Evil eyes

A pre-Christmas paper extravaganza happened last night. In my apartment. All of the baubles and trinkets and gadgets that I’ve been accumulating for weeks and piling on my dining room table finally pushed me into action.

I pulled the box o’ gift-wrapping gear out from under my bed. I tugged the bed aside to get at that “hard to reach and when did I buy extra Christmas paper” pack I discovered a week or so ago. I pulled down my box of craft supplies and I pulled down my box of desk supplies.

Trivets and t-shirts, cameras and books. En masse, they loomed imposingly but I gathered my wits and I gathered my strength. With ribbon and tape and scissors in scissors in hand, I set to settling that teetering mound of holiday gifts. I attacked with a vengeance, wrapping quickly, neatly, efficiently, prepared by years in a jewelry store and meeting the last-minute, “I forgot to buy my [wife/mother/mistress] a gift, so I’m going to give you a hell of a lot of money to give me something and make it look pretty” rush.

Even those ends and pieces, those random bits of paper from holidays past, found their way to utility wrapping necklaces, earrings, notebooks. Listening to Home for the Holidays and watching the mound diminish, I felt good. Proud, almost, of my achievement, my industriousness, my lack of sitting idly on the couch, drinking a glass of wine and ignoring the impending gift-giving occasion. And then it happened.

With a little flip to tuck and tape, I rammed a box directly into the stack of goods and an ashtray went flying, shattering on the hard ceramic tile.

I stopped for a second, dumbstruck, as it were, before leaning over to pick up the pieces.

Ouch.

I sliced through the tender skin on my middle finger, the one on my right hand, the one with feeling. I stuck the finger in my mouth and awkwardly palmed the shards in my left hand, heading for the trashcan. In the bathroom, I paused again, exhaled slowly and tossed the pieces. Back at the table, I sat down and tried to figure out a solution, an ending, something.

I bought the ashtray in Turkey, a gift for my ex. I saw him two nights before I left. As he hugged me good night, I asked if he wanted anything from my trip.

"Only your safe return," he replied. As if he has the right to say things like that. Tipsy and tormented, I text-messaged him on the way home to say that seeing him broke my heart, to which he wisely did not respond. Nevertheless, I thought of him over the next couple of weeks, throughout the trip, and I picked up an ashtray from a street vendor on my last morning in Istanbul. A blue eye ashtray. A talisman to protect him from evil eyes (including mine).

Wrapped in bubbles and tucked between layers of clothes, it made it back safely to the States. I added it to the pile of gifts. I considered carrying it so that I could drop in and drop it off, play down the importance, make a joke of it, but I left it on the table, staring right back at me with that big blue eye.

And then it was gone. Shattered. Scattered across the floor and shearing my fingertips.

I googled the evil eye. I thought about a replacement, but it wouldn't have the significance. I couldn't give a superglued gift. I couldn't give something I hadn't carried. It wasn't about the gift; it was about the story. And then it was gone. Shattered.

Some things just can't be fixed.


Tag: Evil eye Christmas Gifts Relationships Broken

Touristas

I am never going anywhere ever again. Ever. Anywhere. I swear. Then, again, I do have New Year’s in New York. And Jazz Fest in New Orleans. And I’m pretty sure that I’m going to Europe somewhere in between but other than that, I am definitely not going anywhere ever again. Especially not some cool, exotic location with a couple of cool exotic friends. Not after seeing Touristas.

Walking out of the theater, I giggled nervously.

“I’m sorry,” I apologized. “I’m just a little giddy.”

“Not from that movie, right?”

“Definitely from that movie. I’ve got an adrenaline rush.” I laughed absurdly. “Sorry. I can’t help it.”

I couldn’t calm my nerves. Walking from AMC Loews Georgetown to the Foggy Bottom Metro station in a pair of knee-high, high-heeled boots took the attention from my fluttering heart to my pounding feet, which was a bit of a blessing because I think I was well on my way to giggling myself into a heart attack.

I react the same way to roller coasters.

The movie scared me in a proper horror flick kind of way, as only horror flicks can do. The gorier the flick, the greater the palpitations. See: Ghost Ship.

Touristas offered all the blood and gore of Wrong Turn, that movie with Eliza Dushku, the girl from Bring it On and Soul Survivors and Buffy. One of the extra slayers. (Yes, I know way too much about her, and yes, I was a fan of Tru Calling. I can’t believe it ended just as it was getting good. Jason Priestly. Come on.)

Anyway, Touristas offered all the gore of a good horror flick set in the hills of Appalachia with "cannibalistic mountain men grossly disfigured through generations of in-breeding." (I couldn’t make this up if I tried.) About seven minutes into both flicks, I could have said who was going to die if, you know, anyone were going to die and I’m not saying that anyone did. You know, die, that is. In either one.

Then, again, Kayla did spend half the movie with her coat in front of her face. I cowered in my cowl neck and said “Ugh” more than once, followed by “oh... that’s gonna leave a mark.” The stereo surround sounds upped the squeam factor, making me drop the excess sweater neck and watch – it couldn’t appear as bad as it sounded.

It was more than the gore, however. The flick was gratuitously bloody with self-righteous indignation and fabulously beautiful people strutting about in bikinis and rippling abs. It had a bit of plot. The self-righteous indignation wasn’t completely without merit and the pretty, pretty people weren’t so obscenely perfect as to make me want to see them die if anyone were going to die and I’m not saying that anyone did. You know, die, that is.

Of course, I did try to imagine myself in the cast – my mom sending my brother on a trip with me and unsuspecting/equally gullible friend. The Brokekid would talk his way out of the situation, offering me up as chattel and maybe setting up a website for the would-be assailants. I’m just saying…

Some of it, though, I could imagine. The movie reminded me of the risks I take when traveling. I don’t always tell people where I’m going and half the time my family doesn’t even know if I’m in the country or not or where I’m supposed to be. If I’m supposed to be anywhere.

I trust people when I travel. I make friends – in hostels, on buses, in bars. I could see myself getting drunk and rolled by a bunch of strangers in a country where I don’t speak the language. I have seen myself getting drunk in a country where I don’t speak the language, the rolling bit isn’t that much of a stretch.

Granted, the movie went it a little far. It was a horror flick. That’s what it’s supposed to do. Find a line and push beyond it. It freaked me out by playing on real fears and bad habits, and it made me giggle. A lot.


Tag: Touristas Horror Movies

Bobby

When a friend asked if I wanted to see Bobby, I said, "Sure." I didn't know much about the film but I thought I remembered seeing some positive reviews, enough hype that I'd even pay for the flick, which doesn't happen all that much these days.

When my sister called and said that Lindsey Lohan was in the movie, I reconsidered. When I realized that it was both written and directed by Emilio Estevez, I seriously thought about calling in sick, but I don't cancel.

"I should have done a little more research," I thought. "My bad. I'll suffer through it."

Strangely enough, I liked it. I really liked it. Ashton Kutcher, Lindsey Lohan, that kid from Dawson's Creek and all. It was a good movie. Focusing more on the lives of the people affected by the shooting of Robert F. Kennedy than the life of the presidential hopeful himself, the film offered insight into more than the political climate of 1968.

With an ensemble cast, the movie delved into some of the predominant issues of the time - war, drugs, race - as well as touching on the idealism that accompanied RFK's campaign. The stories were compelling, the characters strong, the writing clear.

Unfortunately, though, it was just writing. Imaginary. Make-believe. The accounts were fictionalized and while they gave context to the assassination, it wasn't real. And that was disappointing.

I didn't know much about Bobby going into the movie, the younger Kennedy, the great hope. I knew that he served as Senator and held aspirations to the Presidency. Our stadium bears his moniker. His Hyannisport home. Ethel. The kids. Sirhan Sirhan shot him in a hotel kitchen in 1968. Honestly, that's about all I knew about him. Not much. I didn't even know that others were shot in the attack.

I didn't know that NFL player Rosey Grier, Kennedy's close friend/bodyguard, and Olympic gold medalist Rafer Johnson subdued Sirhan. I didn't know anything about the other victims: Jesse Unruh, Paul Shrade, William Weisel, Ira Goldstein, Elizabeth Evans, and Irwin Stroll.

Each one of them must have a story. The man known as "Big Daddy." The kid whose parents didn't know he was shot until they saw him on TV with blood streaming down his leg. The political activist who just enjoyed a good party. The teenagers. The man who broke ranks with the UAW to support Kennedy.

The movie made me wonder about them all. It made me look for them, to find their names, to seek their stories. They might not have been as saccharinely sweet as Lindsay Lohan and Elijah Wood or have the staying power of Martin Sheen, Harry Belafonte or Anthony Hopkins but they were real. They were there. And they might have had stories to tell. Heck, you still might have gotten an ensemble cast if the stories were told well enough.

To that point, I'm not saying that Estevez didn't tell a good story or make a good movie. He made a great movie and it very well might have deserved the seven-minute standing ovation it received at the Venice Film Festival (the longest in the festival’s 63-year history). He just didn't tell the real story. The full story. And that was disappointing.


Tag: Bobby Movies

Never drinking again

"I am never drinking again," I moaned into the phone.

"My brain hurts," Kayla replied.

"My everything hurts. And the worst part? I think I'm watching WWE - there's some sort of SmackDown on my TV – and I've been watching it for a really long time."

I'd managed to relocate from bed to sofa and to turn on the TV, but that was about it. I was due to meet my friend at Eastern Market in approximately seven minutes or when the room stopped spinning, whichever came first, but she called and put it off an hour.

"There are like 17 people in the ring right now. I think I need to rest my eyes for a little bit."

We arranged to meet at the corner by Port City Java, at the corner where we met at least twice the weekend before. Hanging up the phone, I closed my eyes and waited for the room to stop rotating so I could get off that ride.

Forty-five minutes later, I opened them and realized that I reeked of smoke; I needed to shed that smell before leaving the house. With 15 'til meeting time, I peeled off my clothes and stepped into the shower.

"Oh, that's a bad idea," I thought as the cube filled with steam. Shampoo running down my face, I leaned out of the shower and over the sink, waiting for my stomach to settle. Eventually, it did, but not for long. Apparently, a night of drinking should be prefaced by more than a dinner of popcorn or a lunch of water.

It was an accident. We planned to see a movie, do a little holiday shopping on Black Friday, maybe enjoy a cocktail or two. Nobody planned for six. On top of popcorn. Nobody planned to make friends with the geeky Caps fan or arrangements for trivia a week from Monday. Nobody planned to wake up in a state of utter abjection.

Eventually, we made it out. We met at the corner and braved the market. Kayla picking up vegetables for soup, and me gazing desperately at people and tables and dogs. I needed to wrap up my Christmas shopping but I couldn't face the crowds.

"Are you okay?" Kayla asked.

"No," I replied. "My stomach just hurts. Really, really bad. I think I have to get away from people."

We walked to Barracks Row and poked in a couple of shops before going home, where I curled up on the sofa for the rest of the day. I caught up on the DVR, on the Gilmore Girls and Grey's Anatomy and Veronica Mars. I bonded with my sofa after a rather lengthy absence in favor of Turkey and work and life. I caught up on my sleep and I finally kicked my cold.

On Sunday, though, I still couldn't imagine drinking again. I don't know what happened. I wasn't actually all that drunk on Friday, just ill-prepared and a bit out of the habit, still a little under-the-weather and a total lightweight. Friday night kicked my ass. When the phone rang Sunday afternoon, I had just settled into the thought of not leaving my apartment until work on Monday and NEVER drinking again.

"Hey, is Hawk and Dove the Steelers bar?" Kayla asked. "The Ravens aren't on regular TV and they're playing the Steelers."

"The Pour House," I replied. "You want the Pour House."

"Okay. Thanks. Want to meet us there?"

"Um, sure," I replied, hanging up my phone and thinking, "So much for not drinking" and "Where are my pants?"


Tag: Drinking Hangover Pourhouse

Déjà vu

Free tickets. That’s the only reason I went. Free tickets. I didn’t know much about it – I’d seen a preview or two, but something’s been happening to the previews at Gallery Place. The sound has been all distorted for a while now and something about warped, whiny music does not a movie-going experience inspire.

Denzel… He’s awesome but lately it seems like he’s always in the same role, and I didn’t know much about the movie. Nevertheless, free tickets got my feet on the street and my butt in a seat for the movie on Tuesday night. Co-sponsored by WPGC, the screening was full, the line stretching forever by 6:30, an hour before the showing, and the crowd was lively.

Getting folks into the mood, DJ Shack (of Shack Ndpack) chatted up the audience, threw out some trivia and threw out some prizes. A few rows back from the screen (we arrived well after the line developed and took what we could get), we were close to the DJ and close to the action. With trivia flying around the theater, hands flying, I found my arm jettisoning itself into the air.

“Right here. The girl in the red.” Huh. That was me. How did that happen? I popped up from the seat.

“Bigshaq-dot-com,” I gave the password and picked a category. “Television.”

“All right, this one’s a theme song. Name the show,” Shaq announced in his bottomless baritone. “You take the good, you take the bad, you take them both and there you have…”

Grinning, I shot back with “The Facts of Life” and climbed over a dozen moviegoers to get my prize. A Déjà Vu ball cap. It all happened so fast. Walking back to my seat, I grinned with excitement. I won a prize! The man next to me leaned over asked the name of the show, the name that won a prize and I told him. He raised his hand in the speed round. So, did Kayla with Malcolm X, a former role for the award-winning leading man. She took the shirt. As did the man next to her and the boy next to him. With every question, more hands flew, arms waving, voices shouting “Over here.”

By the time the previews started, the crowd grew rowdy. It took half a dozen trailers to calm down but by the movie started, everyone seemed ready to get riled again and the movie did rile them. Me. I found myself on the edge of my seat, unsure of what would happen, how the movie would play out and I continued thinking about it long after exiting the theater.

Once again, Denzel Washington played the same role. A loaner. The strong, silent type. A misunderstood man with a heart of gold and convictions of steel, but it wasn’t the same old flick. I really didn’t know how it would end and if I found myself in the situation again, I’d even pay to see it. I liked it.


Tag: Déjà vu Movies WPGC

Giving thanks

Some days I worry. I think that I’m going to turn into Frances McDormand’s angry, angry character in Friends with Money, outraged by everything in life, taking everything personally. She’s so deeply dissatisfied with life that her anger boils over - at a driver stealing a parking spot, a waiter talking only to the man at the table, a woman cutting in line at Old Navy. At the slightest provocation, she flies into a fury, positively frothing at the mouth and screaming in anger.

Sometimes I worry that will be me.

Last night, the night before Thanksgiving, I found myself at the ghetto grocery. I walked there in the cold, persistent rain because my brother borrowed my car a few days earlier and kept it, with plans of driving to Philly for the holiday. I went because I needed to pick up a prescription and a rutabaga, both pressing needs.

Walking up to the counter, I gave my name and waited while the pharmacist checked the inbox.

“It’s been a while… it might not be there,” I said.

“You’ll need to go to the other window and start all over,” she told me, rather unpleasantly, and I walked around the corner and waited. For the second time. I’d tried picking up the prescription three weeks before, on the way to the airport for Turkey but I was a day early according to the insurer. They wouldn’t allow me to pick it up early and they wouldn’t provide a vacation override, so I found myself off the meds for a month. Starting over.

Last night, I waited. I waited for the prescription to be filled. I waited in a night-before-Thanksgiving grocery line to pay. I walked home in the dark, drizzling night, chilled to the bone and found a bill from my doctor’s office. I’d had a miserable mess of an appointment where they left me in the dark waiting room and the doctor excused himself mid-exam to take a personal call. Insurance refused to pay because the man who saw me wasn’t my (in-network) doctor, with whom I scheduled the appointment, but his partner/son (an out-of-network doctor).

The invoice reminded me that I found the same doctor’s office closed, without an answering service, when I came down with shingles the night before vacation. I ended up in the emergency room, for which I’m sure I’ll pay dearly. They’re not so timely on the service, my doctor’s office, but they’re prompt with the billing, I thought.

Sitting down, head in hands, I waited. I waited for my insurance company to answer the phone. I waited for the anger to pass. I prayed for the anger to pass. I don’t want to be that girl, the angry one, the eternally indignant one.

Later yet, after peeling and chopping mounds of vegetables, after creating a few Christmas photobooks for my sister’s kids, after finally filling my own photo coasters, I felt better. Calmer. Kayla text-messaged with the latest catalogues delivered for her former tenant. Neiman Marcus. Bergdorf Goodman.

Kayla: “I told you she had like movie star shoes, right? She was a bush appointee - so her parents must have had bling…”

me: And I worried about buying an $80 dress. (Well, not really)

Kayla: we are small potatoes

me: We ARE small potatoes. I just peeled small potatoes... But I do have money in savings, stamps in my passport and a home. Could be worse.

And it could be worse. A lot worse. Life is pretty good. I’ve just returned from a long, amazing trip with friends. I didn’t worry about money while I was gone. I didn’t worry about my job. I just enjoyed myself.

I spend my time and money with friends and family, traveling, reading, writing, meeting writers. I watch movies. For free. I manage to support my photographic endeavors and my ever-expanding collection of cameras. I'm challenged and valued by my employers and clients.

I’ve got the occasional problems with my health insurance, but I do have health insurance. My parents don’t exactly invite me “home” for Thanksgiving or Christmas. They don’t call on my birthday, but I have parents. I see them fairly regularly. They love me in their ways and my sister and brother have helped make DC home.

I googled “gratitude” this morning, trying to think of the words to describe how I feel right now. Wikipedia stated, “Thankfulness is an emotion, which involves a feeling of emotional indebtedness towards another person; often accompanied by a desire to thank them, or to reciprocate for a favour they have done for you.” I am thankful. To my friends and my family. Emotionally indebted. Grateful.

And now, I have to go and roast some vegetables, stir the soup, make cranberry sauce for an orphans’ dinner. The Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade is on TV and some puppets are singing about getting by with help from my friends. I am thankful.


Tag: Thanksgiving

Tagged

"I'm sorry; I'm distracted," my coworker announced during the middle of a discussion. "You still have a tag on your shirt."

Reaching back, I found the tag and pulled.

"You're right. It's a new shirt… Oh, look. Buttons," I threw out the tag and held onto the buttons, which will end up in a box on my dresser and never again see the light of day, even if I lose every button on every stitch of clother I own. "New skirt. New tights, too. I'm surprised I don't have a sticker on my breast or knee."

In college, shopping with my roommate and given a serious lack of available dressing rooms, we shared the closeted space, trying on shirts. At one point, right after we'd pulled on new T-shirts, she looked in the mirror and laughed.

"Fitting, huh?"

I looked out our reflections, the t-shirt stretched taught across my chest, the shirt billowing around hers. Both had stickers indicating the size stuck in the middle of our breasts: XL for me, S for her. The size of the shirts and the size of the chests. Fortunately, the stickers came off after purchase and before either of us walked out of the house.

Unfortunately, that doesn't always happen. I frequently forget about tags, leaving them on while I court my purchases, deciding whether or not they really fit with my wardrobe, my style, my life. I leave them on until I decide to commit.

The shirt, skirt and tights in question? I bought them sometime mid-October. I have more new tights in the drawer. At least three tagged shirts went on vacation with me (as if I'd return them after two and a half weeks in a suitcase in Turkey, even if I didn't wear them) and a couple of tagged skirts returned.

Of course, I'm not sure what to do about the skirts. I don't want them but I can't take them back. I tried. Before I left. I went to a Benetton store in Istanbul but while they offered to exchange the color or size, they said I could only return them to the store where I bought them. In Cappadocia. (Read: Really far away, as in the same country but it would require flying somewhere or many, many, many hours in a car to return them.)

One would think that I would resign myself to keeping the skirts. I obviously liked them enough to buy them. Or I was bullied into it by saleswoman who told me I was fat (even though I have no problem fitting into Benetton skirts) and gave me men's sweaters to try (because of the XL chest). I wanted to cry. I would do just about anything to leave the store, including the purchase of two semi-unflattering but well-fitting skirts.

Now, though, I don't know what to do with them. I tried to like them. I tried to return them. If I can figure out a way to cut the insults as well as the tags, maybe I will wear them. Until then, though, I'll try to find room for them in the overstuffed closet where they'll hang, unwanted, unwelcome, with the tags attached.


Tag: Benetton Shopping Clothes Size

So wrong

I saw Borat this weekend and I liked it. I actually liked it. I found it offensive and infantile and just plain funny.

Walking out of the theater, I turned to my friends. "That was even more offensive that Sarah Silverman: Jesus is Magic."

"That's saying something," Kris acknowledged. Up to that point, we both figured that Sarah Silverman had produced the single most offensive movie that we had ever seen, insulting pretty much every aspect of society and inspiring a rather unwelcome thought of Jimmy Kimmel with peanut butter on his dick, but that's another story. Borat went even farther, drawing a line in the sand of decency and jumping a few (hundred) feet beyond it.

It was jaw-droppingly crass. Inappropriate. Wrong. It made me laugh. It made me gasp. Is it bad to enjoy such an offensive movie?

Residents of a Romanian village are up in arms. Or briefs. Legal briefs. Suing the studio for portraying them as rapists. Some good ol' Southern boys are suing for coming across as idiots. A manners coach? I can't remember why she's suing, but some people are pretty angry about the film. It's been banned in Russia due to "insulting remarks toward some ethnic groups and religions," potentially banned in the United Arab Emirates and the nation of Kazakhstan has made official statements declaring unhappiness with the flick but so far, they have not gone to court over it, according to Daily Variety.

Normally, I'm all about the social consciousness. Last week, I saw Fast Food Nation. While less graphic than the book of the same name (and slightly more palatable), it did make me glad that I'm a vegetarian. It raised my awareness. Maybe. A little.

But what about Borat? Could I say that same for it? It made me angry and uncomfortable, amused and embarrassed. It made me think.


Tag: Borat

The written word

"I really think books are going away," Pat announced to the group Saturday afternoon with plans to get rid of her shelves.

Most of us cocked our heads and thought for a second. It wasn't the strangest thing Pat had said and stranger things would later emerge, including tales of her nomadic mother, the nudist, who follows her lover, a nuclear engineer, around the country. This one just struck us as funny, struck me as funny, because she announced it in the middle of book club.

"Just think of how cultures used to be based in oral tradition," she exclaimed. "Nobody thought that they'd be carrying books someday."

She cited the decline in newspaper readership, the increase in videogames and television. "Nobody reads any more. Nobody writes. I'm going to get rid of my books."

"But… but…" I sputtered. "But I love books."

I've actually gotten into this argument before, with my brother, the Brokekid. I don't know how it started but it ended with him walking away from me and standing with strangers in line to see Rosa Parks lying in state. We both paid our respects. We both made new friends. We just stopped talking to each for a couple of hours. Neither would budge; I just couldn't imagine a world without books.

I admit, I am a bit of a freak. I read a lot – two or three books a week. Every week. I carry a book just about everywhere I go. I would probably swim more if I could figure out how to read underwater.

It all started with a summer reading program and free burgers for readers. In hindsight, it sounds terrible – encouraging both bad eating habits and a sedentary lifestyle – but at the time, I would have done anything to win, to get something free, anything. I enrolled, read half-heartedly for a few weeks and discovered Nancy Drew. I read four books that night, returning to the library first thing in the morning for more.

An entire world opened for me that summer, the Brontë sisters, the Alcotts, a whole slew of Caldecott winners. I would read just about anything from the back of a Lysol can to my mom's Reader's Digest Condensed Classics, from heady tomes to Choose Your Own Adventure and of course, the girl detective. I still have a collection of the teenaged sleuth's adventures on my bookshelf. (And a fabulous purse made from my favorite, the Secret of Shadow Ranch.)

These days, my shelves tend to groan a little under the weight of book club selections and friends' recommendations, gifts and an addiction to Capitol Hill Books. Stacks of books teeter precariously on top of, in front of and beside rows of books, occasionally giving up and plunging to the floor in a heart-stopping crash. The periodic purges do nothing but give license to buy more and I've started collecting autographed copies. (How else does one meet the writer at a reading? Though, I did find Cokie Roberts a bit of a stick in the mud in person.)

I love books. The weight. The smell. I lose myself on the metro everyday, making new friends, living new lives, experiencing other worlds. A musty scent rising from rough cut pages. A brilliant turn of phrase. I've hidden my tears from strangers on the train, my eyes welling from a piece of fiction. I've blushed madly, hoping nobody could see over my shoulder and read the racy bits, hoping that maybe somebody would. Strangers in elevators stop me to share their own stories, love of the book. Strangers in elevators stop me to say, "Must be a good book."

The digital word just doesn't give the same vibe. That doesn't mean I am a troglodyte. That doesn't mean I don't get warm fuzzies from my favorite blogs. It's just not the same as the dog-eared pages of a favorite book.

Pat cited technology as the wave of the future, as the end of the printed word. She said that people didn't write as much today, that people didn't journal. She said that we were raising a generation obsessed with computers and television, a generation with negative attention spans.

A protest rose from the club members. A defense of the internet, of blogs, of the common man finding his voice online. Of course, not everyone's voice sounds like that James Joyce, but that doesn't mean that it's not worth writing, worth reading. And people are writing. Reading. Turning toward the written or typed or slowly, painfully pecked word.

Leaving book club Saturday afternoon, leaving my second literary discussion group of the weekend, I thought about Pat and whether or not she might be right. I went home and pondered, cleaning my apartment, culling magazines and stacking books on the shelves, the ottoman, the floor. I shook my head and though, "I just can't imagine a world without books."


Tag: Books Reading Reading Technology

Lost and found

I left my hat and scarf on a plane. I know it’s my fault and I know it’s not really a big deal but I want them back. They’re cute. They match. They earned me a slew of compliments in Istanbul. I want them back.

It all started in Frankfurt, where I boarded the plane. Actually, I suppose it all started in Istanbul – we were delayed leaving and waited a bit on the tarmac. We got to Frankfurt about 15 minutes late. Not too bad unless one has only an hour and 15 minutes to connect. Down to an hour, I raced barefoot from gate to security to security to gate, juggling bags and boots, boarding pass, coat and sweater, scarf and hat. When I got to the plane, I found a woman in my seat who grew rather sullen when I asked her to move. I settled as quickly as possible. Unfortunately, that meant putting my hat and scarf to the left of the seat in front of me, by the wall of the plane, not by my bag.

I’m a girl who craves order. The guy at the laundromat told me I was the most organized person he’d ever seen, “categoralizing” all the clothes in my basket. I have a lot of competition for the title. He works there; he’s seen a lot of laundry.

Anyway, normally, I’m organized. I don’t forget things. I don’t lose things - unless I’m terribly stressed or tired or rushed and then everything falls apart. On Monday night, I felt a little of each and I left my new favorite hat and scarf behind.

I realized my mistake as soon as I stepped on the shuttle to Customs, but I didn’t have a choice. I couldn’t go back. I talked to every United Airlines customer service representative between Customs and taxis. I spent an hour and a half, almost two hours shifted between agents, waiting in line, trying to get my hat and scarf. I would have walked back to terminal C but I couldn’t. I wasn’t allowed. I didn’t have a boarding pass.

Finally, I ended up in lost luggage. A tired man with a drooping face called me to the desk.

“Frankly, this is our lowest concern. They’re already boarding the plane back to Frankfurt. One of our agents is going to have to carry the items over after her shift. We try to match items but…” He scribbled an illegible number on the back of my claim. “You can try calling. Nobody will answer the phone but you can try.”

For the next few days, I waited, hoping against hope that I would get a call at home, on my cell, that someone would email me with details of my missing hat and scarf. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I tried calling the number on the back of the claim. I tried several variations of the number on the back of the claim because I couldn’t figure out what followed the seven, but all to no avail. A phone rang fruitlessly at the end of the line.

Finally, Saturday morning, I got online and spent an hour or so trying to find the number. Eventually, I found an 800 number, which gave me the number for United lost baggage at Dulles, a different number than the one I had but a local number nevertheless. That number gave me an email address and clarified the number on the back of the claim – it was a two after the seven and the last two digits had been transposed. I called lost and found and got the machine. The mailbox was full.

I still don’t have my hat and scarf. I still haven’t talked to anyone. I have the phone number, though, and I’ll keep trying. Hoping. Who knows? Maybe they’ll come back…


Tag: United Airlines Lost and Found Hat Scarf

89 hours

Eighty-nine hours at home. Eighty-nine hours since leaving the airport and I am ready for my next trip. For another vacation. Something. Anything. I just want, nay, need to escape the real world a little while longer.

In the past 89 hours, I've caught up on my laundry and my email. I've caught up with friends and family. I've caught a cold.

Of the past 89 hours, I worked 40. I found out that I'm going to become a programmer, me with my degree in journalism and my job in finance. I am also taking a bigger role in an international benchmarking project – comparing my client's data to similar other providers in 45 countries. In the meantime, I need to maintain my superstar level of support and maybe my sanity.

In the past 89 hours, I've finished one book and started another. I watched a movie based on a book, Fast Food Nation, and I went to a reading where I met the man who might be the next president of the United States.

Of the past 89 hours, I've slept 23.

In the past 89 hours, I've completely lost the ability to form sentences or even incomplete thoughts.

I have heard the measure of a day for every hour of time difference, so theoretically I will be golden by Monday. Tuesday at the latest. Realistically, going to bed nightly at 11 and getting up daily at 4 cannot help the cause.

TGIF.


Tag: Jetlag Sleep Vacation

Fine, thank you

I am an idiot. Seriously.

"How are you?"

"Thank you."

Thank you? Who answers the question "How are you?" with "Thank you"? Maybe "Fine, thank you" or "I'm feeling well today. Thank you very much" or even "I feel like death, but thanks for asking," but just "thank you"?

I have no problem responding to the Express man each morning; I joke with him. No problems with the manager at Eastern Market Metro station or people on the platform. No problems with my coworkers, my clients, the random people meeting in our conference room. My mind just blanks when faced with a man who might be president.

Actually, it's not only him. John Edwards. I responded with some equally inane smiling and bobbing of the head when I met his wife a couple of months ago. She was quite gracious, later reading and commenting on my post about her. She said nothing of my complete inability to form a sentence in person.

The funny bit is that they both seem like such nice people, Elizabeth and John Edwards. People with whom I would really want to talk.

They seem like a couple that I'd want to invite over for game night – a little wine, a little Trivial Pursuit, jazz in the background with friends laughing and struggling to remember exactly what Sherlock Holmes keeps in the toe of a ballet slipper or what barnyard animal gets sunburned. They seem articulate and witty, charming and not just a little easy on the eyes. They seem like good people. They also seem to take my words away.

"How are you?"

"Thank you."

There are so many other ways I might have answered that question.

"Fine, thank you… Though, I am a bit foggy right now. I just returned from Turkey and haven't slept more than a couple of hours each night… Speaking of Turkey, I met a man from Spain at dinner on my last night. We had wonderful conversations in his halting English and my half-forgotten Spanish about the state of politics in America. He asked if Americans neglected to vote as a political move in itself, as a form of abstention.

"Unfortunately, we replied, it seemed that more Americans fail to vote due to sheer laziness, to forgetfulness, to the overpowering sense that a single voice or a single vote won't make a difference.

"I told this man, this tour guide from Ibiza, that I actually hosted a party to call strangers in Ohio to encourage them to get out and vote. We talked for hours about politics, about movies, about the world. He wanted to travel east, the man from Spain, through Iran. He seemed surprised when I said that there were places I felt I couldn't visit as a woman and even more so, as an American."

If nothing else, I could have mentioned my fabulous birthday gift from Kris and WideLeftOfCenter, a set of drinking glasses and mugs with JFK and RFK and FDR, with Hillary and Barack, Jesse and Al. Instead, all I said was "Thank you."

I suppose I did want to thank him for signing my copy of his book, Home: The Blueprints of Our Lives. That was the point of the trip – to listen to him read from the book, answer questions, to pick up a copy of this "heartwarming compilation of photo-essays celebrating that special place in our hearts called 'home.'" The stories come from all walks of life, from everyday people to well-known names in entertainment and religion, sports and politics, and proceeds benefit Habitat for Humanity, building homes for those who need them.

Though, to be honest, I suppose it was politics, more than the book itself or charitable outcome that got me to Borders Wednesday night, smiling inanely and bobbing my head. Somehow, I seem to be getting more politically conscious – blame it on my brother or the fact that I live in DC, blame it on the current administration or the fact that it's just a more grownup thing to do.

As part of this whole transition, I find myself on the mailing list for John and Elizabeth Edwards and the One America Committee. Twice. When I opened an email about the reading, I asked the oh-so-politically-minded Brokekid to join me. He told me to invite Kayla, as they were supposed to go to a movie and he invited Mike, a Peace Corps buddy. I bought him a book, the Brokekid, my brother, so he might meet the man who might run for President in 2008. Merry Christmas.

The Brokekid's got more of his head about him and he told the Senator how he'd cast a ballot from Guyana to make his voice heard. Senator Edwards asked for his name and personalized the book, even though it was against the "rules" of the signing. He shook my brother's hand and actually thanked him, the Brokekid, instead of the other way around.

One of these days, I suppose my words will return in time to answer a question intelligently, smoothly, quickly. In the meantime, I will simply have to accept the fact that I am an idiot.

"How are you?"

"Thank you."


Tag: Home John Edwards Washington DC Politics

Home again, home again

Even I’m sick of my vacation by now… Well, almost. After two and a half weeks, I found myself almost ready to board a plane home. I wandered the streets of Istanbul for one last time, heading down streets I hadn’t walked before.

I met a man on the street by the tram. He walked with me a while, chatting. He said I looked European in my hat and scarf. He shook my hand and wished me well when we parted ways.

Later, wandering back toward the hotel, a man stopped me as I walked between Aya Sofya and the Blue Mosque. He asked me if I’d seen the mosque, which I had. A few times. He told me to see it again. I looked at my watch and I did. I covered my head and removed my boots. I wandered through the mosque in the morning, before the big tour groups, after the early call to prayer. He met me outside and took me to his shop, trying to sell me a rug, but I stumped his uncle.

“I have black and white tile floors.”

The uncle put his head in his hands and talked to the nephew in Turkish. He turned to me and asked, “Why? Black and white?”

“It was there when I moved in.”

The nephew took me to the terrace with a beautiful view of the mosque. I finished my tea and declined offers of a Turkish breakfast from the rowdy group at the table. Looking down, I saw Cheryl at the greengrocer’s across the street.

“There’s my friend… The one with the blue bag.”

With that, the nephew handed me a business card. “If you come back, you call me.”

I think he thought until then that I was traveling with a man.

I went back to the hotel, met up with Cheryl and headed back to the bazaar so she might spend her last lire. She talked a man into selling a pashmina for half the price and we left. Back to the hotel. To the airport. Through security twice and finally onto a plane west.

In Frankfurt, we had barely an hour to connect. We raced through the airport, winding our way through corridors, past construction, toward the C Terminal and halted for security. With wands instead of metal detectors and men wanding men, women wanding women, the line progressed slowly. Nervously, we shifted from foot to foot, the entire line, watching time dwindle.

Grabbing my boots and bags, my sweater and jacket, scarf and hat, I raced on stockinged feet through the concourse. I was one of many runners in the airport parade. Fortunately, I hadn’t donned anything as I needed to pass through security again. Seven minutes ‘til departure.

Finally, flushed, I boarded the plane (boots and bags, sweater, scarf, hat and coat in hand) and found a girl in my seat.

“That’s my seat,” I observed. She stormed toward the bathroom to snipe about me as I tried to settle myself, finding room in the overhead bin, dressing, digging out my book. She bounced back and forth for a while - seat, bathroom, bathroom, seat - and her friend came to the front to cast disparaging glances in my direction.

She wanted my seat, a window seat in Economy Plus next to her friend, but neither dared ask. I would have snapped. I checked in seven hours earlier in Istanbul and ran through an airport practically barefoot. I was wanded four times and each included hands in places that beeped, including an underwire bra and the zipper on my cords.

I deserved my seat.

My seatmate returned in a huff and buckled in next to me. She warmed to me later, during the beverage service when I gave her my snack. I offered her cookies, too. I calmed a little by then with a little wine and flattery from a flight attendant.

“You are 21, right?” he asked with a French accent. He demanded to see my license before handing over the mini bottles (He gave me a second bottle instead of change. I didn’t complain.) I thrilled a little at the thought of being carded on an international flight. I didn’t look under 21 when I was under 21 and even less so now that I’m 31.

I dozed a little. Watched some crappy movies and eventually found myself back in Virginia. I left my scarf and hat on the plane. I spent a couple of hours trying to get them back but ended up at home without them. I took a cab when I realized that it was 5 a.m. in Istanbul, that I’d been traveling for 18 hours, give or take.

After an hour or so of work, of reading my email, of remembering my passwords, my job, my life. I crawled into bed for far too little sleep and returned to the real world. Meetings. Work. Life.

Sometime soon, I’ll catch up with the photos and the stories. I’ll forget being sick and remember only the ruins, the valleys of Cappadocia, the Turkish bath, the food and the people. For now, though, I just need sleep.


Tag: Home Travel Istanbul Turkey

Leaving

Leaving On A Jet Plane keeps running through my head. I kind of love that song, even though I don't listen to it all that often or, well, ever.

It reminds me of when I was a kid, leaving camp. The counselors would stand in a circle, arms around each other, and sing. The campers would stand in a larger circle outside them, peeling off one at a time and crying a bit. Eventually, the campers would join the counselors' circle when there was only a handful left.

Jet plane was one of the songs they sang, those older kids in the inner circle.

All my bags are packed, I’m ready to go
I’m standing here outside your door
I hate to wake you up to say goodbye
But the dawn is breakin’, it’s early morn
The taxi’s waiting, he’s blowin’ his horn
Already I’m so lonesome I could cry.

Chorus:
So kiss me and smile for me
Tell me that you’ll wait for me
Hold me like you’ll never let me go.
I’m leavin’ on a jet plane
I don’t know when I’ll be back again
Oh, babe, I hate to go.

There’s so many times I’ve let you down
So many times I’ve played around
I tell you now, they don’t mean a thing
Every place I go, I think of you
Every song I sing, I sing for you
When I come back, I’ll wear your wedding ring.

(chorus)

Now the time has come to leave you
One more time let me kiss you
Then close your eyes, I’ll be on my way.
Dream about the days to come
When I won’t have to leave alone
About the times, I won’t have to say,

(chorus)

Of course, they'd also belt out "Sing till the Power of the Lord Comes Down" and change the lyrics to sleep, eat, dance, whatever, while swinging their legs in a modified kick line. They got a little goofy, waiting for us to leave. I loved that goofy part.

I never really knew if I wanted to be the first to go, leaving my friends behind, or if I wanted to be the last, stretching out the experience. Those times when I was the last, the one with the counselors' arms around my shoulders, I felt pretty special.

I’m glad I got to take a long vacation, that I got to stay for two and a half weeks, but now I’m leaving. On a jet plane. Don’t know when I’ll be back again.

Everything else

Our last day in Turkey: dirty, smelly and thoroughly exhausted

I also expect to be happy as can be.

From what I've heard, a week in Istanbul is not nearly enough to give one a full view of the city. From what I've read, I believe that might be true.

Though, I have to admit that Midnight Express scared me a bit. My friends scared me more, sending out warnings to register ourselves with the State Department, distribute copies of our passports (in case of theft or loss) and bring pictures of ourselves to share with the police (in case one of us goes missing).

We heard reports of terrorist attacks prior to the trip, hitting tourist spots, but we planned to travel in a non-peak season. (We waited until after Ramadan given the whole "people need to eat and restaurants will be closed" thing.)

The strangest thing about the trip, though, at least for me, was figuring out how to pack. What to bring - even though I'm a fairly efficient packer, I generally bring home clothes I didn't wear. I worried about head covering and leg covering and chest covering. I didn't want to offend Muslim sensibility. I hope I made it through the trip without embarrassing myself.

Turkish bath

I ought not to have complained about the early flight from Istanbul. We have an even earlier flight heading back - we have to drop off the car by 5:30 a.m.

I don't know what we're doing in Istanbul but I plan to nap first. Ohhhh... I know. A Turkish bath. According to Frommers, no visit to Istanbul is complete without sweating it out on a marble slab in a 400-year-old hamam (Turkish bath) that opened the pores of Franz Liszt and Florence Nightingale. Go for broke and sign up for the skin sloughing and massage.

Wish I could wrap up massages and pack those up to take home. It would be the Christmas gift that keeps on giving.

So many choices

Most of this (read: all), I've written from my basement apartment in Washington DC, sorting out my thoughts on the trip, figuring out what we're going to do, thinking about packing and watching Desperate Housewives on my DVR. (I'm going to have a lot of catching up to do when I get home.)

I don't know what we're going to do in Cappadocia, other than the cave hotel and the balloon. My friends have set much of the itinerary for the trip and that's fine with me. I wouldn't even know where to start. Even with our flexibility, we've darn near driven a Turkish travel agent batty.

I might just take the lack of structure to sleep a bit, hit a spa... Who am I kidding? I'm generally crazy busy vacation girl, seeing as much as possible. Hiking might be on the docket as we spend our last day in "a barren lunar landscape." Of course, Cappadocia is also a major wine producer. So many choices!

In honor of Stads (Kristin)

Note: I tried to post this Wednesday and Thursday so many times, I lost count, but it wouldn't connect to Blogger.com. Or so the message at the bottom told me. I'm trying again today. Pretend it's Wednesday when you read it. At this point, I am absolutely determined to post this stupid thing, because I feel like I owe it to Stads/Kristin.

Since Stads, or as most you know her, Kristin, is out of town. I felt it was my duty to take up in her absence and contribute a little something about Election Day. I would have done this yesterday, and encouraged people to get out and vote, but sadly, I’m just not as organized as Kristin. I didn’t think about it until late last night, when I was watching CNN, and they went to a live broadcast from Tryst, in downtown DC, for interviews with DC bloggers. My very first thought was, “I wonder if Stads is there?” followed by the realization she was out of town, and then, to be honest, a little disappointment. Because, as I’m sure most of you would agree, it would have been right up her alley.

I just realized that I am making it sound like she’s gone forever, instead of on an awesome vacation to Turkey. My bad.

My husband (WideLeftofCenter) and I (Kris) – yes, the ones who are listed as contributors, along with Brokekid, but who never actually contribute – live in downtown DC. Voting was not initially high on our priority list this week. We asked some of our more politically-charged friends if they were voting, and they said no. The mayoral race was pretty much decided, there were no important initiatives. We don’t have children, so the board of education race is not pertinent, especially considering that Mayor-elect Fenty seems poised to take charge of the education issue regardless of who sits on the board. But the more we talked about it, the more we still decided that we should vote. Voting in a democratic society is a privilege that a lot of people in the world simply will never have, and we should respect that privilege, and take advantage of it every chance we have. Besides, if you don’t vote, you lose the right to complain about whomever is in office, which, in my opinion, is almost as important as the right to vote itself these days.

That doesn’t mean that I didn’t get impatient at the voting precinct. I didn’t have to wait in a line, just while the check-in volunteer scrolled through hundreds of empty pages, looking for my name (apparently our decision to vote regardless of the insignificance of it did not, in fact, carry over to our fellow DC residents). Signing my name, I’m pretty sure I joined a cast of tens in the Last-Names-Between-H-and-M category who made it out to vote. And this was at 4pm. I’m sure more people showed up after work, but I’m equally sure it was poor turnout overall in DC.

I decided to use the electronic voting machine, which resulted in a lecture afterwards from my husband detailing the scary ineptitudes of these machines (see “Hacking Democracy” for more information). But again, who cares? I’ve never used one before, and there was not really that much at stake. I would not use one in, say, a presidential election, but I wanted to try it. One guy was in front of me, and he was taking his sweet time. Apparently he did not like any of his choices, so he was entering “write-ins” for every position. This involves calling up a screen that looks like a keyboard and typing in someone’s name. My initial reaction was impatience. I mean, it’s not like these write-ins would actually win, so what’s the point? I heard him ask the volunteer assistant, in a heavily accented voice, how to go to the next screen, despite the huge yellow “NEXT” arrow at the bottom. Suddenly, I was seeing him in a new light, although I have no idea how accurate that light was. In my mind, this was a new citizen to the U.S., voting for the first time, and savoring every option he was given. Don’t know who is running? That’s okay, you can write in someone. Do you want to go back and change your vote five times? No problem! Want to review your ballot for five minutes before hitting “Cast Ballot” to make it official? Perfectly acceptable. And then, do you want an absurdly cheesy red, white and blue flag sticker that says “I Voted!”? Heck yeah. And I’ll wear it proudly all day long.

Tag: Voting
Tag: Election

Testing...Testing

It's been a loooong time since I've posted on here, I've spent most of my days working on Brokekid.net, which took a major dump in August after being hacked into by a Saudi hacker during the Lebanese/Israeli conflict. Then I got super ill and was in the hospital for a while, then I moved over to a new server and was working with 3 friends to get the site up and running. It's about there, but not quite. What else? Kristin's in Turkey so I'm posting for her, I'm working with a number of other former Guyana Peace Corps Volunteers to start a non-profit to aid Guyana, the Dems take both houses in Congress, Rummy & Melman are out and Bolton's next. Life is good.

This thing below? I'm testing the new Apple iTunes iMix feature, this is a mix I made a while ago. I'd put it on Brokekid, but Wordpress doesn't like the embed tag.



Tag: iMix | Tag: iTunes

Full of hot air

In the whole wide world of our trip to Turkey, I picked exactly two things I wanted to do. Bodrum, the number one seaside resort, and a hot air balloon tour in Cappadocia. Apparently, that's one of the things one must do in Turkey.

Excursions, expensive excursions, aren't exactly my cup of tea or sack of hot air, as the case may be. Especially when I'm traveling around another country for weeks, flying all over the place, staying in luxurious caves but if it's one of the things one must do in Turkey, then I suppose I have to do it.

Of course, Cheryl did a little research before the trip.

"The costs are very different based on whether you do a regular flight or a 'sponsored' one. The sponsored ones seem to be those where there's a massive logo on the balloon. I'll be in the balloon, not looking at it for most of the time, so sponsored is fine with me," she wrote.

"I'm definitely cool with a sponsored balloon. That's a HUGE difference in price," I replied.

"No kidding! I'll wear the sponsorship myself if it'll get me a 70 Euro reduction in price!"

Give me a t-shirt and sign me up.

Caves

Normally, I wouldn't exactly pay to stay in a cave. Normally, I don't find myself in caves as luxurious as those of Cappadocia.

In Cappadocia’s magical landscape of fairy chimneys, in the ancient village of Urgup, is a luxurious hotel carved into a mountain cliff, the Yunak Evleri. This hotel includes six cave houses, 29 rooms dating back to the 5th and 6th centuries and a 19th century Greek Mansion. Yunak Evleri is an inspiring hotel – an ideal base for exploring Cappadocia’s elaborate underground cities, hidden cavernous churches and enchanting rock terrain.

This is SO not the spelunking I did as a scout.

Australasia

We need to work on our flight schedule for future trips. What's with the 7 a.m. flight?! Egad, that's painful.

According to Wikipedia, the Kayseri Province, in central Turkey, is an area that has been linked with mythological stories as well as important figures in Turkish history. It is located in the Asian area of Turkey, and surrounded by the Erciyes Mountains, the Hasan Mountain and the Ali Mountain. The Ali mountain is named like that in honor of Ali Baba, who is said to have lived in the area.

I should really pick up some books on Turkish mythology. Technically, I think this is my first trip to Asia. Other than trips to New Zealand. And Australia. But that all confuses me with the Australasia thing.

Actually, and forgive me if I've mentioned this before, the whole Europe/Asia thing confuses me. Finally, I've got it straight - half of Istanbul is in Europe, half in Asia as well as most of the rest of the country. Yesterday, we awoke in Europe, took a ferry to Asia, another back to Europe and Asia again and Europe again before the day was through. My poor head is addled.

And then there were two

Sara left us in Istanbul Monday mornıng. Strangely enough, not everyone can take two and a half or three weeks off... Okay. I can't take two and a half or three weeks off, especially in this season (about a month after the close of the fiscal year). When I talked about the trip, people asked how I could take so much time from work. Did I accrue more time? Did I make more money? Did I blackmail my boss?

Basically, I saved up time for the trip and asked for the time off. I cut back on the three-day weekends. No summer vacation. No spring break, even. (There was that week in Alaska, but I planned for that.) Even so, I didn't have enough time to take. I had to beg and borrow and refrain from giving my brother vacation days after his week in the hospital and week on my couch. (I'll give him time if I ever get back in black.)

In the end, I am in the hole at work and completely grateful for a couple of weeks in another world.

Shopping (!)

The grand bazaar in Istanbul (Kapali Carsi) is one of the largest covered markets in the world with more than 58 streets and 4000 shops, and has 250,000-400,000 visitors daily. Daily. I think this is going to take a while... I don't even know what I want to buy and I don't normally buy souvenirs on trips but I will be buying something.

* Magnet for Kayla
* Earrings for coworker
* Christmas presents for all!

My brother-in-law spent time in Turkey when he while serving in the Navy a lifetime ago. He's actually got a great toilet story, which I've heard and appreciated many times. Stupid holes with footprints...

Whirling Dervishes

(photo from Jungle Boy)

The Whirling Dervishes trace their origin to the 13th century Ottoman Empire. The Dervishes, also known as the Mevlevi Order, are Sufis, a spiritual offshoot of Islam.

I don't know much about that. I just want to see them spin...

Library

I hope I've packed enough reading material. The library at Ephesus won't exactly offer a selection, in any language.

Books were one thing we discussed in advance of the trip. I took six books with me to Alaska for a week. I finished four. We're all big readers on this trip - we talked to make sure that we brought books the others hadn't read and would like, in hopes of passing literature along. There's nothing worse than being stuck without something to read...

Okay. There are many things worse than being stuck with nothing to read, but it does not a relaxing vacation make.

Cotton Castle

(Check out photos from Hazy Jenius)

We're planning to take a break from all this vacationing and sit in some thermal pools of the "cotton castle" Pamukkale.

According to Wikipedia, the tectonic movements that took place in the fault depression of the Menderes river basin did not only cause frequent earthquakes, but also gave rise to the emergence of a number of very hot springs, and it is the water from one of these springs, with its large mineral content, chalk in particular, that created Pamukkale. Apart of some radioactive material, the water contains large amounts of hydrogen carbonate and calcium, which leads to the precipitation of calcium carbonate. The effect of this natural phenomenon leaves thick white layers of limestone and travertine cascading down the mountain slope, making the area look like a fortress of cotton or a frozen waterfall.

Bodrum

(photo by Jeff Oliver)

Along the way, we plan to stop at the ancient sites of Priene, Miletus and Didyma.

Priene lies in a spectacular setting, perched on a cliff above the Meander River. Miletus still has an impressive theatre, and Didyma's Temple of Apollo still inspires awe. (Or so I've read and hope.)

After a leisurely drive and among the awe-inspiring ruins, we're spending the night in Bodrum, Turkey's top seaside resort. The New York Times has referred to it as The Next St.