extreme Sports Girl." In fact, I am really only "Outdoor Girl" on weekends when it's sunny in Marin (and if there's not a sale going on at Neiman's.). Was I out of my mind? Who was I trying to be?

Heidi: I trudged up energetically hoping I could generate enough body heat to warm up my numb hands and feet. Ha. Yeah right. The climb was so steep and oxygen so scarce that pole pole was all Yusto allowed us. We trudged a new type of scree, snow-buried glacier scree, in silence. Seven hours of silence. Yep. My personal hell.

Monica: Words cannot describe the pure misery of the next seven hours. To give you a sense of how slowly we climbed, every step I took was followed by a 3-count before I took the next step. Try that right now, all of you. "Step-one-two-three...step-one-two-three..." You would go out of your mind, too. I was barely moving yet my chest was heaving as I gulped and gulped air that might as well have been water. Many of the climbers around us were in bad shape. Some even collapsed and their friends would pick them up and they'd keep plodding along. Finally, somehow, the seven hours passed and the sun started coming up over the mountain.

Heidi: After six hours of silent, dark climbing, we reached Stella’s point, the first point on the top of Mt. Kilimanjaro. Although we still had another hour to get to the highest peak, Uhuru, we had made it. We were at the top of Africa’s largest beast. I cried. Not emotionally, but because my feet and hands were in searing pain from the cold and I was sure all my limbs would have to be amputated before we returned. I couldn’t focus on the breath-taking views, marvel at the altitude we had accomplished because my mind was too busy planning out my life as a future amputee. Boniface saw my cold-induced tears and urged me to run ahead with him to warm up. But how can you run at 20,000 ft wearing a North Face fat suit? Rather than look ridiculous, I told him we had to wait for (annoying toasty, well-circulated and non-amputee-risk) Monica as I couldn’t reach the top without her. It was true. Even in our own personal hells we were in this together. We made it to Uhuru and watched the sun continue to light up the sky as we snapped our tourist photos under the famous Uhuru sign. Perhaps this was worth an amputation.

Monica: They say you're supposed to feel an emotional release when you reach the peak. I can't say that really happened, but the feeling you get from standing on top of Africa's highest point is indescribable. With the sun just rising, and only few others around us on Uhuru Peak, looking around at the clear skies below I felt like I was in an outerworldly place looking down on earth. You only have a few brief moments to savor the feelings of relief and accomplishment...our oxygen levels were low and we still had three hours of descent ahead of us. No matter...Heidi and I would always be the 31,150th and 31,151st climbers to reach the top of Africa. Mission accomplished.

Day 7: “Continue the descent to Mweka Gate.”

Heidi: So…I didn’t need to be amputated afterall. The long hike and descent had only cost me a toenail. After 14 hours of climbing and descending our last day on Kilimanjaro was relatively short. At breakfast and lunch time we still got sung and danced by the porters, still got urged to eat by smiling Nico, but all the routine seemed an echo of the past. We had accomplished our mission. We were mountain climbers. We were fluent in Swahili (well curse words anyway) , and we were very very dirty. The city girls had worn the same pants for 7 days. And that whole “Psssst” dry shampoo bottle thing didn’t really work. It ws time to enter civilization again. And by civilization I mean a safari camp somewhere in the remote Serengeti. Yes, the next part of our adventure was about to begin. H&M Part Deux.

Bollywood Blues and the Spice(y) Island

2008-05-30T03:28:00.000-07:00

Bollywood Blues

As some my have noted from my facebook.com “status updates” on the delicious state of my lower intestine, my last day in Mumbai was anything but Bollywood glam. Yes, India had decided to give me a farewell present. Terrible food poisoning. Here I had been bragging about my iron stomach and relished chugging down any type of street food. I wasn’t sure if that’s what finally caught up to me….or the fact that I ate the unusual my first night in Bombay---I steered away from the dodgy stands and treated myself to a 5 star course meal including sinful meat (chicken..it may be a while before anything red crosses my lips) and a sip of wine. The next morning I woke up in a cold sweat and knew I couldn’t part with my new best friend, loo (after "the loo"), for more than an hour or so. However, I was restless to see the city and stupidly decided to keep my city tour reservation. In-between all the Jain temples, Portuguese buildings, and artistic churches I made my guide take a few detours to the “shrine of the porcelain goddess.” Desperate, I decided to finally turn to my friend Cipro. The side effects listed on the pill bottle intrigued me:

Common side effects: Rash, vomiting, diarrhea, nausea. Wait? Aren't these they very symptoms this darn pill is supposed to take away??!!

Less Common side effects: Chills, depressions, suicidal thoughts...Oh no! Now if the stomach cramps didn't kill me the depression would! Hmmm. Great medicine. Go Bayer.

Any hopes to be discovered as a western blond bollywood star vanished…not sure there is a role for vomiting diarrhea girl who takes her own life.

Spicy Island

Thank God for Zanzibar! The fresh ocean breezes and warm grinning people quickly helped me recover (from those suicide urges, of course). Zanzibar is a beautiful collection of islands off the coast of Tanzania. I was on the main island in the old spice trading town of Stonetown. Zanzibar is the second largest exporter of spices, second only to India. Not bad for such a small place! I fell in love with the beaitful island and decided to highlight a few key learnings and experiences:

1. Mambo Jambo Hakuna Matata. I arrive in Zanzibar and quickly forget my ills. Laughing grinning Africans greet me with Mambo! Jambo! and lots of jokes. They all seem to love life even more than I do! I quickly discover that the island has no electricity. Oh, it must be the storms (naturally the rains follow me to any beach destination..par for the course..). "Oh no...the the power has been out for a week now. Dar Es Salaam has turned off the power to the island. Could be months..." They shrug and smile and laugh again. Oh. Apparently there was some issue with Zanzibar paying taxes or something. Hmmm...okay well I am adaptable. Hakuna Matata. No worries (I actually remembered this line from "The Lion King"). Afterall, there were a few generators around, right?...and I had a box of matches and exceptionally large pupils. I was prepared for Africa.

2. It's an Arab World. To say Zanzibar has an Arab influence is an understatement. The women wore traditional hijabs, arabic scripts lined the solid wood doors, and stores opened and closed around mosque hours. The Turquoise beaches would have to wait....I covered myself up and set out about town to learn the rich history of the island. One interesting tidbit: A sultan from Oman ruled the island for many years and is said to have personally led the international slave trade in the 1800s. I visited the old slave market and holding quarters. Sitting down the cramped suffocating confines gave a whole new feeling to the horrors that occurred just 150 years ago.

3. "Dr Livingston I presume?" Dr. Livingston was a famous Scottish missionary who traveled across Central and East Africa and spent a lot of time in Zanzibar. He did the usual missionary things, built churches, saved lives...oh just managed to convince the Sultan to END THE SLAVE TRADE. Minor things really. And what is my worldly contribution to Africa? Writing about diarrhea on my blog? Sigh...maybe i should volunteer after my safari....Anyway the famous quote came after Livingston was LOST for SIX YEARS somewhere in deep dark Africa and one of his fellow do-good friends had to come and find him. The endless search came to a..well...end when he was finally found in a tiny village and greeted with that famous quote. Well, I have been nearly lost myself. I wonder if Monica will greet me in Arusha with "Ms. Isern, I presume?"

4. International Tourists, I love ya! I met Dawn, a South African living in Dar Es Salaam, and Vishal, and Indian living in Dubai in my beautiful hotel (expat central it seemed). Both were on the island for business. They insisted the best cure for my shaky stomach was a strong drink. "Better kill that stuff with vodka!" And so the night started. We went to Mercury's (a bar named after Freddie Mercury of Queen, who was born on the island) and then to an amazing 5 star feast on a rooftop terrace under the stars. We ordered wine liberally, somebody got smokes, and we stared a raucous game of 'Truth or Dare', traumatizing everyone else in the restaurant. Yes we had a blast with the game you played at slumber parties when you were 13. We tried to refine it a bit. "Heidi, I dare you to stand on the table and talk about wine pairing!" However silly it may seem, I encourage all of you to play again sometime...with strangers. You would be surprised at what you learn....hidden fears, deep regrets, and lifelong loves, not to mention the names of a few emerging South African wines. We ate and drank till quite late and sadly I woke up with not only a slight hangover...but an upset stomach once again. Time for the bottle of suicidal thoughts...sigh.

Necessary Things For Himalayan Trekking

2008-05-24T20:51:00.000-07:00

Melissa and Michelle and I have just returned from something everyone should experience at least once in their lives.....trekking in India's Himalayas. I had wanted to breathe some fresh air, see the snow capped peaks and start to prepare my limbs for the upcoming Kili trek (NEXT WEEK!!) but what I got was much more....memorable experiences and lessons....and a whole new ability to "rough it." I am looking forward to a 5 star retreat in Bombay before I head on over to Africa...but before I lose myself completely in the spa (must remove about 5 layers of dirt from my skin) I thought I would take a moment to share some things that all should have before embarking on a northern India trek.

1. Adaptability. Nothing is what it is. (how profound it that?) Up here, it isn't just the weather that changes at a drop of a hat. Everything is unpredictable. Indians do not need our western ideas of organization and promises. 'Oh, did I say you would have air mattresses in the tents? Oh....I think the other campers that came before you got them. Sorry. Ground for you." "Oh yes...I did say only 10 more kilometers 10 kilometers ago...but I think we still have 10 more to go. Almost there." "We must wait for 6 hours here because there is a landslide on the only route back...they should have it cleaned up...oh maybe 2 hours? Maybe 8 hours. You want tea while you wait?" Yes all these things were uttered by our guide numerous times. We slept in tents (without air mattresses), guest houses with burlap walls in sub freezing temperatures, and roadside hotels where the friendly Indian family next door (there were TWELVE in a room) shared all their food with us. We hiked in bright sunshine...but as soon as we stopped to put on suncream, the mist rolled in and were were rained on. We truged up and down paths crossing jagged rocks and piles of mule poo. We waited on the side of the road for hours for landslides to clear. And we became experts in patience as our guides gave us different options and parts to the trekking plane each day. One night, while huddling around a cooking fire to stay warm, we overheard one Indian trekker say in English..."I spent some time in Switzerland..you cannot believe it up there! They organize everything! Everything they say actually happens! It's so predictable and orderly!! And one amazing thing--I lost my wallet one day on the rain. They actually have a thing called 'Lost and found." Crazy! I went there...and you know what!? MY wallet was there!! People actually return things that do not belong to them! What a strange place!"

2. Ability to us the bathroom anywhere and then talk about the escapade with your mates. Mel and Mich and I spent about 30% of our time navigating possible toilet solutions in the northern forests. We spent another 30% of the time talking about what happened. Yes, yes we have reverted to 12 year old boys...for potty humour is hilarious up here. I am not sure that everyone understands India's toilet situation. In the case of rare outhouses....be prepared to find a decaying cubicle type structure with a hole in the ground...often times with various excrement left all over the floor. (I guess the hole is easy to miss??). Toilet paper is a foreign word so one must always trudge into the cubicle with a trusty roll stashed under the arm. Doors rarely close properly...and if they do, they shut out all light so you are crouching in blackness praying you don't drop the loo roll. Mushrooms may or may not grow around the walls. And cows wll naturally walk around outside as if trying to peer in. Ahh yes.....we have an ongoing competition for finding the worst toliet! Using the bathroom outside is far preferred,,,but well..we all know India's population density issue....and hiking in Yatra season doesn't leave alot of privacy on the trails. So you have a choice of doing a crouching dance in the middle of a disgusting mess...or braving the outdoors hoping a passing Sadhu doesn't catch you and decide to take a photo. Due to sensitive nose conditions, we preferred the latter...but are half expecting to find photos of ourselves on some bad website like "Pottyfetish.com" or "youthoughtthatsmallbushcoveredyour bum.com" We once tried not drinking water so we wouldn't have to deal with the issue...but well...not drinking and hiking 15 kilometers isn't really wise. Thank god for reduced modesty and hand sanitizer.

3. Fondness for the pilgrims. It is beautiful to watch the various pilgrims trudge up the hills, donned in their bright clothes and warm smiles. Indians have got to be some of the most generous and friendly people on earth. We were invited in to about every tea hut along the steep path....and crowded in with the other pilgrims to warm our hands by the fire and sip hot chai. One must forget their own unwashed body (and the definitely unwashed body of their hosts) and hug them and hold their hands as their affectionate culture requires.

4. Propensity to gorge yourself of chapattis. I have no idea why I thought I was going to lose wight in India. I remember my plan to "fatten" myself up in Vietnam for the inevitable fast I would be on here. Um...yeah. I think my longest fasting experience in my life lasted 2 hours. In India...probably 45 minutes. True, I have not eaten meat or had a drink in a month (sobriety is surprisingly fun...who would have thought?) but I have been stuffing myself on everything else. Indian food is damn GOOD! Wow---even the most filthy roadside hut in the middle of the mountains serves up a delicious medley of vegetarian delights. And chapattis--warm fire baked Indian bread-are served with everything. If I try to mathematically calculate the amount of Indian food (dahl, beans, veggie curries and chapatis) to western standards...I figure it's the equivalent of about 4 burritos per meal. (3-4 chapattis plus all the yummy curries inside). And then there iare the sancks! ALong the hill paths are huts that sell everything from "marsala chips" to samosas. When we are off the beaten path our guides offer us packaged sweets that we cannot refuse. Add three 4 burrito meals a day to little snacks every 2 hours....and well you have just a lot of darn good spicey food that would put meat on even Nicole Ritchi'es bones! M&M and I say every day that we are are going to "be good" and perhaps not have that extra biscuit with our chai or perhaps not take second helpings of date and paneer curry...but sure enough every day we out-eat ourselves again...setting new records for curry overindulgence. Our trekking guides watch us with amazement. As a aprting gift, our guide gave us not the standard prayer beads, or memento of the Himalayan mountain peaks, but rather a box of Choco Pies----a chocolate packaged snack that we devoured at every resting point on the hike.

5. Iron stomach. You do not need an iron stomach for the food (recall that we are all getting fat up here on the yummy cuisine) but rather for the windy roads the car takes to get you up the treacherous routes to the trekking spots. I do not know if it is the Karma /Darma thing or what...but Indians do not fear death. There are single lanes roads up the windy mountain paths and all drivers insist on taking them as fast as possible. A pathetic "honK' sounds as the car nears the blind turn...but not really to alert anyone they are coming (for it would be far too late to slow down) but rather to say "hi--prepare for a head on collision!"). It was so scary that we couldn't look ahead (or we would imagine what was coming around the turn) nor to the left side (for the cliff was about half a meter from the car and of cour there were no road barriers) nor down because the driving would make anyone carsick. The right side was also impossible to monitor. When oncoming traffic approached it managed to squeeze by us at light speed with maybe a centimeter to spare. My heart was in my mouth for most of the car journey. I practiced my yogi breathing technique, closed my eyes, and thought of pleasant things....like Apricot tarts....or chapattis.

So now filled filled with pleasant thoughts and most of the trekking grime washed from my body (oh yes....another necessity for Himalaya trekking is an arsenal of baby wipes) I will take a flight to Bombay's Bollywood....land of luxury and beauty. : ) Perhaps I'll be discovered as an emerging actress. Of course whoever "discovers" me will have to see through my hippy skirt and grimy Om t shirt....No why didn't I pack along my Jimmy Choos again???

Travel in the Yatra Season

2008-05-20T02:01:00.000-07:00

I am in Rishakesh---finally up north close to the mountains. (It's still hot here though, of course). It's currently pilgrimage (yatra) season here so the town is filled with pilgriming Indians making offerings in various temples and chanting at sunset. Cows wonder the street aimlessly (I guess the sacred can be lazy) and old women, seasoned with travel, push their way through the crowds toward the temples. Men spit on the road (it seems this is a favorite pastime), and shared jeeps, overflowing with 10 person families speed by honking incessantly. Sadhus (wandering holy men) beg for change along the steps and just about everyone is offering to sell us something from scarves to deep fried mystery Veggie somethings. The spirit and liveliness is beautiful...but India is a crowded place without any pilgrims...so it's also bit mad.

Rishakesh was made famous to foreigners by the Beatles, who journeyed up here to seek...um..."spirituality" in one of the many ashrams. It is now a complete new age center and gateway to Himalaya hiking treks. I am here with my former English ashram pals Michelle and Melissa. We are here for the yoga, trekking, but are a bit wary of the dreadlocked travelers offering us "special" lassis and "all night" chant sessions. However not all things seem like Burning Man. Last night we were up quite late in a cafe playing cards with some random travelers we met and indulging on this amazing chocolate dessert. I figure we cannot drink or eat meat in this area...so bring on the chocolate full force!

The journey here was anything but easy. Any travel in India is pure chaos. Nothing can be planned or anticipated. I met M&M (of course I nickname them after a chocolate candy) at Agra to see the Taj Mahal. The Taj, the massive white marble structure built for love was just as amazing as we had heard. But no lingering was allowed on our schedule. We saw the Taj at Sunrise, the Red Fort at late morning and were able to sneak in a dip at our (amazing and sinfully decadent) hotel pool before the challenging journey further north. We had 2 LONG train rides, one bus, and one bumpy Rickshaw awaiting us.

Train travel in India is not for the faint of heart. First of all, all trains are always booked...so you either have to be put on a waiting list for a seat and pray you'll get in, pay bribes to train officials, or hop aboard the cheapest class and squeeze in with the masses on the floor. Or all of the above. Trains are notoriously late, so being able to redo your plans completely to catch a connecting train is part of the program. And lastly, trains arrive as they please and where they please. There is no way of knowing where your train is expected to arrive. The station screens are always wrong so you must ask enough locals and go to the platform number that has been uttered the most times. Even then, it's often wrong. To catch our train from from Agra to Delhi, M&M and I noticed that the train was coming in two platforms down from the one were were told to stand at. "Ack--there's our Punjab Express train!" Without thinking we jumped over the massive tracks with the locals, risking death (isn't jumping over tracks illegal in the states?) and our belongings as we threw our bags up over the tall track walls hoping to retrieve them as we scrambled over. Not that anyone would want to steal weeks of my dirty laundry...We then rushed into the train, pouring sweat and sat down about 2 minutes before the train took off again.

But this was nothing. Our next train has similar issues (we changed platforms running like mad about 5 times trying to find our elusive train up north) and then managed to take part in a brawl in a bus for our third part of the journey. One particular Indian family decided to save seats for pratically everyone on the bus by putting their luggage in the seats. Since buses get so crowded people actually PASS THEIR CHILDREN IN THROUGH THE WINDOW, saving seats isn't really feasible. M&M and i tried to diplomatically explain that the family needed to move their bags so we could get by and sit down before the roving masses were pushed in through the windows but they wouldn't budge. An impatient New Zealand we had befriended took charge and started a screaming match with the Indian woman. ("YOU are rude!" "No! YOU are rude.") Oh no--this was "Om Shanti" versus "Praise the Lord" all over again. We pretended not to know her. But didn't matter.....it was very much the westerners against the Indians....and we ended up taking the 2 hours bus ride standing up sandwiched between stacks of bags.

Dirty and exhausted, we treated ourselves to our favorite fruit juice mix upon arrival--Papaya, pineapple, banana, and mango...with a dash of milk. Our juice orders were starting ro resemble my long Starbucks order at home....

But honestly, the travel chaos...well it's all part of the journey, laughable now and worth any pain. (especially if we get treats afterward). This is India. It is crazy, unpredictable, and we love it!

Escape from the Ashram

2008-05-14T05:14:00.000-07:00

Escape
My remaining days at Sivananda were blissful. My body was strong from yoga. My mind was still from constant meditation (well...ok, maybe not too constant as a flying chocolate bar seemed to invade my thoughts frequently) and my heart was full from peace and the joy of meeting so many wonderful people. Our collective glee was almost getting to be a bit much. I was waiting for us to hold hands and burst out in a Sanskrit version of "We are the World" or "Kubaya." Determined to not get any sappier than I already was I decided it was time to plot my departure and perhaps regain an once of cynicism....Happy yogi cynicism that is.

I left for a train headed to the Kerala backwaters, clueless as to what town I would get off on. I figured I would decide while aboard. 'Travel by gut' is my new way to go. As I was getting into the taxi to go to the train station, C, an ex stripper from Manchester decided to join me for a day or two. Always happy to have company, regardless of past occupations.

We ended up in Allepey, India's Venice with canals and rivers cutting through towns and lush forests. We hired a long skinny boat to cruise around, watch the backwaters village life, be mesmerized by the landscape, and see the sunset.

Over Worry--Hmm..Maybe I needed More time at the Ashram?
I again listened to the gut and decided to leave Allepey to head to Kochi-"God's won Country," a beautiful trading town with Portuguese heritage homes and spices everywhere. But as soon as I arrived at the Allepey train station from my rickshaw and got out to buy my ticket panic seized me. Where was my wallet?!! Oh now! I must have left my handbag back in the rickshaw, now driving away! I left my bags with C and darted off out to follow the rickshaw, cutting up my feet in the mad scamble out to the street. Watching my hot pursuit running in worn out flipflops, a kindly driver told me to hop aboard....and together we chased down, shouted at, and intercepted rickshaws along the train station road, looking for my lost handbag. After intercepted rickshaw #4 it dawned on me. In my attempts to consolidate my 24 or so bags, I had (perhaps) put my handbag INSIDE my large suitcase. Oh....it was very likey I did this. I had pulled an old "Heidi"...thinking I had lost something that was right beside me. How embarrasing. Hmm...I swiftly told the driver to go back to the station, my face red. Upon arrival the whole station came out to greet me. "Did you get your bag, ma'am?" "Should we file a police report for you?" "Are you okay with money?" "Why is your face beet red?" I sheepishly told them all was fine and shamefully went to retrieve my bag with the miracle handbag and wallet safely inside.

Why I love the Indians
I love the Indians. They are always so helpful and ready to make you feel at home in their country. I love the way their heads bob from side to side as they speak in their smiling tone. Their bobbing shake indicates yes (although it looks like no) which is at first confusing but in time quite pleasant. I love how they are eager to explain their culture, their country's progress, and their dreams. I love the beauty of the Indian women. No matter how poor or how dire the village they are from, they always don their gorgeous jewel toned saris that float at their feet. Their thick black hair is always worn in a long braid down their back, glistening with coconut oil. Hmmm....I look down at my stained hiking pants and sweaty Om t shirt and feel inadequate. Just the excuse I need to start shopping again! : )

Future Plans

SO in today's "travel my gut" process, I will take a ferry to go to a nearby secluded beach with some fun new travelers I met last night at a dance performance. (typical Indian love story--sister of demon falls in love with god...demon sister tempts god, god gets mad at evil women's temptations and chops off her breasts).

And tomorrow....I will leave my new friends and headed up north to the Taj Majal (meeting some other friends there) and then perhaps to Rishakesh-a spirtual town at the base of the Himalayas. But who knows...plans change as quickly as I down mango lassis. Maybe I'll end up at another Ashram. For those that actually read news besides Brittany's latest head shaving and are worried about the Japiur terrorist bombings, please rest assured I will be fine. Terrorists win if we are paralyzed by fear and halt all our plans. We can never predict a tsunami, bombing, or really rainy weather while in Austrlia, and must march on. Plus with extra security up noth it's probably the safest time to travel in india! : )

Extracirricular Ashram Activities

2008-05-07T23:44:00.000-07:00

Things are moving nicely along in the ashram...A major breakthrough--I have learned to not be competitive! (well in asana class. I cannot be--the other yogis in my class comprise of an ex gymnist, an ex dancer, and a CURRENT acrobat for Cirque Du Soleil...yes. Mmm hmmm. And so I am fine with remaining the er 'class project").

Inbetween the asanas, chanting, and eating with the hands, we actually DO get some free time. Ashram doesn't have as rigid a schedule as it may appear (although we do have to ask permission to leave the premises) and many extra activites are available.

I will list a few of these activities here:

1. "Silent" walks. There have been two silent walks so far that replace meditation. The experiences couldn't have been more different. On Sundays we wake up at 4.45 am to see the sunrise and mediate on the mountain near our ashram. Its beautiful, the air is clear, and people sing with hearts full. We have some amazing singers among us. Compare this to the Wednesday night Lake walk. Unbeknowst to us, the town was having some christian revival during the same time as our night walk. Indian Revival style is something else...oh those southern Baptist have a long way to go. Indians may not have money for food, but they do for speakers. For miles outside of the revival podium, speakers were positioned through the forest to blast the words "praise the lord. hallelujah!" and some 10 syllable Indian gibberish. People lined up along the street to wave their arms in unison. Our meditation spot was occupied by the Christan revival leader herself, so our confused walk leaders just had us sit down in a parking lot near the lake, and encouraged us to try to chant our meek Hindu words ("OM") over blaring 'Praise the Lords'. I felt a competition brewing... "OM!" "Praise the Lord!" "OM!" "Praise the Lord!" Then mad chanting started. "Om namo narayanaya..." To make matters worse, our chant leader was so bad and off key no one knew what to do so everyone just sang their own chants to their own beat. All the good singers seemed to have left. It was truly a frightful experience. I am putting this into the suggestion box 'chant leaders must audition to lead the group. Off key chant leaders make us want to join the Christian revival group.')

2. Neti. Yesterday instead of yoga we learned to clean the nose. 0kay--I was fine with pouring a little salt water into one nostril and let it drain out the other (weird but doable)...but we were asked to do the 'catheter up the nose out the mouth thing'. For those not familiar with India nostril clearing practices...people put a tube UP their nose, yes all the way.....and then grab it at the back of their throat and pull it OUT their mouth. Good times. After watching a few brave Germans gag on the tube, I declined to try this. I guess we learn purging next week. Yeah.....I think I may leave before this.

3. Aryuvedic massage. As I mentioned earlier I used one of my free hours to try aryuvedic massage. My brother was already alarmed with my mention of "areola rub" (he is afraid what the "new" Heidi may be into) so I will keep this simple. You enter a small dark room. The massage therapist instructs you to COMPLETELY disrobe. You then sit in a chair totally naked. She then pours oil down your head. It slightly stinks...naturally. You then lie down on a board while she gently rubs oil into EVERY body part. I would be more specific but we do not want this on the wrong website. It was...er...akward. After you are rolling around in oil like an eel, the "masseuse" (she doesn't really massage--she just spreads oil) takes a little tiny tube from a boiling pot of water and steams you...all over. Lovely. It is 100 degrees outside and now you are getting steamed. After the steam you are ushered into a shower where you are instructed to rub the oil off yourself with a chickpea paste. Yes, I took a garbanzo bean bath. I lef the room greasy and with chickpea remnants all over me legs. I smelled like a salad.

4. Pursuing the hot yogi. I think a few of us women include this in our daily practice. 'Oh your karma yoga is to clean toilets? Why, I LOVE cleaning toilets! Why don't I come and help you!!' I see him again under a tree reading "How to be Pure." We chat. "But of course eating meat is disgusting. Besides a few filet mignons now an then I don't eat much. Did I mention I was a vegetarian for 14 months...so perhaps I was 19, but I really liked not eating cow for those 14 months."

5. Beach trips. Every Friday we have off (well, after our morning meditation--that is NOT optional--they even take attendance). Happy to escape, I convinced a Israeli bartender, a Singaporean therapist, and a Swiss banker to join me to Varkala, a beach town with dramatic red cliffs that drop into the ocean and the most amazing fruit smoothies! We all did a bit of body surfing, got pedicures and ate taboo foods (garlic and fish) and felt utterly indulgent. A perfect day!

See, ashram life ain't so bad afterall!!

Ashram Life

2008-05-04T22:37:00.000-07:00

Okay. So I am not really being very silent here. (are you surprised?). I have totally broken my own rules and have let my mind wander, laughed out loud in mediation class (not my fault, this funny irish guy was mocking the chanting), and of course, made heaps of friends. Despite all this, inner peace is coming along quite nicely…… : )

Oleksiy, a Ukrainian ex banker now well experienced in yogi life, refers to the Sivananda ashram as the “club med” of ashrams. In the large complex are gorgeous palm trees, trimmed hedges, small temples, and shiny happy people everywhere. People come from all over the world to dedicate a few weeks of their world wide vacation to find themselves. But thankfully, only a few of the people here are the traditional tree hugging hairy armpit new age type (reminiscent of my “mediation through movement” experience in Bali -see http://www.traveljournals.net/stories/21666.html). Most people were just like me..a curious traveler who wants to know what the ashram life is all about.

It’s hard to explain all that goes on here but I will do my best my giving you “A day in the life of...”

5:20am: Wake up Bells. Oh God, ack...Is this an ungodly hour or godly? It’s still dark out and I felt like I only slept two minutes again. I stretch and get up. Whatever girl was supposed to share a room with me never showed up so my only roommate is a small lizard I have named Siva. He’s great company and never hogs the bathroom.

6:00am: Satsang (Mediation and chanting. Welcome to my personal hell. Legs crossed I try to focus the mind…..ohh…...there she goes…..slow down...come back…crap we are only 10 minutes into it and my left leg is cramping. Now it fell asleep..great...now it’s in the other leg. Hmm...will anyone notice if I shift slightly? I secretly half open my eyes...how is everyone else so still?! I try to focus again...breathe breathe..don’t think about the new hot yogi that just arrived...of course now that’s all I think about. After 30 minutes of silence the chanting starts. Some of the chant leaders sing so beautifully I get chills. Others are tone deaf. (Theyr eally shouldn;t be allowed to sing, but you know the ashram is "inclusive.") Regardless of any wincing, I echo their words in unison with the group. I can now sing words like “Purnamevashishyate” and “Trayambakam” without wondering why Hindus prefer words with at least 4-5 syllables.

8:00am Asana (yoga poses). There are two classes—beginner and intermediate. Naturally I am intermediate, right? I mean I have done a few classes at home. On the first day I wander into the class a bit late (chatting with some new English friends) and notice with alarm that no one appears to be my version of intermediate! They are all doing strange poses in the names of exotic creatures I have not even heard of (plumed pangolin, anyone?) and seeming to balance on their tongues. Sigh. One of the helpers encourages me to “at least” try a "measly" headstand. “It will only take you a few days to get it", he says. I attempt. He quickly changes his mind, "Hmm..or for you...perhaps a week.” I have become the class project.

10:00am Meal. Okay—so there are two meals a day. There isn’t a distinction between breakfast or lunch. They are similar. Rice or dhosa, vegetable curry (2-3 kinds per meal), salad, chutney, yogurt. The tricky part is not the food (it’s actually really good), it’s the act of eating the meal. We sit on the ground on mats cross legged. We have no silverware. In hindu culture you only eat with your right hand. For those that know me, you understand that I have NO hand eye coordination. So imagine me sitting with both legs (asleep) underneath me, trying to scoop curry and yogurt in my right hand without spilling all over myself. Yup. Good times. I think they don’t allow us spoons because the ashram swajmis need some entertainment. That would be me and the poor left handers.

11:00am Karma Yoga or selfless service. Everyone is given different jobs to do to keep the ashram running. Hindus (or just good people) should practice karma yoga in everyday life..giving selflessly without thinking of reward. Hmm...I kindof feel that listening to some of the off key chanters is doing karma yoga but I am given a task anyway.

12:30 Asana coaching. An optional class for help with certain postures. The coaching there moved me from headstand to scorpion in days. I think there is something magical here....all the positive energy makes anything possible. (So maybe the new hot yogi will decide NOT to dedicate his life to celibacy?? Hmmm.....).

1:30 Tea time. It’s chai! Yummy yummy warm sugary sweet chai. We all sit around chatting about our travels and interesting aryuvedic massage experiences (this will have to be a separate post--it involves an Areola rub down).

2:00pm Lecture. We learn about love and happiness and devotion and of course must chant some more. “Om namo narayanaya…..” This chant is permanantly stuck in everyone's head in the ashram. I think my little lizard Siva is even singing it.

3:30pm Asana class again. My stomach turned soft from Vietnam mystery meat starts to harden again. 4-5 hours of yoga a day does wonders. As I no longer worry about poses, I pick up another problem. A stinky smell. Now, I do not want to name names here (or country of origin) but some people really do not think hygiene is important. In the southern Indian heat I shower 2-3 times a day. However it’s only required to bathe once a week before our temple ceremony. That means if you wanted to be a Peppy Le Pew...you could get away with only 1 shower a week. Monsieur Peppy seems insistent on sitting by me in Asana class. I have such a hard time maintaining balance with the stale smell coming into my nostrils. Sigh. This must be another version of karma yoga (selfish service #3).

6:00 Meal. More vegetables and rice (repeat of breakfast that they tried to make look different by adding a papadum. Not fooling me...) and severe concentration trying not to spill on my newly purchased “om” t shirt..I accidently bend over to far and flash a swajami sitting behind me my pink underwear. I get reprimanded. My friends to the side of me laugh out their rice.

8:00 Satsang. It’s really not fair to have two hells in one day (especially since we start EVERY activity with chanting and silence). I resume my dedication to not think about any of the things I really want to think about. Ho hum ho hum...not thinking....not thinking....but chocolate would be really nice right now....

10:30 Lights out. Just another day....

It's getting hot in here! (Yes I'm in india)

2008-04-30T01:21:00.000-07:00

I am in India. A land where women wear full jewel tone saris in 100 degrees and cows walk around saintly. Beggars sit in the middle of the street, stalling traffic while peasants carry full loads on their heads in harmony. Exotic aromas infuse my nostrils. I had arrived for the third part of the journey. India is a true dichotomy of beauty and spirituality and immense poverty and scams. It's only my second day here but I have already seen both sides.

Side A:
I got off the plane at the Chennai airport at 11pm and walked out into the steamy humidity (yes its hot even at night). I had arranged my hotel previously as a quick one night stop before my flight to the south, Kerala, in the morning. For $80 USD, I figured I would be taken to a moderate or perhaps even luxury hotel. This was my first scam. Hotel Heera, online, looked like a palace. Hotel Heera, in reality, resembled a crackhouse. The warnings for "solo women travelers" in the Lonely Planet guide echoed in my mind. After arguing with the grumpy man at the front desk about the fees, I was taken up to my room. The porter flicked on the lights but I wished he wouldn't have. The flickering light displayed a shabby room with peeling paint, cigarette burns on the bedding, and blood stains on the towels. The bathroom faucet leaked brown water. There was no toilet paper. And to top it off the signs on my door were not the typical emergency escape instructions but rather signs prohibiting gambling and prostitution in the rooms. Wonderful. I was in a hotel that doubled as a whorehouse. I bolted the door and threw a decrepit chair under the knob. I went to bed gripping my knife in one hand and my pepper spray in the other. The outside noise frightened me. I slept 45 minutes that night...my head spun on how I would combat an intruder. I realized that I didn't even know how to use my pepper spray. I would surely blind myself. And throw a punch?? Hmm...I vowed to take martial arts classes when I got back to San Francisco.

Side B:
Instead of going to the Ashram right away (which is an oasis truly--in all their correspondence to me they call me "Blessed Heidi") I decided to come to a beach town called Kovalum first to enjoy my last air conditioned room for a while. For much less that Heera had cost, Varmas Beach Resort presented me with a beautiful room with antique wood furniture and a terrace that looked out onto the sea. The fresh breezes abated the humidity. The man at the front desk was friendly and chatty and seemed quite impressed that I was going to the Sivananda ashram. With directions from my cheerful host,I walked around the small town and bought myself a sari and other Indian garb from two local girls. Women scantily clad are asking for trouble (or so I read). This means no more prancing around in my Dolce and Gabbana bikini. Sigh. But I intend to blend in. Sleeves and farmer tan here I come....

On my walk today i ventured up to the lighthouse. The views were impressive from the top but for some reason instead of snapping pictures of the scenery, a few men with fancy cameras at the top insisted on taking photos of me. Moi. It must have been my new attire. Who knew I would have a modeling shoot in southern India? One of the photographers, Heera (no connection to the name of the ghastly hotel I stayed at) was a journalist from New Delhi. He asked me if i was in India for fun or for silence. Silence, I answered without stopping. Australia was fun, Vietnam was eating and thinking, and India...all silence. Hot humid silence. I have come to cease my jumbled rumbling thoughts and conflicting actions so that my true spirit may break free. This may sound cheesy on North American soil, but headed to the ashram it makes perfect sense.

I may not have internet access for a while...but please know that I will be well looked after at the Sivananda ashram. Photos (more than the two I took today) will have to wait. Stay tuned.....

So long Vietnam

2008-04-28T19:00:00.000-07:00

It's my last night in Vietnam. I am not quite ready to leave as I have only sampled a tiny morsel of what this diverse little country offers. I leave for my Indian ashram tomorrow, where I will immerse myself in meditation and a vegan diet. I decided my last meal should be especially meaty. Vietnam was just the place for that! I stuffed myself on ginger beef papaya salad, pork hot pot with cinnamon, mystery meal spring rolls, and a Tiger beer. My most expensive meal cost me $7. I love this place.

As I ate I pondered the strongest memories I have of the country:

1. School children furniture. The Vietnamese like to sit on the side of the street eating in small plastic chairs built for gnomes. An Australian man tried his luck sitting down and got promptly stuck. 'Help I've sat down and i cannot get up."

2. Fish sauce. The aroma lingers in the street. No meal is complete without it. I am reading a book about a Vietnamese refugee and he states how his mother, once in America, had problems cooking the Thanksgiving turkey ("large chicken") the American way. She insisted on basting it in fish sauce.

3. Motorbikes. Everywhere. Honking, racing, littering the streets. Men shout out every 4 minutes trying to sell their services "Motorbike? You? Where you going? I take you. motorbike?" It doesn't mater if it's raining or if you have three over sized suitcases (ahem) ...they still insist on being your transport.

4. Bad dubbing. Think of your favorite movie. Now imagine the voices of ALL the actors being replaced with one single woman. Yes one movies does the voices for everything----Julia Roberts to Jean Claude.

5. Amazingly good, cheap...(insert noun here). Examples would be massages, food, beer, hotels, Cucchi (their fake Gucci), and photocopied lonely planet guides.

I'll miss Vietnam.....

Mutiny on Halong Bay

2008-04-28T18:37:00.000-07:00

Once again I was in my element...cruising along the water with an international motley bunch, sticky with sunscreen and sweat, mesmerized by the exotic landscape before me. Halong is currently competing to be recognized in the list of the top "World Wonders." I can see why--It's hauntingly beautiful. Majestic tall rocks rise out of the salt waters, shrouded in mist, as if from another time.

Our group was eager to sail through the rocks and caverns, kayak and swim on our three day tour. Unfortunately we were met with a bit of bad luck. Our poor tour guide, Nam, explained to us that our boat had been "chosen" to represent some dinky festival at Halong Bay harbour. So while the other ships sailed freely with gleeful tourists, we were to stay docked for the first few hours of our trip, smelling fumes from other (non tourist) boats, and listen to the tinny music coming from shore. Imagining the other tourists on other boats frolicking in the ocean while we stayed tied to shore immobile was too much. Many of us had watched James Bond (dubbed by a single lone Vietnamese voice) and were in powerful spirits. The music coming from shore was truly awful, and we were positive we were the only tourists that had been "captured" and forced to stay in the bay twiddling our thumbs.

Peter, an intimidating muscled dutchman started the complaints and demanded to sail. He towered over little Nam. 'We are not stupid tourists you know. You better call your boss because we won't stand for this."

Then Three Germans demanded free beer...and threatened to steal it if not offered freely.

Two french Canadians, sweet in their accents, yet firm in their position requested reparations immediately.

And I, the American, threatened to write bad reviews of the boat on yelp.com and perhaps even do the American thing and seek legal action for "pain and suffering" compensation. I was bound to get a migraine from the boat exhaust.

Nam claimed to have called the boss. "I am sorry, " he said. "Can you not relax for a few hours?"

We counted the staff--they outnumbered us. But no matter. The Germans headed toward the beer fridge. Peter eyed the captain's chair. Nam frantically called the boss for the fourth time and pleaded our case again.

And what do you know.....an hour later we were among the other boats in the ocean drinking freely offered beer, mesmerized by the silent giant ocean rocks.

Table for One Please

2008-04-24T02:23:00.000-07:00

One thing about Vietnam--it attracts a ton of adventure happy travelers. Solo travelers. Now I am quite used to dining alone, thanks to my consulting training and series of "lonely dinners" while on the road. However, in Hanoi everyone seems to be equally adept at it. I once ate at a restaurant where despite one huge family table, every one was seated alone! There must have been six one-tops! It was amazing. I wanted to get us all together at one long table where we could exchange travel tales and laughs. As the outgoing American this should be my role. But alas I have become shy. And I was in a particularly interesting part of my book.. Creating a dining party was about as likely as Pierce Brosnan coming up to be table and asking to join me. Plus I am finding peace in my "oneness."

Good thing because in Sapa I was not among solo happy travelers but rather older European couples. This was because I broke out of my budget accommodation to splurge on a luxury resort. Am I the only solo adventurer that likes nice linens? Apparently so. I had made polite conversation with the other guests and staff and of course they all asked me where my husband was. I decided to stop answering the usual ("Well, you see I am unlucky in relationships...it all started when I was cursed by this gypsy in Spain..." and give them the ol' 10 year play by play of my romantic history). Instead I decided to just sigh wistfully and lowly murmur 'I'd rather not talk about it' then an expensive glass of wine. With this and my tendency to take long treks through the mud (see post on highland trekking below) I had transformed myself into a woman of mystery. The other guests would point to me eating alone in my dress with a single candle writing (presumably) deep poetry...'Ahh yes that is the lovely young woman I mentioned...something tragic must have happened to her.....and is that a mud stain on her calf?" Well this is what I imagined they were saying anyway. An yesterday's trek WAS tragic.

I have a 12 hour train ride back to Hanoi tonight. I will do my best to remain enigmatic. (perhaps it's time to pull out Sartre...)

Highland Trekking

2008-04-23T22:26:00.000-07:00

I am high up in the northern Vietnamese highlands in a place called Sapa--the Vietnamese alps. It's beautiful with lush green rice paddy terraces and thick mists that languidly curl around the mountain tops. Naturally, because I am here, it's also raining. I expect that monsoon season will come a month early to India as well when I arrive. Sigh.....The rain has given me a cold and a slight eye infection (aren't only school age children supposed to get pink eye)...but no matter...i won't let it get the best of me.

In Sapa the main thing (actually the only thing) there is to do is go trekking. Rain or shine. Pink eye or white. So yesterday I headed out determinedly with gortex boots, a rain slicker, and a flimsy hotel umbrella that clearly shouted "tourist. My guide came to meet me and I almost laughed out loud when I say her. A 3' 8" girl foot dressed in the traditional Black Moum tribal clothes introduced herself. Chi was her name and she was going to be my fearless (small) leader through peril and rain through the highlands. I wasn't sure how this little mini-me could lead me, the towering clumsy giant. But Chi was excellent. She wasn't 12 as I thought but rather 25. She spoke English, a little French, Vietnamese and her own tribal language. Pretty impressive as she had not gone to one day of school in her life. (many tribal children are called upon to stay at home and help with chores as opposed to going to school). She taught herself languages from the tourists. She desperately wanted to go to school now and learn to read and write them all, but she was deemed too old. After listening to her life story, i immediately drafted up a fantasy of opening up a school for the Asian hill people...a school that would be open to all ages and work within their hectic schedules.....yes, I would eradicate illiteracy in southeast Asia and be featured on Oprah. How I am going to fund this venture I have not figured out yet.

As I pondered my school, Chi lead me through the muddy paths through various villages. Before out ascent up the mountain I showed her my eye. She immediately escorted me to a village doctor/school teacher/fabric maker/pig raiser. The "doctor" insisted in sticking her finger in my eye. "Mmmmmm" she mumbled knowingly. She then left and came back with a box full of (presumably ill gotten) medicines. She rifled through it and picked out a likely cure and offered it to me for only 20,000 Don. It was Pepto Bismol. Yeah, I don't think the pink stuff would help the eye, although it may provide relief for overdosing on spring rolls. I asked her if i could see the medicine box myself...Hmm..laxatives, allergy medicine, ahh...I found it..a yellowish bottle of liquid with a picture of an eye. This was what I needed! Chi gestured for me to lie down while she poured the stuff in. The "doctor" held my hands...i didn't understand the restraint procedure until Chi let the liquid hit my eyeball. Searing pain. I was sure she had convinced a neighboring water buffalo to come over and urinate in my eye. I shot up and did a little "pain dance." But after a few moments the pain subsided and my eye felt much better. What do you know, bottled water buffalo pee works!

I was going to need my right eye to help me navigate up the rice terraces in dense fog. For we were not going to walk amid them...but rather IN them. The path we wanted had been washed out by rains so instead we had to scale the rice terraces up. Little Chi had to hold my hands numerous times to keep me from slipping. She was graceful and dainty hopping through the water and mud....but i seemed to slide around it it. The hills were a giant slip n' slide. Rain pounded, thunder echoed, and I started regretting being coaxed by the tourist office to see the "wonders" of the hills. At least I had my gortex boots on. The Vietnamese must laugh at us Americans (or Europeans) who actually PAY MONEY to do this. I had paid $50 to be miserable for 5 hours. I was hiking through rain and mud with zero visibility for what? I guess I could go back to the plush lodge and say 'Yes, i just got back from a trek. Oh no, that rain couldn't keep me down....great workout up these amazing rice cliffs. So what did you do? Stayed indoors by the fire? Oh. I see. Not athletic inspired, eh? Hmmmm...well adventure isn't for everyone. (flex muscles)" Even though all I could think of during the 5 hour misery trek was indeed sitting by the fire drinking a glass of bordeaux laughing at the tourists who were stupid enough to hike. The fire image was particularly appealing when Chi told me we were going to have to fjord a river. Fjord a mid thigh-high river. She, naturally, pranced around on rocks and made it to the other side safely. I, naturally, slipped on the first rock and immersed my self in brown water. My gortex boots were acting AGAINST me as now they were keeping the water IN! Sigh.

I know now why the French and the Americans lost their battles here.....Vietnam terrain is no match for western trekkers. At least not this one. Incidentally they call the "Vietnam" war here the "American War," Obvious...yet also makes you think more a bit about what happened.

After my trek was over Chi and the driver drove me back to my trusty lodge. No one recognized me. I resembled a red-eyed mud troll. But after I showered I went straight to the fire, hoping to find willing listeners to my trekking tale and impress upon them how wonderful the highlands outdoors are.

Ahoy Hanoi...or Finally I'm in Vietnam

2008-04-21T02:11:00.000-07:00

I made it! One pit stop in Singapore and now here I am in bustling Hanoi.

Five tell tale signs I am in Southeast Asia

1. I have risked my life just crossing the street. Numerous times. Traffic here is a nightmare. There are no stop signs, no street lights, no rules, just mass chaos. Crossing the street is like playing a game of chicken against whizzing scooters, cars, bicycles, and street vendors. No one stops. Ever!I am terrible at this game. My first attempt had me waiting at the curb patiently waiting for someone to notice the lonely lovely pedestrian and stop (or at least slow down) for her to cross. I waited for 20 minutes looking like an idiot with unsurprisingly little luck. My second attempt, a bit braver than the first, consisted of me crossing the street in multiple spurts to dodge mopeds. But alas, pausing in the middle of the road is stupid (Deer in headlights syndrome-and I get yelled at) so now I have a new technique. I say a quick prayer, close my eyes and sprint across the road as fast as I can, hoping traffic will doge me. They are doing a decent job. However, I made a will just in case a speeding cart of poultry gets the better of me.

2. I have become a massage whore. (no, no-not as a profession but rather as an addict). For less than the price of my breakfast in Australia I can receive a 60 minute head to toe rub down. The first time was a bit startling as the woman insisted I undress while she stood watching me smiling (and no, I didn't go to one of THOSE places...) but even with the voyeurism to my Caucasian nakedness the massages here are solid, a blend of Thai, Swedish, and Reflexology, and (thankfully) all reputable. I guess the government did a major crack down of the prostitution ones offering "happy ending liquid explosions" a few years ago. They are safe. They are $8. And I think I am going to get one every day. Ahhhhh......

3. I have eaten 10 cent street food. I also had no idea what exactly I purchased. It was yellow. It was tasty (like er...chicken). But I suppose it wouldn't really be the true southeast asia street food experience unless I managed to get a little curse from one of my little treats and spend some time admiring the southeast asian plumbing system. Sigh. Fresh spring rolls only for dinner tonight.

4. I have bartered for clothing. Although pretty unsuccessfully. This used top be my niche. Guatemala, Thailand, China....you name it I could barter down even a sick old woman to the last dime. I was ruthless. Well, no longer. Women are using a secret weapon against me. Their children. How on earth can I try to barter down a dollar when and adorable child is staring at me. Sometimes they even tug my clothes and say hello. Their meals, schoolbooks, college tuition flash before my eyes. Before you know it I start offering the woman more than she originally asked for. I am putty in their hands. Pathetic.

5. I have gotten lost. Hanoi has a unique street system. The streets change name every few blocks or so. This makes a fun challenge when trying to navigate. It rather dictates that you look like a tourist while walking with a huge Vietnamese map in front of your face trying to figure out what part of the road you are on. Many street names also start with the word "Pho." This does not mean the soup. (I actually thought it did when i first arrived---wow--every street has soup!). Motorbikes are around plenty to offer lifts but I generally refuse them as I stubbornly try to navigate my own way....even if it takes three hours to go half a mile. Its highly humid out so I imagine my stubbornness will start to falter after a while.

The city hosts delights a plenty but I am eager to leave and get up to the highlands on night train tonight...I have 4 days in Sapa and then a three day boat tour of the majestic Halong Bay. But now, since I did make it to Vietnam, I must roll the credits and offer thanks where gratitude is due. People, especially Australians, are nicer than I ever imagined. I have renewed faith in the human race.

The credits--

Troy, a random Australian that I met while enjoying my "real last last" meal in Perth. He insisted on saving me another cab fare and driving me to the airport after hearing my story how I had been there twice already but unable to leave. Although I did keep my pocket knife close to me during the drive (haha--if he tried to chop me up on little pieces I'd chop him first!), he had no ulterior motives and was quite enjoyable company.

Clinton from Asia World travel. Sadly the flight my Vietnamese Visa was on was delayed by three hours...meaning that it arrived 10 minutes after my flight to Vietnam took off. Clinton, the manager of the tour operator handed me my visa at 1.05am. The next flight wouldn't be for another 24 hours. However, he was kind enough to let me crash in his family's spare room, drive me to the airport in the early morning, and book me a hotel in Singapore as he insisted a night there would be better than hanging out on Perth all day.

Singapore Airlines. Even though my ticket had restrictions that prevented any changes, they changed my flight for me three times without charge. Including the last minute whim to hang out in Singapore. Note to self....looking pathetic and frantic in the midst of travel chaos helps.

Travel Glitches

2008-04-18T01:44:00.000-07:00

I had done everything perfectly. Met my friend Larry for dinner for my last Australian meal of Emu, Kangaroo, and Croc, packed my bags expertly, used up my last Aussie dollar on cab fare, and arrived at the Perth airport with my visa laden passport exactly 2 hours before my departure to Vietnam. I would have patted myself on the back for how travel savvy I was if it weren't for the huge (travel savvy) pack on my shoulders.

And then, right in the peak of my smug travel savvy euphoria, is when the glitches started.

To get to Hanoi I had to connect in Singapore. Apparently the airlines had changed my flight to have my Singapore-Hanoi leg depart (10am) BEFORE I arrived in Singapore from Perth (noon). Obviously this was one connection I was not going to make. Yes, even I, (travel extraordinaire), wasn't that good. Singapore airlines pondered their mistake and asked me "Didn't the airlines send you a notice with the flight change?"

Hmmm...come to think of it I did vaguely remember being sent some email from the airlines a few weeks ago. Hmmm...was I supposed to pay attention to that? Crap, I thought I had glanced approvingly over all the line item details. I looked at her sheepishly and tried to defend myself-After all, who could possibly catch the mistake in three pages of round the world flights and connections and times?? I felt like and idiot for not noticing the error sooner.

Sigh. But the problems didn’t end there. "Umm...Miss, we can change your flight to the night one but your Vietnamese visa isn't valid until May 18th."

What?! I stared at the smiling pink slip in horror. Today, the day I needed to be in Vietnam, is April 18th...but the stark black ink in my Visa clearly said May 18th. Oh God, the Vietnamese consulate had got the month wrong, or I had written it wrong or someone was playing an evil joke. I know I had 4 visas for 4 different countries to monitor but why oh why didn't I double check every date on every one?

I don't deserve to live. I don’t deserve to be on this trip. I will never ever claim the travel savvies EVER again.

"They are very strict--they won't let you in to the country with this."

Singapore airlines could change my flight to a 1am departure, but I had to change my Visa in order to board the plane. I had exactly 16 hours until the next flight. I did ponder just going home, throwing up my arms and vowing to never travel again, but I had one last minute chance. Apparently my tear laden eyes encouraged the lovely Australians to help me. That or my American Express card. Someone from Asia World Travel could obtain a Visa for me from Canberra (middle of Oz where the Vietnamese consulate is), fly it over, and hand it to me in the international terminal at 11pm--2 hours before my scheduled flight. Risky--but my only hope. I ran out of the airport.....

Luggage storage: $12
Return taxis to/from airport: $64
Passport Photo: $8
Expedited Visa fee: $200
Flight from Canberra: $250
Vietnamese meal in Australia while I wait:$15 (equivalent cost in Vietnam-50 cents)
Feeling of elation when this whole thing is over and done with and I rest with my 50 cent meal in a Hanoi Cafe while nursing my wounds from banging my head into the wall: Priceless.

Let's just hope there are no delays and Clinton (the courier bringing me my new visa) will find me in the international terminal. He does have a passport photo of me to reference...but c'mon we all know those things do not resemble us in the slightest. Per usual I am the cross eyed deer stuck in headlights.....I'll try to mimic that look in the airport tonight to aid him.

And as for my own traveller IQ--obviously I learnt a costly lesson. And as Larry pointed out to me last night, women may not be any more travel savvy then men anyway. (There goes my feminist theory and dissertation material). He is travelling for FIVE months and it's HIS girlfriend that will come to meet HIM for a segment. Plus, I am 110% positive he checked all his Visa dates.

Sigh.

Green Money and Red Earth

2008-04-16T02:00:00.000-07:00

I remember I had clearly postdated my IRS check to April 15th. However, those slimy bastards (sorry, but my parents told me to only resort to cursing if it was absolutely necessary to convey a point) deposited my check BEFORE the date on the 2nd. My bank account had been running a deficit until today (thank god) when my last paycheck finally arrived.

Running out of money is a traveler's worst nightmare. Skimping is challenging. How can one say no to $70 wine tours and $40 boat cruises or most importantly to "spontaneous eating." (" I know we just ate but this cafe says it has the best pies in the region....we really should taste the local bests because, really, when will we be here again?").

I am a bleeding wallet.

But enough of my tendency to support the tourism industry. I am in Margaret River, Western Oz, the red earth. Here on the west coast the soil is alive. Rusty orange vibrates under the sun's power. The red is everywhere-even the paved driveways have a reddish hue. The man-made and the natural become one...

But this week's thunderstorms are transforming the dry oven into a jacuzzi on full blast. Yes, the rain has found me even in the driest of places (would you believe they were in a drought before I arrived? Call me the rain goddess). I have read a full novel while the rain thunders down on the lodge's tin roof, unrelenting in its attack. But I cannot stay indoors all day. Determined to be wet, I still surfed bit with the locals. And then ventured out yesterday on a semi-dry activity--wine tasting (haha). Margaret River has some of the most prized wines in the country.

On the tour, I did my best to not be one of those snobby Napa winos and say in a high pitched voice, 'Hmmm....this Shiraz is a bit pale compared to the 'plum laced with dark chocolate and cigar' notes i am used to." Or" this wine is simply divine--it must have been in French oak...for you know i can't stand the American kind..."

No, no...I just drank and enjoyed. The Shiraz actually was quite good. I would have bought a case of it had I not had three more countries to hit. And yes yes, I could have forked over a small fortune for shipping, but money seems tight given all these unforeseen adventures coming my way.

The wine group i went with comprised of six nationalities. American (that's me!).\, Australian (duh), Kiwi, Irish (they are everywhere), Dutch, and Italian. The crazy yet lovable Italians invited the entire group back to their place for a BBQ. We spent the evening eating, drinking (again), and discussing driving on the left and the new marketing campaign for Australia's Champagne-Cockatoo. A female celebrity says, coyly (and somewhat rushed) "I'd sure like a Cocka(r)too." Apparently she didn't realize the blunder while taping and now she is humiliated. If she were in America she could plead stupidity and sue for being tricked into saying such a foul (yet highly amusing) line.

We had a few laughs over quite a few dumb jokes...I am realizing that each day presents a new series of best friends and cheap humour.

Tomorrow I head back to Perth to meet another friend....one from...wait...San Francisco! Larry is in Perth for an International swimming competition. Same city. Same time as me. How random these things are. After many days of reading I am quite ready to talk his ears off. I better warn him. I have millions of tales of the land of Oz. He can always pawn me off to another poor swimmer. Perhaps a butterfly champion. And last night's group would like to know if anyone still

competes in the side stroke.

The Characters We Meet

2008-04-12T01:45:00.000-07:00

Perth fits my US description of a west coast city. Relaxed, warm and full of people who love beer, wine and the ocean. I thought I was relaxed on my cruise in the Whit Sundays but this city has me even lazier. I feel like a Golden Retriever.

So now that I am happily calm (from the warm sun and exhaustion. A few hours of biking Perth's nearby Rottnest island left my legs as jello.) I will take some time out of adventure writing to mention a few of the unique individuals I have met.

The Byron Group
Australia is full of familiar faces.....no, not because I happen to know everyone here but rather because travelers seem to keep running into one another. In Byron Bay I had a solid group. We entertained each other with tall tales and odd dance moves. A dutch PhD student, a military enthusiast, a Canadian Human Rights scholar, and a sweet English girl. The unlikely duo-the PhD and the military man- teamed up to hitch hike up the coast together (apparently they were picked up by 'hot' women drivers). The Canadian found me in Noosa, where we picked up our conversation (solving world hunger, naturally) right where we left off. We cursed the rain and drank our favorite beer on the porch. I left the Canadian only to meet up with the PhD again aboard Power Play! It is so wonderful to run into "old friends" who know you! Mr PhD had been well briefed on my tendency to over analyze and let the "what ifs" and "should haves" invade my dreams. He came aboard Powerplay equipped with a new strategy for me. 'Heidi, you see those puffy little clouds? Those are your thoughts. See them, but also let them drift away." Amazingly it worked! All I really thought of during my sail trip was...well the ocean......and when the next meal would be served. Diving makes you hungry!

The New Ones

And as good as it was to have old friends, there were new friends to be discovered as well. Two women (English and Canadian) became the 3 day BFFs aboard Powerplay. They had both left their understanding boyfriends at home to travel the world solo. Why is it that women seem to be much more adventurous than men? No offense to the rare few men in my readership that are travel enthusiasts (Yes Paul I know you are in Tajikistan at the moment) but I have found that men either travel in packs of other men (and spend half their time drunk), or must be prodded by their spouse to leave the comforts of their home beer and sports matches. Women, on the other hand, just pick up a backpack quite happily and fly away solo across the world.....I love my fellow women travelers! We all share like pasts and futures and instantly understand one another....

Another friend I made was a quirky English pilot/writer. He brought his notebook with him to every beach and all sides of the ship, outdoing me in writing nerdiness. He engaged us all with that impossible sense of English humour. Was he being rude or just funny? I still do not know....

The extraneous surfers

Naturally Australia is full of 'em. I have met pros and newbies...all with their own tales of how they got into the sport.

Jimmy had a cockney accent so thick I had to have him repeat his story four times. (Many English accents sound like pig latin...vaguely familiar yet totally non understandable). He realized his trade (carpentry) was needed all over the world so is not using it as a means to support his international surf habits.

Nick in a Perth native. When he asked me if I surfed I said "Of course. I am from California (no ones needs to know I just picked up the sport 6 months ago and still look like a sick sea turtle most of the time.) I asked him if he did. His reply "I'm from Western Australia. Of course." He was competing in the Marget River Competition. When he's not surfing, Nick is a welder.

Do any surfers have white collar jobs? I have yet to meet an investment banker or history professor out here......

I am off to Margaret River in one hour. Home of wine and the biggest waves in Australia, it's San Francisco's near cousin. It will be my last taste of "west coast" before I head for the very different culture of Vietnam.

Whit Sunday Diving Woo Hoo

2008-04-12T00:13:00.000-07:00

Two of the impossible happened. One-I went three days without internet access and after one mild panic attack, felt wonderful. Two-After a week of torrential downpour, I managed to get sunburned. Thank God for the WhitSunday islands......

After I left Noosa (lovely beach town north of Brisbane) I headed further along the coastline seeking sun. I reacquainted myself with the bright orange bulb in the sky in the picture perfect Whit Sunday islands. I had booked my boat, "Powerplay," months in advance. Even though the thought of going 30 meters under water terrified me, I booked a dive boat in hopes that the other passengers would be more hungry for adventure than for drunkenly pole dancing the mast to Brittany Spears. (not that there is anything wrong with pole dancing...in the privacy of your own home....or ahem....Tahoe cabins with friends...but I didn't want to be with wasted strangers f for three days trapped in a boat with a tiny toilet that doubles as a shower and shared beds).

I was not to be disappointed. Upon boarding the boat Paula, the skipper, gave us a long lecture. 'This is NOT a party boat. We get up at 6am, right before sunrise, and bed down after dinner. You'll have a great time if you follow the rules...and trust me you'll be so exhausted from the multiple excursions during the day that come 10pm you won't have any party in ya anyway."

Alcohol of any sort was forbidden until dusk (when a a few oil cans did emerge). And if we failed to follow any of the scuba/ snorkel procedures we would be punished with a teaspoon of Vegemite in the mouth (seriously).

But the rules were worth it. The boat was filled with liked minded adventure seekers and we were so excited about the upcoming cruise through the sunshine that we would do anything the crew told us to. (which, actually we did. Many of us were exploited for "Powerplay" marketing photos..yes the photo with us on Whitehaven beach forming a "PP"....all to avoid Vegemite).

At first I was going to stick to snorkeling where I could safely see the sea life from oh a safe 2 inches from the water's surface. But then I heard all the stories from the cool "certified" divers. Apparently the "down under" of the Down Under was much better than above! Perhaps I could give the ol' Jacques Cousteau routine a try. We were in the Great Barrier after all. And sure enough I soon found myself in a wetsuit with my own weight in oxygen strapped to my back. Naturally, death thoughts filled my brain. I was going to get lost, lose the group and get found by a flesh eating manta ray. My regulator would become plugged with jellyfish. I would over inflate my vest and float away to Indonesia. Or a shark would mistake my red toenail polish for bloody niblets.

But once I made the dive (down under) I discovered such a beautiful new world (brave new world) that all thoughts of death slipped away. Did you know that there is a type of fish that mates for life? (you can see them swimming in pairs). Or that manta rays are actually afraid of us and swim away? Or that most coral is soft to the touch? Or that some coral, life fire coral, really shouldn't be touched and will leave you with a distinct burning sensation for 35 minutes? Sigh. I saw so many creatures including sea turtles, giant clams, and even little Nemo (aka clown fish) that I was addicted. Ladies and gentlemen, we have another yuppy sport to add to the collection.

Lessons From the Road

2008-04-06T23:11:00.000-07:00

Greetings from Noosa! Yes, yes I know I intended to stay in Byron Bay a bit longer but the didgeridoos kept me up at night and I felt I needed a more "yuppy" surf town (no, it's not an oxy moron). I am on a path to self discovery afterall....and I discovered that, well, I prefer Pucci to patchouli.

However I did meet some fabulous people (some hippies, some yuppies in hiding) and thought I would share some wisdom from the road.

#1 "Are you a traveler or a tourist? Tourists see more places, take more photos, but rarely experience much and make few friends." ---from Duncan (a hippy living in the hostel for over a year. He asked me to have his love child. I turned down the offer).

So okay I have actually not taken ONE photo since I arrived. But it has nothing to do with trying to be a "traveler." There have been terrible storms up the east coast of Australia and I don't want to be reminded that I was wearing a rain jacket when my intentions were tanning. I HAVE made some friends though and realized that my most fun days were spent staying in one place having those long philosophical conversations over beer, trying, as usual, to solve the world's problems.

#2 "If you commit to a wave, you commit to it 110%. There is no hesitation, no second guessing, because if you do not give it your all, you'll get destroyed out here."---Wapoo(supposedly one of the best surfers in Byron..).

This quote happened one stormy day when I had given up on the ocean. The winds were howling, the waves were churning, and I was convinced I was going to drown. Wapoo saw me on the beach looking like a wet cat. "What's this...giving up are ya" "I just can't.....I'm a wet cat!" "Hmm.....want me to head out there with ya?" I discovered some strength in my now spaghetti arms and nodded. Despite the downpour, we paddled out in the storm, diving under waves, rolling under waves, and paddling like our lives depended on it. Every dive I got was rewarded with Wapoo's "good girl!" I felt pathetic needing such support, but did realize that we WERE the only surfers out there, too stupid to stay in and drink hot tea. Once we made it out behind the breaks, Wapoo told me I pretty much had one shot to get back to the beach. His advice saved me. I was very determined to make it. There was no hesitation. I got a 5 footer hanging a right......If only I could apply this determination to other facets of my life.....no second guessing.....

"Why spend $20 in a restaurant with stuffy people when you can buy a sandwich for $5 and eat it on the beach?"--Jasper, Dutch traveler preparing to enter the military.

Good point.......why waste money in a restaurant? Especially because (no offense) Australian food, at least in Byron, leaves a lot to be desired. I do not think I have seen a vegetable in 5 days. Even if I order them. The Aussies have tricked themselves into thinking POTATOES are vegetables. So any vegetable order will likely be either potatoes or some unidentifiable object with ketchup (here called "Tomato." Again another ploy to convince themselves they are eating vegetables instead of a starch derivative). I luckily have brought packets of "Energy-C" and other vitamins to prevent me from getting scurvy. Scurvy. It's a viable concern.

So those a a few gems from some of the many TRAVELERS (not tourists!) that I have met along my journey. Some have braved my international accent and become my friend, others have merely been a passing flicker in my life. Here's hoping it continues.......friends and flickers....

Surfing My Saviour

2008-04-03T15:43:00.000-07:00

Yesterday morning I couldn't shake the feeling that I had made a huge mistake. Unlike most people that came to Byron, I was NOT here to play hackey sack, hook up with a hippy lover, party til dawn, or go to Nimbin to smoke myself silly on weed. I was older than most, many here just on their first international adventure. Even though most took me for 25 (thank God for sunscreen) I sure didn't feel it. This whole 'adventure' seemed a mistake. I'm too grown up. A relationship aborted, a down payment on a house gone, and exciting career opportunities stalled. (plus I would be missing SF's 'Bay to Breakers' race!). What the hell was I doing?

Then I got on the surf bus. Sean, the guide, decided that Byron beaches were too crowded and so he took us to a secluded spot about 15 minutes away. We had the entire beach to ourselves! Perfect glassy 3-4 foot rolling waves....

I paddled out determined, and amazingly caught the first wave I attempted. I felt the rush of the drop down, the the thrill of the perfect left, and the euphoria of being able to do this once again.

Salty hair flying, I looked around at the vast sea and remembered why I was here. To learn from the ocean, live in the present, and feel nothing but my board underneath me and the rising waves that pushed me forward.

Regrets and mistakes melted into the racing waters.

This will be my new identity. My reason to go to bed early and wake up with the sun. My inspiration to write every day...nothing more that the feelings of that day itself. Perhaps I seem a bit standoffish (or plain boring) to the Byron population, but once I explain, they tip their hat (or beanie, or dreds..) in respect. Even my party crazed dorm mates.

The 30 year old in a hostel

2008-04-02T16:21:00.000-07:00

I have only been in a hostel once before...in Spain 11 years ago. I remember it as an exciting experience to be with all those travel savvy Euros and oversized backpacks. I didn't worry about laving things unattended in the room, the communal bathrooms, or the inevitable late nights.

Fast forward to now.

After having a few beers with new friends last night, I crawled into my top bunk at 11pm and prayed my jet lagged body would fall into a coma and not wake up as the other five girls entered, presumably much later. Unfortunately I am a light sleeper.

The girls staggered in one by one at various times. However their entry wasn't offensive--it was the noises that happened later. For example the girl below me I named 'Whooping Cough" because some severe aggravation of her throat caused her to hack loudly every 5 minutes. The beautiful Swede parallel to me had a non beautiful habit. She snored. Loudly. The girl to my left had to get up twice to run to the bathroom, likely vomiting up whatever beverage was on special that night. I think someone else had sleep apnia. But it gets worse. Someone started crying. Yes, Whooping Cough's coughs turned into whooping sobs. Apparently she was going through a painful breakup. Yes yes, they are hard but couldn't she be a normal person and cry in the shower? AND THEN Whooping cough had a visitor. Her friend came in whispering and hand holding the weepy Whooping Cough. They started to have a romantic consultation at 2 am right below me! This was a bit too much....the whole room didn't need to hear the gory details of how she was wronged...of course if she wanted to publish her pain , oh, say on a blog on the world wide web, that was totally acceptable. ; )

But the worst wasn't over. After the friend left and people started to fall into slumbers a beep could be heard. Someone's phone battery was dying. The annoying 'reminder' beep went off every 4 minutes like clockwork. The worst wasn't hearing it, but rather anticipating it. I lay motionless staring at the ceiling anticipating each one. Why doesn't someone turn their darn phone off! I bet it was Whooping Cough's. It sounded just like my phone and if this was the case this beeping could go on for hours.

Wait....was this my phone? Beep. Everyone stirred in their cots. Beep.

Crap. My mind whirled. I DID briefly turn on my phone mid day to get a phone number. Was it possible I didn't turn it off again? Beep. Oh no!

I sat upright in bed and let my ears follow the beep. Hmmm....it did seem to be coming from my locker (heavily padlocked of course). Crap. What to do? I prayed everyone else was sleeping through it. Beep.

Okay I had to take care of this. I climbed down the ladder to the floor and stealthily made my way across the room tiptoeing noiselessly. Noiselessly until a huge "ACCCK" escaped my mouth. I had tripped over the Swede's large suitcase strategically positioned in the middle of the room. She must have done that to alert us to any intruders that would break into a hippy commune.

I ignored the pain from my stubbed toe and went over to my locker. Crap again. Why didn't I bring a flashlight with me? There was no way I could make out any of the numbers on the dial on my super strength padlock. It was too dark. A mocking Beep came from inside. I had two choices. I could turn on the lights, wake everyone up, get into my locker to turn off the offending phone but also alert everyone as to who the owner was. OR I could sneak back to bed, pretend the noise was harmonious, and pray it stopped soon. I choose the latter. 20 minutes later it stopped and i fell asleep. I woke up a few hours later to the Art Factory birds heckling outside.

When hearing comments this morning about some strange beep I played dumb? Really? A beep? You don't say. Hmm...I must have been knocked out completely. Didn't hear a thing last night.

Arrival

2008-04-01T19:40:00.000-07:00

I have arrived at the Arts Factory Lodge in Byron Bay. A colorful community with dorms, tents, pools, open air pool tables and a plethora social activities. For $10AUD you can take a didgeridoo lesson, a yoga class, or learn creative massage technique. People sit around in their tie dye and philosophize. Right now I am a bit overwheImed but give me a few days....I plan on unleashing my inner hippy. (hmmm....is there a gucci version of birkenstocks, I wonder?)

On the bus ride here from the Brisbane airport, I met a nice English girl. She is here to take a yoga trainer course. We talked a bit about travel, boys, the 'crow' yoga pose and everything girls do when they first meet each other on an adventure. I think I may have used my famous "international accent" when talking to her ("where are you from again?") but she seemed forgiving enough and wants to meet for dinner tonight. If I can make friends unwashed, sleep deprived, and with a bad accent I should have no problem the rest of the trip....

I already feel a new person, washed clean of the regrets and sadness that weighed me down prior to my departure. During the long plane ride here the haunting echos of the last phone conversation with my ex boyfriend slowly dissipated. We broke up a few days ago...because of my trip..or perhaps not because of my trip....and I seemed to need lots of "last goodbyes." In person, email, phone...sigh...pathetic. We had a strong connection that I will miss deeply..he was very inspirational in my life...but decided that there is no point in holding on to something or someone who has made it very clear that they do not want to be held onto. During our last phone conversation I heard 30 variations of why I wasn't worth it.....deflating.....yet after the initial hurt, strangely cleansing. I certainly don't want my feelings to burden someone else.

Soooooo here I am in a hippy commune feeling raw and naked in a sea of bad clothing and medicinal herbs....oh dear lord. Maybe I'll take a didgeridoo lesson. I guess anything is possible....I am claiming the open road and new possibilities. It's a suprisingly comfortable idea (the road, not the didgeridoo).

And surfing starts tomorrow...bring on the waves.

The Journey Explained

2008-03-30T22:19:00.000-07:00

Three months
Four countries
And one blog........

I'm off ladies and gentlemen! ....To embark upon the adventure I have been talking people's ears off for months. For those that don't have the story memorized (likely few as I have been talking non stop), I planned this trip over 6 months ago in an impulsive desire to become an international bohemian (well, a yuppy version at least...a yuphemian). I had just turned 30 and quit my job and wanted to see a bit more of the world before becoming responsible, settling down, and committing to those sky high property prices in San Francisco. I want to test my body in all domains.... my ability to appease the ocean as I tossed under the waves surfing, my mental strength in meditation and near starvation in an Ashram, and my thigh's power in mountain climbing up to 20,000 feet in an wild African land.

For those that want to follow along at home, the itinerary is:

April 2-18 Australia

Byron Bay (surf)
WhitSundays (sail and dive)
Perth and Margaret river (surf)

April 18-29 Vietnam

Hanoi
Sapa highlands
TBD

April 30-May 28 India

Kerela (ashram)
TBD (debating Goa or the Taj land)

May 30-June 18 Tanzania

Zanzibar
Mt Kili
Safari

June 18-26 Montana (hey--it's exotic too!! They have buffalo and rockchucks! And my cousin is getting married!)

Although excited my emotions are quite mixed. I'm quite sad for all I am leaving behind. I question the purpose for my trip (do I really need to go 10,000 miles away to find myself?). I am also nervous for some of the challenges I will undoubtedly face.

Nervous of being the old den mother in the Australian surf camp that holds the college girl's hair as they puke up their party spootie. Nervous of the reputed stench of the unbathed in my 110 degree ashram (why am I going to the hottest party of India in the hottest time of year again??) Nervous of sitting still. ('still quiet' is a Heidi's personal hell). Nervous that even my unfashionable hard core hiking boots won't make it to the top of Mt Kilimenjaro. My legs will have atrophied after the ashram. In addition, Monica told me the story of the altitude sick who hallucinated German people...this will be me...I will hallucinate Germans and repeat the 7 words I know in German for sausage over and over...(bratwurst, weisswurst, knockwurst....)

But this sounds like complaining. We all know it will still be an adventure of a lifetime. So stay tuned...I'll publish as often as the internet cafes allow!

Your faithful reporter....

Heidi