Let’s Have a Drink – Istanbul

It was just after 10:00PM and I was in a section of Istanbul called Beyoglu. I was coming from a little cafe in search of something to eat for dinner. Someone in the cafe had recommended a kebap place just around the corner. I had just stepped off the side alley into the main street of Istiklal. A younger man addressed me in Turkish. I said, “Sorry, but I only speak English.” “Oh, I’m sorry,” he replied. “I was asking what time it is.” I told him I didn’t know because I had neither a phone nor a watch on me.

He asked me where I was from. “Wisconsin,” I said. Actually, this is the answer I started giving people when abroad. Usually, they have no idea what or where it is. Sometimes though, they do and then we have plenty to talk about right off the bat. Plus, it also gives me an out if I don’t immediately want to say I’m from the United States. As I’ve heard it quoted, everything has three prices: one for the locals, one for the foreigners, and one for people from the US.

Anyway, the guy was a very friendly, very sociable fellow who spoke English very well. He asked me if I liked Istanbul, if it was my first time in the city, what it was about Turkey that made me want to travel there, etc. We had long ago passed the place where I had intended to eat and I was really getting hungry. I asked my new Turkish friend , whose name I learned was Abriham, if there was somewhere good nearby to dine. He said he did; it was just around the corner. He asked if I wanted to join him for a drink after we were through eating. I had some time to spare and while I really didn’t have any desire to, I said, “Sure, why not.” After all, how many times does one get to hang out with the Turks in a lifetime?

Off we went to our dinner destination. Along the way, he asked if I wouldn’t mind stopping so he could use the bathroom. I laughed when he turned into an Istanbul Burger King – suddenly I felt very much like I was back in the United States. When he was through, we crossed the heart of New Istanbul, Taksim Square, and ended up in a little outdoor restaurant. We were given menus and Abriham ordered a “dried lamb” dish in a tomato sauce. I figured he must know what he was doing so I ordered the same. The waiter first brought us our drinks, a salted yogurt drink the Turkish seem to drink at every meal, and an appetizer – flatbread with a sauce very similar to salsa. It turned out to be rather bland. The bread was a bit stale.

While we were waiting for our food, Abriham and I talked about all manner of things like Turkish vs. American girls (always a slightly awkward topic for me), Turkish vs. American politics (he says – Boo George Bush. Obama is okay.), he asked me if I knew anything about the Kurdish/Turkish relationship (embarrassingly, I did not). He also told me he had a wife from Chicago and even a one-year-old kid. I asked him what he did for a living and he told me he was a lawyer. He asked me how old I was, I told him I was 27. He said he was 30. In the end, the food turned out to be not great but I was enjoying the company and conversation. It felt like one of those very rare, worldly moments. He then suggested we head to a bar he had been to a couple nights before and had liked. It was just a short walk down the street.

Along the way, Abriham asked me how much money one can make as a bartender in New York – my job during my travels. Naturally, I played down the figure but he seemed quite impressed all the same. A few moments later, we ducked inside our destination. It seemed he had certainly been there before, perhaps a few times judging by the the smiles and hellos he received from the employees. The first thing that caught my attention was the less than attractive girls dancing on a slightly raised stage/dance floor. They were fully clothed and not stripping but it still made me uncomfortable. Around the perimeter were a few random men sitting at tables and looking on. Naturally, I assumed the girls were working girls. It felt awkward. I mean, c’mon, a gay man in a straight bar. Still, my companion seemed to be enjoying himself so I tried to relax and just go along with it. It did twinge my conscience though because hadn’t he just told me he had a wife and kids a short time ago? Kinda ewww. Whatever.

We sat down at a table and a waiter came over. I ordered a beer and my friend ordered whisky – Jack Daniels to be exact. The waiter brought our drinks along with an assortment of foods – salted mixed nuts, sliced apples, sliced kiwi, sliced oranges as well as cucumber and carrot sticks. Overall, I was impressed with the spread but also a bit bummed about just having eaten. Still, we sat and chatted. I avoided looking at the dancing girls.

A short time later, two ladies came and sat down next to us, one on each side. While it may sound mean, they were both fat and ugly. Both had on short skirts and tight shirts that allowed their muffin tops to spill out unattractively. They both looked a bit old and a bit tired and both tried to compensate with too much make-up. Well, they started chatting us up. The girl on my right spoke English fairly well. She asked me all about where I was from and what I did. My companion seemed to be enjoying himself very much. I was mostly embarrassed which means I compensate by smiling excessively. The waiter came up again and asked if the girls wanted a drink. They said they wanted a beer. The waiter asked me if it was okay. “Oh, I guess so.” Apparently I was supposed to pay for the girl I was not the least bit interested in. Fine, I didn’t really mind. Before I knew it, Abriham and the girls were pulling my hand and dragging me out to the dance floor. Now imagine the scene – the place only has a few patrons in it. There we were, flapping around on a stage with two ugly chicks while the other girls, servers and random patrons watched on. Thankfully, we eventually sat back down.

Once again, the waiter came over and asked if I wanted another beer. I declined but Abriham still told him “get him another, and me too.” I made a firm decision that it would be my last. During this whole ordeal, the ladies kept ordering drinks. Each time, they were brought a very small goblet-style glass with a very small amount of beer. In total, they had about five petit drinks and this is how the evening progressed for about an hour or so.

One more time, the waiter returned and asked if we cared for another drink. I sternly declined. I turned to my friend and said I was getting tired and needed to leave. In reality, I just wanted to go dancing somewhere and not be in the uncomfortable situation any more. I excused myself and went to the bathroom. Like many places in the world, there was a small woman outside the doors of the bathroom with her hand out waiting for money. Puh-leez lady. I’m not giving you money when you did absolutely nothing but sit outside the door. When I returned to the table, Abriham asked for the bill. The waiter brought it over.

The grand total was about 2,000 Turkish Lira, the equivalent of…wait for it…….1,500 American Dollars. The realization hit me like a brick to the head. I was being scammed.

My heart started to race. I began to panick. I pretended not to be phased. Abriham put his head in his hands in a very forlorn gesture and began to plead with the waiter. “I don’t understand,” I said, “How could the drinks be so much?” The waiter THEN presented a menu with prices listed. Each beer I had ordered cost 30 Lira or the equivalent of about 20 dollars. Each whisky Abriham ordered cost 40 Lira or about 25 bucks. Each small beer the girls had ordered cost a whopping 150 Lira or about 100 USD. Suddenly everything was in focus and Abrihams story unraveled. He had told me he had been here before so why would he suddenly be surprised? Still, he persisted in pretending to be upset.

Next, the “manager” came over and began to play the game. My companion was begging the guy to give us a break. The manager took 40 Lira off the price. The two of us were expected to pay the balance. The girls, still sitting next to us, played doe-headed and acted confused. I remained calm, removed my credit card from my wallet, and gave it to the man. I planned to cancel the charge as soon as I got back to my hostel. My companion said they wouldn’t take a card. He said they would take us one by one out to the ATM to get cash. Convenient, I thought, that he already knew they wouldn’t take the credit card. Abriham was escorted out first. Now I really began to panic on the inside. Still, outwardly, and maybe it was in part due to the two beers in my system, I remained cool as a cucumber. I was sure he would never come back and I would be expected to pay the total. I stood up calmly trying to decide how I could make a run for it. The body guard types in suits around the room began to stir. “I need to get to an ATM,” I said. “You can wait until your friend gets back,” a burly man near the bar grumbled.

Now, I looked deeply into the eyes of the fat chick that had been working her game all night. I was trying to scan her body language for clues. I pleaded with her, pretending not to understand what was going on. “I don’t understand, I don’t know,” she said. “I just work here.”

I felt sick; I felt trapped.

Then, somehow, miraculously, Abriham returned. It was now my turn to be escorted outside. They took me to an ATM just a few steps away from the entrance to the bar. I made up a lie. “My card won’t work at anything other than an HSBC bank,” I said. “Hmmm…,” my gruff Russian body guard said. “Fine, we go there.” Actually, he probably wasn’t really Russian; he just looked like they do in every crime movie I had ever seen. As my luck seemed to be going that night, there just so happened to be an HSBC bank right across the street and down a block. I was on high alert, looking for every opportunity I could find to make a run for it. Still, I was like a caged animal. There were people all around and I knew any attempt to flee could immediately bring physical violence. The opportunity to get away never came. I felt like a lamb going to slaughter as we approached the HSBC ATM. Once again, I faked it. I have no idea how I remained calm. I approached the screen and went through the whole process of withdrawing funds only to enter the wrong PIN number each time. I did this twice. I then threw my hands up. “It’s not working,” I said. “No, you try again,” he interjected, “And if you put the wrong number in, it will keep your card. Don’t let that happen.”

I took a deep breath and all my hair stood on end. What would I do if it kept my card? What would they do if I didn’t give them the cash? I decided I’d sooner part with my money than risk the consequences. I entered the correct PIN.

Somehow, miraculously, the bank rejected my transaction and returned my card. A wave of relief washed over me. “See,” I said, “It doesn’t work.”
“Well,” he snorted, “We’ll go to the other bank,” and he proceeded to lead me to another ATM a bit further down the road.
“Really, it only works at HSBC,” I said.
“Try it anyway,” he snarled.
I did, this time entering the wrong PIN again. Naturally, it didn’t work. I tried it wrong again. It still didn’t work. “You know what?” I said, “I KNOW it works at the bank near where I’m staying. I could go GET the money and bring it back.”
“NO!” he snapped. “I’m a busy man!”
I again offered him my credit card. “Please, just take this.” I was trying to demonstrate how I really wanted to pay my tab. After all, it was only the right thing to do (read sarcastically). I was still looking for a getaway. There was none.

“Let’s go back inside,” he said. “We’ll talk to my boss.” Now, I really panicked. Inside there would be more guards and almost no chance of getting away! But I had NO options. I was escorted back inside with my tail between my legs, where I would surely meet my doom. I imagined all the horrors that awaited me. After all my traveling, it seemed my good luck had finally run out.

As we once again approached the table we had been sitting at, I noticed my former “friend” sitting and laughing with the girls next to him. Now, if over a thousand dollars is a lot of money to me, surely it would be something extraordinary to him. When he saw me, though, his face became serious again and full of put-on worry. I changed my tune. I began to pretend like I was really interested in the girl who was working the table earlier. The “manager” spoke to him in Turkish. My “friend” turned to me with seemingly real fear this time and said “You can’t get your money?” I played it very calm. “Nope,” I said, “My bank is not taking the card.” “Well,” he replied, “Maybe you can just take out 400 or 500 and I can pay the rest now and you can pay ME later.”

Really, I don’t know what made me so brave at this point, considering my circumstances. “No,” I said, “We tried a bunch of times at a couple of banks and my card is just not working. But here, take my credit card.” Now the manager looked really frustrated. I said, “Really, I can just go get you the money and bring it back. No problem.” Everyone was tense. I cozied up to the fat chick.

“What do you have in your wallet?” the manager asked. I reluctantly pried it open and placed 170 Turkish Lira on the table – about 115 USD. He took the money and said, “Wait here, I’ll talk to the boss.” My “friend” looked really worried. We waited in silence. The girls skuttled out of the booth.

We waited and waited. The manager returned. “The boss is not here now,” he said. “This is what we’re gonna do.” He took my cash out of his pocket along with a piece of paper and a pen. “Write your name down,” he instructed. Shoot, I thought to myself, I already told Abriham my first name. I wrote MICHAEL O’CONNER. (I know, I know I couldn’t think of anything other than Irish but i was nervous as hell). “And write where you’re staying,” he followed up. I wrote HAROLD’S CHILL HOSTEL – another fabrication. “I don’t know that one, he said.” “Oh, no? It’s nice,” I assured him. “AND your phone number,” he demanded. This time, I didn’t even need to answer. My friend chimed in, “he doesn’t have one, we were talking about getting him one earlier tonight.” Abriham seemed really worried and seemed to want everything to be over nearly as much as I did. The manager wrote the number amount that I owed at the top of the page. He subtracted what he had stolen from my wallet already. Then he even gave me a 30 Lira discount (so gregarious!) and turned to me with a new total and said, “What time can you bring this back tomorrow?” My luck had shifted.

“Ummm, how about noon?” I offered. “Nope,” he replied, “how about 7:00?” I pretended to think. “That works.” I said. “Okay, at seven then,” he said. “I trust you. You seem like a nice man. I trust you.” My “friend” was elated. “Thank you, thank you,” he kept repeating. He shook the manager’s hand. We all stood up. Many people ushered me to the door. Still, I wanted to make my act convincing. I asked the manager what the girl’s name was who had been sitting next to me. I feigned sincere interest. He looked at me a bit crazy-like. “I don’t know,” he said, “They just work here.” And then, they let me go into the night.

I used every ounce of effort remaining in my body to walk slowly, calmly away. My insides were shaking. I couldn’t believe I had been so stupid. I couldn’t believe I had been scammed. Tears started running down my face. Clearly, I had some guardian angels with me that night. Still, I was unsure if anyone had been sent to follow me and I wasn’t about to go immediately back to the hostel so I spent the next few hours walking around the dimly lit streets and narrow alleyways of Istanbul. When I was sure anyone who had been put on my trail would have given up, I slowly walked back to my place. I got to my room and lay down with all my clothes on. It was a hot night but by body chilled all over. Though I was mentally exhausted beyond words, I having nightmares of being found and attacked.

To say the least, I lived in constant fear of being found or spotted on the street. In the morning, I booked myself into a swanky hotel far away and essentially camped out. I debated what to do next for a couple of days. I was supposed to continue to travel around Turkey alone for a few weeks more. I finally decided enough was enough. I felt wounded and vulnerable and alone and all I wanted was to be surrounded by people who genuinely loved me. So I threw in the towel and went home to be with my parents in Chicago.

Sadly, my story is not unique. If you want to read more just Google “Let’s Have a Drink Scam” to learn more.

Goats With the Wind

My stint working on a goat farm in the hills of Galilee has come to a close. It was not a planned part of my trip. However, I don’t think it is an understatement to say it was one of the most profound and life-enriching experiences I have had to date. Imagine a little Eden tucked into the hillside, surrounded by lush Mediterranean landscapes, infused with heady floral breezes, full of life and abundance. This was the setting for my life for my stay on a farm that produced its own wine, olive oil, goat cheese and countless other edible delights. It’s English name was Goats With the Wind, but for a guy like me, it was Heaven.

The Gate to the Farm

Every morning I would rise before the sun and get my bones moving. Surprisingly, I was always ready to spring into action. Actually, this behavior got quite a few comments and strange stares from the other workers. I was told to “relax” and to begin with some hot tea or coffee and a cookie or two. Now, I never pass up anything free, especially when it’s edible, and so I got quite used to sipping hot tea flavored with fresh mint and warm goat milk.

The best part of waking up.

Then my day would begin with a thorough feeding and watering of every animal on the farm. This included the cows, horses, sheep, chickens, male goats, female goats, young goats and baby goats. Each group of animals required varying amounts of grain, hay, fresh weeds, and for the babies – fresh/powdered milk. At first I had to write everything down but it soon became a routine that was as natural as breathing the beautiful Galilean air. As I moved through my daily chores, I was constantly taken aback by the sloping mountains that overlooked the distant town of Nazareth. The property was spotted with olive trees, lemon trees, apple trees and even the occasional oddity like a papaya or carob tree. This was the background of the canvas I worked in.

Then again, my immediate vicinity was crowded by a much less glamorous but still deeply rich and life giving resource – poop. Yes, I quickly learned to make animal excrement my close friend. It was everywhere and no matter what I did, getting it all over me was unavoidable. In fact, even after leaving the farm, I still reeked of goat and was constantly reminded of this fact by strangers as they politely turned their backs to me and covered their noses. Yet, surprisingly I did not mind. Well, not in the end any way. I suppose I must admit to being a bit hesitant at first. However, I learned pretty quickly that it would be impossible for me to work hard and avoid getting mucky. So, within no time, I was quite literally knee deep in shit. Surprisingly, for a fancy city boy who is rather fond of keeping things clean, I loved it.

A shepherd's view in the hills of Galilee.

Every day was a new lesson in just how much work my body could handle. From sun up to sun down I worked under the hot sun, lifting bending, twisting and hoisting my body in ways I never remember using it in the past. At the end of the day, I was more sore in more places than I realized I even had muscles. I will especially never forget the way my forearms burned for the first three days or so.

In addition to the mindless, meditative (and extremely manly) manual labor, I was also entrusted to help with the delicate art of milking the goats. While I had seen this done one or two times while growing up in the Midwest, I can’t say I ever had a chance to grab that warm teet firmly in my hands and make the milk sing its way into the steel pail. Well, I finally had my chance. Sadly, I must admit that my first few days produced something more of a piddle than a song. Fortunately, with the help of a little well placed instruction and the development of some very fine gripping muscles, by the end of my stay I was producing a righteous foam in my bucket of thick goat milk. I was damn proud of my hard earned pails of fresh leche.

My days hummed along with the cycles of life. Everything needed to be fed. Everything needed to be watered. Everything needed attention. Everything needed to be made to feel comfortable. Generally, everything needed its share of love and if it got it, all was well. I just kept thinking, how healthy and satisfied I felt each day. I was outside, in the sunshine, using my physical body in every way it was designed to work.

There's always time for play

Of course, such a hard working machine needs some fuel to keep it going and this was perhaps the most rewarding part of working on the farm. The owners were two lovely people named Amnon and Dahlia who in addition to the goat farm, also ran a small restaurant for people by appointment only. Each day, there would be a small group of cars who would come all the way out to our little corner of the countryside from the hustle and bustle of the big city (Tel Aviv or Jerusalem). They came for a taste of the real Israel and it is what they certainly got. We provided them with lush salads of locally grown vegetables, an assortment of fresh and aged cheeses made from the very milk I was gathering, earthy bread still warm from the oven and even a glass or two of wine made from grapes grown and crushed just a few meters away. Naturally, the cooking skills were carried directly over into the feasts the whole family and the workers ate together.

The first meal of the day, very important

A typical breakfast started with a small dish of goat yogurt. To this we would add honey or a syrup made from dates. The next item on the menu was a heaping hunk of flat bread and goat lebne (a very tangy thick dairy product somewhat similar to cream cheese) drenched in olive oil. Then there would usually be a hot dish of goose eggs and vegetables stewed in a cast iron skillet. A fresh salad was also always served. It was usually made up of a combination of fresh cabbage, Persian cucumbers, tomatoes, parsley and perhaps some green or white onion. Thanks to all the hard work, I couldn’t eat enough so I tried my darndest to pack in as many calories as humanly possible at every sitting. Still, even though totally full, I always left the table feeling somewhat hungry.

Lebne and olives....mmmmmm

Dinner was another real treat. There was always a large gathering of people and we usually ate the meal off a large silver tray served at ground level. Everyone sat on cushions arranged in a circle around the food. The meal always began with a blessing of the bread and then everyone was poured a small glass of homemade wine. The dishes, though they varied from night to night were normally a rotation of the following. First there was a wonderful salad of large chunks of fresh vegetables combined with plenty of olive oil, fresh lemon juice and a hint of mint or cilantro. There would usually be a side dish of tahini topped with more olive oil and perhaps zatar spice – a blend of middle eastern spices, mostly oregano, and sesame seeds. The main dish was usually meat, often chicken or goat fixed in a gravy with plenty of stewed vegetables and plenty of spices. Everything was always served with plenty of bread or matza. After the meal, it was customary to have coffee or some tea with fresh mint, sugar and goat milk. Sweets were generally very uncommon.

A real dinner spread

In the end though, it was the company that made work on the farm truly memorable. As I said, the owners were a man named Amnon and his wife Dahlia. Amnon was a gentle soul of few words but lofty ideals. In many ways, he was something of a yoda character. I would ask a question like “Which pen should I put the goats in?” and instead of a straight answer, i would get another question that seemed more concerned with the functionality of the universe than the goats. Dahlia was a woman cut from the same cloth but with a softer sell. At first, she seemed a bit suspicious of me, the farmhand that evidently hadn’t spent much time in the field. However, she was a wonderful cook and I think it was my frequent moans of pleasure and questions regarding each dish she brought to the table. I quickly bonded with each of them, over discussions of travel, food and life and politics in the United States. Actually, it was a bit surprising just how eager they were to engage me since it is usually the case that Israeli’s don’t enjoy discussing politics with strangers. Surprisingly, Americans have a reputation around the world for being arrogant and happy to make decisions for everyone else. I am always happy to reassure strangers that not every American is like this.

In addition to Amnon and Dahlia, many members of their family, their spouses and their children were a constant presence throughout the day. It was refreshing to sit down to dinner and listen to the ebb and flow of Hebrew as the young one’s were instructed on the finer points of growing up a responsible Israeli. Overall, there were about 7 other members of the family hanging around, sometimes more if anyone decided to stop in. Then there were the other volunteers as well.

Now, my main partner in crime was a cute German guy named Jacob who had been at the place for a few weeks before I arrived. He was rather young, 23, and stoic but an all around great guy. He was my main teacher about the ins and outs of life on the farm. Most importantly, he was a great distraction and a good partner in crime if either of us made any mistakes. Sadly, it wasn’t until the last day that I learned he was a rather open minded young man and no stranger the occasional affair with a boy.

During my short stay, I was also fortunate enough to work with a Danish girl who was working on the farm while her Israeli boyfriend was in jail for ditching his military service, a French girl who also doubled as a cook and a baker, and another German girl who couldn’t wait to get off a farm where she was always…dirty. I’m truly grateful for each one of these people during my stay. The conversations and distraction each of them provided was simply invaluable.

Of course, my days spent on the farm had to end and I would continue my journey in the usual fashion – bumming a ride with strangers, getting dropped off at a bus station only to be picked up by a mini van and dropped of exactly where my next adventure would begin. This Israel is truly a great land.

Center of Spirituality?

Jerusalem proved to be a far different experience than I had imagined. Actually, I don’t know what I was expecting to find. Regardless, It was certainly not what I got.

Contemplating religion

My first mistake was to book a last minute hostel on the outskirts of the old city, just a stone’s throw from Damascus gate. Upon arrival at my designated residence for the next five days, I was told they did not have any room left but I could have a mattress on the roof if I so desired. Now, at this time I figured I had made a mistake. I figured I might be at the wrong place. After all, I had booked for a place called New Palm Guesthouse but this place was called New Palm Hostel and Hotel. While that might sound obviously like the same place, in Asia I had ran into many instance where one place would piggyback off the good reputation of a known establishment. I thought perhaps this was the same scenario. To be honest, I was actually hoping I had made a mistake. My first glance confirmed my fears that it was going to be a dirty establishment. So off I went, back outside in an attempt to find a different place. Unfortunately, the first one was the best of the area. All of the hostels seemed to be dark and dirty. Plus, it was holiday time in Israel and every place was booked solid. So, with my tail between my legs, I went pack to Ye Old New Palm Hostel and demanded my reservation be honored. I showed them my email confirmation and the deposit I had already paid. Actually, I made good use of the Mediterranean bargaining techniques I had learned on the mean streets of Astoria, New York City. If you haven’t learned them, pay close3 attention. The first thing you do is raise the volume of your voice until it is loud enough to be heard from down the street. Next, you get your hands and arms into the mix with lots of exaggerated gesturing. Finally, you need to set your face into a deeply questioning scowl. Eventually, the hostel conceded. Part of me wished they had not. Somehow, even though I had just been told there was no space at all, they found a bed for me in a damp, dungeon of a room without any actual windows. There were ten other beds in the room, all exceptionally small and all covered with dingy sheets and pillows. I gulped and resolved to weather the storm for the next few days as best I could. However, the first night made imagining another four nearly unbearable. Just imagine, cramped dirty beds, unsanitary bathroom facilities where there is no separation between the toilet and shower and no natural light. Add to this an unbearable noisy chorus of snoring and you can come close to imagining a traveler’s hell.

Sadly, the misery didn’t end with the hostel. Old Jerusalem proved to be far less savory than I had imagined. True, perhaps it is loaded with history. Sadly, in my opinion, it is entirely void of charm. From the moment I entered the ancient walls through Damascus gate, I was trapped in a maze that seemed to stretch for miles. It was composed of winding streets, shops and hagglers. Naturally, all the normal chaos of the place had been amplified thanks to the holiday season. To say the least, I was nearly overcome with anxiety by the end of the first day.

Then came my saving grace. I was sitting on my dirty bed, attempting to read a book when three young women entered the room and began chatting. I reached out. “So, did you have trouble checking in too?” I asked. It turns out they did. They were supposed to have had a private room but somehow they got shuffled into the hole as well. I figured by the accent one of them must be American. Then again, she could have been Canadian. You can’t really tell unless they say a word like “pasta.” (pronounced paste-ah) It turns out she was a California native after all. Her name was Olivia. The other two were Austrians named Thesi and Alena. Well, I guess I must have looked a bit forlorn because Olivia asked me if I needed a hug. I hesitated at first, feeling a bit awkward, both because of the stranger factor and for shame of being needy. But need it I did and I soon found myself wrapped in a warm embrace from a kind, loving soul. In the end, we spent the next few days in each other’s company. We took tours, ate meals and even hit up a few bars together, like good little Westerner’s tend to do. They loved having a man to make them secure and I loved being loved on.

My beautiful saviors

One story that illustrates my continued disappointment happened during our four hour tour of the city. We were parading around from one holy site to the next seeing where history happened. It was Easter weekend and the city was slammed with people. Everyone seemed a bit cranky and out of sorts. Well, one of our first stops was the holiest place in Christianity, the supposed burial place / site of crucifixion of Jesus Christ – the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. We had to squeeze our way into what is actually a massive space and parade around all sorts of confusing stairs and passages ways. “Over here you will see Golgotha, the hill on which Jesus was placed on a cross …and over here, how conveniently, is the tomb Jesus was placed.” The first thing I noticed is that everything is dripping with gold, gems and all the other things Jesus talked about all the time during the course of his life. There are altars and candles and incense burning everywhere – it all helps to create a very heavy atmosphere. Of course, growing up Catholic, these are just things one comes to expect from their religion. What I didn’t know about this place though is that it is a church very divided, in six ways as a matter of fact. Yes, even in the most holy spot in Christianity, there is a constant conflict about whose Jesus is the right Jesus and who has the right to give him praise and worship. And, on this particular day, we were in for a real treat when two priests of differing denominations decided to throw down just feet from the final resting place of the man at the center of the New Testament. Really classy guys.

Jesus was crucified here...?

Still, i cannot leave my audience believing that it is only the Christians who are in conflict. No. Instead, it seems the whole of Jerusalem is a battleground for deciding whose god is the one true god. The city is literally divided into three main quarters – The Christan, the Jewish, and the largest, the Muslim. There is a 24 hour Israeli military presence and in my short few days walking the streets, i was personally witness to numerous scuffles. As for the holiest of sites, anyone dressed in opposing religious robes needs a personal escort to safely pass through the area. Truly, things have reached a point of ridiculous. Instead of feeling inspired and enriched by the spirituality of the city, I was instead feeling angry and desiring to distance myself from the truly divisive institutions of religion I saw all around me.

Yeah, that's THE Western Wall

Eventually, we all decided we had had enough of Jerusalem. We made our way to a beach town in the South on the Red Sea. Finally, it was time to relax. Ahhhh…

A Purrrfect City

Have you ever wondered where you might want to live if you were homeless? As a human, I would probably choose somewhere sunny with cool breezes and perhaps even a beach. Lately I’ve learned that the world’s vagrant cat population have chosen exactly such a climate to reside – Tel Aviv. Never before have I seen such a proliferation of feline friends in one concentrated area. At all hours of the day and night you can see and hear them as they go about their whiskery business. Fortunately, I like cats. Then again, I’m allergic so I do my watching from a distance. Still, I can’t help but wonder what someone with an phobia of such frisky critters would do if they landed here unaware. This is just one of the many strange tidbits I’ve gathered but I find it absolutely fascinating. I’m attaching some pictures for your viewing pleasure.

When I later asked some of the locals why there are so many cats around, they didn’t seem to know what I was talking about. As a few more feline’s walked between my legs and another crooned to the moon, I explained that I wasn’t used to so many at one time. I then asked about the pound. “Isn’t there a place that takes them away.” Well, that comment was not received well and I was looked at with utter horror and disgust. So a word of advice, when in Tel Aviv, steer clear of cats and any conversation about “fixing” the problem.

Cat on garbage bin

...and Another.

Relaxing under the tire.

Basking in the shade

Coming round the bend

Crossing the path

Feeling nostalgic

Ganging up

Playing with Streotypes

The southern part of Israel is very much like one might imagine – sand colored hills, rough, weather stripped buildings and even random camels and goats frolicking along the side of the road. While you might not imagine such a climate to be extremely desirable, I have found that the desert can be some of the most beautiful and lively terrain around. This trip was certainly no exception.

As one drives South from Tel Aviv, the lush vegetation around the city begins to withdraw slowly and gradually as if the moisture was quite literally being sucked from the countryside. In less than one hour, green valleys have been replaced with rocky crags; browns, yellows and whites become the dominant shades of the land. Frequently, and perhaps quite annoyingly, I made everyone stop along the highway to take pictures of signs I thought were hilarious. Case in point:

This is how we do it in the desert.

Now, the first stop on the Southern journey also happens to be the place I was most excited about seeing in Israel, the Dead Sea. For a long time, the place, the lowest point on the planet, has held great mystery and excitement for me. If you are unfamiliar with the Dead Sea, allow me to fill you in a little. The first thing one will notice is the brilliant blues and greens fringed by white crusts. In Hebrew, it is called Yam Hamelakh or “Sea of Salt”. Allow me to tell you form very first hand/first mouth experience that the name is true. In fact, the flavor is downright nasty. Of course, most people know never to open their mouth in the waters. I however, had no idea about Dead Sea protocol and upon arriving to its shores, I decided to jump right in. Fortunately, upon seeing me galumphing in, my guides yelled at me not to put my head in. Sadly, this warning came too late for me to avoid a mouthful. It tasted like bitter, oily brine brine that was entirely saturated with sodium and sulfur. It quickly occurred to me how lucky I was to have avoided getting it in my eyes! Still, the waters of the Dead Sea are a marvelously unique experience. Because of the high salt content, everyone is extremely buoyant. It feels a bit like having a bunch of invisible water vests tied to your body. In fact, it is said that the Dead Sea is one of the few places a person cannot sink. I had a great time sitting Indian style, propped by the water in a perfectly relaxing meditation. Additionally, the viscosity of the sea is truly extraordinary. Instead of feeling wet, it feels slick and oily. Imagine bathing in a pool of baby oil and you begin to have the right idea. While the waters are said to have great therapeutic effects recognized since biblical times, after too long, it begins to become a bit painful. This effect is only compounded if the bather has any sort of cut or scratch on their skin. When I left the water, my skin felt slick and as i began to dry, I felt a slight burning sensation, especially around the more sensitive places on my body. For future reference, an immediate rinse in fresh water is a must.

Getting ready to be pickled.

Naturally, after a few days of salt therapy, it was time to move on. Situated on a rock plateau at the edge of the Judean Desert overlooking the Dead sea is Masada (Metsada in Hebrew). It was home to Herod the Great, yes, the same one you remember from the Bible. After a number of people said how great it was to see the sun rise from the top, we decided to get up while it was still dark and hike to the top. The climb took just about an hour up some very steep terrain known as the “Snake Path.” While that might sound rather threatening, the name really just indicates the number of switchbacks along the way. When we finally did arrive at the top, quite exhausted, we were greeted by about a hundred, young Israeli soldiers who had also made the climb that morning. They, however, carried sandbags up just for the fun of it. They were gathered in circles jumping around and singing songs. Apparently, they had just completed another level of their training and this was a graduation ceremony of sorts. Fortunately, they were also quite friendly and I was able to get a few pictures with some cute soldiers. There’s just something about a man in a uniform.

Well, we made it for sunrise. It gave me a good idea of why someone would want to build such a large complex in such an obscure spot. Just imagine the golden orange rays of the sun warming the aqua waters of Yam Hamelakh while spectacular salt formations glitter all around. It might have been a rough climb but the scene that opens up is breathtaking. After spending a long day touring some great ruins of an ancient people, be made our way back down and on to our next destination, a little town called Mitspe Ramon.

Because I had not planned any part of this excursion, I had no idea why we were going to this seemingly obscure city in the south of Israel. Even after we checked in to our hotel, nothing seemed particularly special. Normal sun-soaked town, pleasant, relaxed atmosphere, comfortable accommodations. We found our way to a local cafe for what I thought was an extraordinary lunch of lebne, hummus, roasted red peppers and super fresh salads. Here I also learned how much I like a cheese they called Bulgarian cheese. It is very similar to feta but softer, fresher and more vibrant. Well, on our way home from lunch, it was suggested that we walk a little past our hotel down the street. We slowly meandered down the dusty street filled with a larger than average number of cats. At the end was a little park. On we walked until suddenly, just past the wall at the edge of the park, a vast expanse opened up before us. There, before us, is what made this town a spectacular wonder. It was a giant crater made thousands of years ago. The hole was 40 km (30 miles) around and absolutely marvelous. In many ways, it reminded me of the grand canyon, but with a much more Middle Eastern flair.

On the edge of the lonely crater.

Later that night, we ventured down into the canyon by car. At moments, it seemed like we were stranded on a planet far far away in an unknown galaxy. Above us, the stars were shining brightly, the landscape was a blue gray and there were no other lights for miles. Now, the objective of our jaunt was to have dinner at a Bedouin camp. After about 20 minutes of driving in darkness, we pulled off onto a dirt road and continued our voyage. After driving for what seemed an eternity and even turning around twice, we finally found our destination. It was like coming to the end of the world only to find a new civilization perched on the edge. That night we dined on delicious simple fair of flatbreads, tahini sauce, incredible olives and raw vegetables.

As the night drew to a close, I sat back, listened to the sound of Arabic music and watched the happy people dancing around us. Truly, my journey to the south of Israel had been something out of a Middle Eastern storybook. However, this picture of Israel is not what the majority of the country is like. There have been all sorts of challenges to my stereotypes but those stories will have to wait for another day.

Life in the Middle, East

The city built on the beach - Tel Aviv

As I’m about to begin another journey filled with all sorts of mystery and promise, I think about the last year and a half I have spent in New York City. In this time, I have made a ton of great friends, dealt with plenty of landlord drama, eaten countless wonderful meals, and found myself deeper in community than I have ever been before. And yet, I sense a deep undercurrent of change. I know it is time to get moving. So, once again, I’m going to indulge my travel lust. This time, I’m beginning my trip in Israel with my boyfriend. Yes, I will be meeting his family. Yes, I will be spending the Jewish high holiday of Passover in the Holy Land. Am I nervous? Certainly. Am I excited? Most definitely. Fortunately, I’ve equipped myself with a variety of tools like travel books, expert knowledge of packing and now, a basic understanding of the Hebrew language. Actually, I’m very excited to see how that last one goes over. Shhhh….my boyfriend, Or, doesn’t know that I learned Hebrew. I’m gonna surprise him with it when I land. “Anni metabao katsat Hivrit.” But I only speak a very little. We’ll see how everything goes over. There is so much to see and I cannot wait for my first plate of hummus, falafel and Israeli salad.

Of course, slightly edging out the food in place of importance (slightly) is the careful study of a whole new group of people. Certainly, in terms of variety, Israel is one of the most interesting places on earth to be at this time. Very few other countries in the world can boast such a mix of culture and ethnic diversity. While some might say there is a certain “Israeli look” consisting of mainly dark features, one moment on the ground will show a vast array of skin, eye, and hair colors. Also, if you thought everyone spoke the same language, Hebrew, you’re mostly right, but very few speak it with the same accent. Everyone is from everywhere. Some people come from Europe. Others come from the Middle East. A few are transplants from the new world. Still others come from the largest new immigrant group, Russian Jews. In the end though, all are united under the umbrella of their religion though most, perhaps surprisingly, are quite secular. There is also one more myth to clear up; Israel is a land which prides itself on the separation of state and religion. It is very European in most ways and prides itself on a firm commitment to freedom and liberty. Think of it as an oasis in the middle of extremism and conservatism.

Finally, it would be hard to end such a beginning without mentioning the beautiful men which inhabit this land. If you’re looking for the above average dark and handsome, well, you’ve come to the right place. For what it’s worth, if that’s your style, here’s a wink and a smile and a hearty recommendation.

Read on my friends. There will be many posts in the weeks to come. I will be in Israel for April and then May will find me in Turkey. As always, you can expect to find plenty of stories on all the things that excite Mike Duffy – stand tuned for plenty of Food and Fairytales. And please, let me know what you think and feel free to send some questions my way. smooches

Erin’s Egg Flower

A burst of creativity can come on all of a sudden. On occasion, inspiration finds us entirely unaware. Sometimes art is a thing that happens to us and through us but not necessarily because of us.

Food sometimes happens this way. In fact, many of my greatest works of cuisine have materialized through an odd combination brought on by hunger pains. Other times, I just really want to make use of some new spice that caught my eye at the grocery. This then finds its way into a soup or a salad and suddenly new pockets of heaven open up behind my tongue. It’s all about being creative and not afraid to make mistakes.

My sister had one such burst of inspiration just today. She was making a poached egg and after placing it on toast, she then proceeded to cut it in a unique way. While there was nothing special about the preparation method, there in front of her suddenly materialized a stunning flower.
Knowing that I love to take pictures of my food, my sister, Erin, forwarded me the picture she took along with the caption “My breakfast. It was so pretty! Thought I’d send it to someone who’d appreciate it.” Of course she was right. However, I simply assumed she had had breakfast in some cute asian restaurant where they specialize in such plate decorations. In reality, Erin had just given the egg a chop, chop and voila – a work of art.

Actually, I’m not sure why I was so surprised or delighted by the result. But really, how cool is something like that? Feel free to find inspiration in Erin’s Egg Flower for yourself. Make one for yourself or someone special in your life. They are sure to feel loved.

Africa, You Make Me Sick

Let me begin by stating I never wanted to go to Africa.  World traveling had always been a dream of mine but the African continent was never a destination I fantasized about.  However, my journey led me that direction entirely because my little sister Meghan was a Peace Corps. volunteer in Mozambique.  Life brought me to the stream.  I just went with the flow.

Oh Africa, Oh Megs

I must admit the best part of Africa was being with my sister Meghan.  After many months of traveling on my own, to finally be able to hug and be hugged by someone I truly, deeply love was an incomparable feeling.  She too had spent many months without seeing  family and so we spent the next couple of days in a bit of a quiet glow.  Meghan, however, would never be accused of being the sentimental sort and so her slightly rough-around-the-edges attitude quickly cut the joy fest short.  Then again, it really didn’t matter.  We were in Africa and it was time for a new world experience.

I distinctly remember my first feelings about Maputo.  The way the light hit the land was mesmerizing.  I kept commenting about just how bright and clear everything seemed.  Meghan didn’t seem to notice, nor did she seem to care for that matter.  The sun scorched land was an ever present entity.  People moved about conducting their daily business at all times of the day.  They were unlike anything I had seen before.  Everywhere I looked, bright white teeth and eyes shone out from gorgeous black faces.  Compared to Asia, these people seemed twice as large and twice as strong.  Instead of understated, demure expressions, strong proud features popped on curious Mozambican faces.  I was amongst a new people and I was excited to see what made their lives rich.  I imagined what their hopes, dreams and fears might be.  Throughout my journey, my ears would be filled with the chorus of a new song.  The language of this land was Portuguese, the adopted language of Mozambique. My perspective was about to expand once again.

Naturally, the first thing Meghan and I did was eat.  Fortunately, Megs is also a true foodie and I think she was excited to be able to share her love of all things edible.  I also imagine she was thrilled to have me bankrolling her for a period of time.  As one would expect, our first meal was a delicious native dish of , you guessed it, Thai food.  Yeah, it seems this wonderful cuisine has even made it to Maputo (say ‘mah-poo-too’), Mozambique.

Megs models Thai salad. Gorgeous.

Megs had been craving some Thai fare since she first arrived in Maputo.  I didn’t mind.  In fact, I figured it would be a fitting transition for my first meal since coming from Asia to Africa.  Thai food in Mozambique – what a beautiful world.  To be fair, the meal was good, not great.  The seafood salad was tangy and bright, freshly seasoned with cilantro and lime juice. The main course, however was a bit bland – noodles in a peppery, tomato sauce.  The flavors were a bit more Italian than Asian.  Fortunately, I was not worried.  On the contrary, I actually take great pleasure in discovering how each culture interprets other native dishes.  Chinese food in India is a world apart from Chinese food in America.  The same goes for Thai food in Africa.  It was interesting.  It was good.  It was clear I was not in Asia any more.

Perhaps it would have been wise to stick to my Asian diet, even in Africa.  Instead, I back lashed against my former staples of rice and fish.  From the first day in Africa, I hit the ground running, consuming all manner of cheesy, meaty wonders.  For the first time in a long time, I was able to get truly Western fare and I was delighted.  The national dish of Mozambique is Frango (say ‘frahn-goo’) – grilled, quartered chicken, and Xima (say ‘shee-mah’) – a quivering corn meal porridge dish.  The xima is the primary carbohydrate in Mozambique.  Sometimes these dishes are accompanied by a tomato sauce or a piri-piri (hot peppers and oil).  Sometimes a third national dish of matapa (peanuts ground up with yuca/cassava, they call it mandioca, cooked in coconut milk) makes an appearance.  None of the native dishes are exceptionally flavorful but they are still tasty and satisfying.  I can only really say this in hindsight.  Sadly, this particular meal really did seem to be the ONLY thing Mozambicans eat.  Everywhere we went, in every town, every restaurant, from the North to the South, we were served chicken and xima.  Period.  Being a true foodie and a lover of variation, it goes without saying I was quite tired of this meal by the end of my stay.  To hear the phrase “chicken and shee-mah” made me roll my eyes and blurt a sarcastic “Hah!”  Megs and I would play something of a game – Guess What’s for Dinner Tonight! I always won.

Living in Moz

As I should have expected, the abrupt change in diet did not result in happy times for my innards.  Instead, they decided to refuse to digest my choice Western dietary selections and instead pass it through with much noise and gurgitation.  To complicate matters further, the newly acquired African flora in my intestines began to concoct the most amazing case of diarrhea I had yet to see in my 25 years.  Within three days, I was peeing from both ends.  Sitting to use the toilet became a  necessity “just in case.”  To combat my frequent and unpredictable spasms, it became necessary to fast for whole days when traveling.  We traveled a lot the first week.  In fact, in the course of seven days we traveled from Maputo to Namaacha to Quissico to Vilanculos and finally to Meghan’s hometown of Chimoio.  Each leg of the journey involved exceedinly long car rides along shoddy roads  in overstuffed minivans.  Of course, we were always in the company of many countrymen and women.  The days were hot, the bodies were ripe, and all the while, my stomach gurgled and groaned.  Thank god for the Immodium.

To be fair though, the gorgeous countryside  saved the trip for me.  Mozambique is probably the second most beautiful place I have ever seen – Indonesia being the first.   Moz just happens to be incredibly pristine and complete with all manner of landscapes and habitats.  Of course, one would have to like dry climates to really appreciate Mozambique, but like I said earlier, the way the light hits the land is magnificent.  In some areas, it’s hard to deduce how the earth came to be shaped the way it is.  Imagine standing on a hill overlooking a vast expanse of plain that stretches as far as the eye can see.  The wind is whipping over the surface of the ruff, sun scorched soil.  All around, the earth is speckled with patches of green and gray where plants have broken through the dry ground.  Suddenly, a hill, but actually something more like a mountain, has shot up from the otherwise totally flat landscape.  It is like some cosmic finger pushed a mountain up here and there at random just because it looked better that way.  Now add to all this the truly brilliant lighting display and the result is simply stunning.  Thankfully, the views were enough to make the long car rides bearable.  “Now, excuse me Senhora.  Please get your live chicken off of me.”

When Megs and I finally did get to Chimoio (Say “shih-moy-you”), I was the least desirable guest one could imagine.  Still debilitated with diarrhea, I sat around my sister’s apartment most of the day reading books and taking things very easy.  After all, I never knew if a little grumble would send me running to the latrine.  Now, if you know my sister, you’d know she is one of the most diligent and productive people on Earth.  For Megs, downtime is a complete waste  of time.  In her estimation, I was throwing my days away.  On top of this, Meghan had yet to get sick at any point while living in Africa.  Most of the time she just looked at me like an alien being.  How could anyone be so weak and helpless?  How could I just sit there all day and do nothing?  I could tell I was testing her patience.  She had no sympathy for me.   Fortunately, she is my sister and by default she loves me.  But if she had a choice…

While my discomforts did last three weeks, I certainly was not about to let my troubles stop me from experiencing a whole new continent.  I joined Meghan on several outings into the bush.  Really, I’m not just using the word “bush” carelessly either.   To get to the destination, imagine riding in an old Jeep along a dirt road for hours, bouncing and rattling all the way.  Then imagine huts made of grass and women carrying water on their heads.  Yep, we were in places like that, places most people believe only  exist on television or in National Geographic Magazine.

I would accompany Meghan on her do-gooding work (reminder:  Megs is a Peace Corps volunteer) as she went around educating the locals about endemic diseases like TB, Cholera, HIV/AIDS, and even leprosy.  While Megs changed the word, I spent my days bumming around dusty roads.  At night we dined on Mozambique’s finest – chicken and xima – and at night we curled up on a dirty mattress on a cold dirty floor.  The whole time, I was forced to deal with my digestion woes over a public squat toilet (also called a hole-in-the-ground).  These facilities were free of toilet paper and only contained a small tea kettle for rinsing purposes.  As you might be able to understand, I am now thrilled by the sight of washrooms in the United States and I think I forever will be.

After three weeks of the runs, I decided I had had enough.  I was pissed from pissing so much and I was entirely drained.  I had lost a substantial amount of weight and was beginning to fear eating or drinking anything.  So I opted to take some fantastic antibiotics.  Normally, I am totally against antibiotics.  They wreak havoc on one’s system and tend to do an equal amount of harm later on.  Still, something needed to be done so I looked to my old pal Cipro for help.   For travelers, Cipro is like a designer drug bomb that destroys everything in the digestive system.  I had taken it when I traveled in India a few years earlier and while it is some pretty heavy, scary stuff, it’s also a little like magic.  One night after waking up four times to use Meghan’s non-flushing toilet (buckets only, please), I decided I’d had enough.  So I slammed one of those Cipro buggers down and went back to bed.  Sure enough, the next day…nothing.  My flow had stopped completely.  The day after that, my stool had firmed up.  One cannot begin to imagine the joy this brought to my life!  Slowly, slowly I began to eat real food again.  Sadly, the joy would not last long.  Two days later, I was back to hearing that old familiar sound of tinkling coming from both ends.  Yes, Mr. Diarrhea was back.

Now I was truly concerned and began a regimen of what was left of my Cipro (three days worth) followed by another Peace Corp. volunteer’s antibiotics, followed by some shady pills we purchased at the local pharmacy.  They turned out not be antibiotics at all but rather just something like Immodium to suppress the immediate symptoms.  Oh, by the way, I had already passed on several pills the “pharmacist” had tried to give me.  His recommendation was some horrible thing that promised no end of ghastly side effects.  The only way I knew not to take the medication was because the directions were printed in English, probably leftovers and samples from American drug companies.  There is no way the locals would have been able to figure out they were being given some potentially dangerous, likely ineffective meds.  Yikes!)  Fortunately, my new, albeit questionable cocktail, held off my symptoms for the last week until I was able to make it back home.  Still, there was a constant feeling of uncertainty.

Hanging out with the Kids

Overall, the people of Mozambique were a peculiar bunch.  As I’ve already said, they were beautiful.  I was thrilled to see such strong people everywhere who were all smiles.  Every guy I saw seemed to want to talk and be friends.  In fact, I remember being caught off guard at just how open and inviting males were.  To be fair, this was a feeling I had experienced over and over throughout my non-Western travels.  Men were comfortable, warm and welcoming with other men.  They wanted to talk, to stand close and to even hold my hand if they felt they really liked me.   It was a strange but beautiful experience, really.

Now, Megs would not let me get away with this warm evaluation of the people of Mozambique.  In fact, I was rather disappointed with peoples’ behavior and wrote extensively about it in my journal.  One excerpt goes something like this: “The people here have a real attitude problem.  Seems unique to Mozambique too because Zimbabweans don’t seem to have it.  Everywhere we go in this country, people act and react like they have some enormous chip on their shoulder.  Every request gets a raised eyebrow and a big how-dare-you-disturb-me sigh.”  Really, that is how I felt I was treated most of the time.  In addition to this, life seemed, on average, rather painful to most people.  I kept commenting to my sister about just how expensive everything was in Mozambique compared to every country I had been to in Asia.  This fact was surprising to me because the standard of living in Moz is so low.  Yet, the cost of that same life was remarkably high.  For instance, an egg cost about 25 cents.  Not too bad by US standards but shocking when the average person only earns a couple of dollars a day.  In Southeast Asia, 5 cents for an egg would be a high price.

Flying in Style in Mozambique

At the end of my month in Africa, I was sooooo ready to be home again.  Granted, I would spend the next two days hanging out in airports before arriving on American soil, but even airports seemed like worlds of wonder to me.  (Can you believe the toilets flush! eeeee! And I can put toilet paper in them! eeeee!)  Never again could I fail to appreciate the little things that make life great.  Never again could I pretend life in Africa was somehow removed and imaginary.  My world had collided with all manner of people and places and there was no way I could go back to a place of naivety.  There is always a way to move forward and I was so happy to be going back to one of the nicest places in the World.  Home.

Depends

Living in New York City means being witness to a whole host of odd and wonderful occurrences.  Life is just more interesting when you put millions of people from all over the world together on a tiny landmass.  I figure I might as well relate a few of my more interesting stories  in the pages of this blog.

One memorable event ocurred a few days ago while I was riding the N train from Ditmars Boulevard to my place of employment in Manhattan.  I had been taking this particular train for a few days while I was staying at my friend Tim’s place in Astoria while my apartment in Brooklyn was still unavailable.  I had noticed one particular character (yes, there are always many on the NYC subway system) on the train a few times before.  He was an entirely disgruntled looking blind man probably in his early sixties.  My guess is he probably came from somewhere like Greece or Bulgaria or maybe even  Serbia.  Regardless, the thick accent of the Old Country was still clearly audible in his voice and his manner many made it fairly clear he cursed his decision to ever come to the land of the free.

This was his shtick – every day he would get on the train and move from car to car playing a tiny plastic piano which required him blowing into a straw-like protrusion on the top.  He would pound on the keys creating something vaguely reminiscent of a melody.  This usually lasted about two minutes.  He would then put down his instrument and command people to give him money in a booming voice.  Occasionally a few brave souls would reach out a dollar bill to him.

Like I said, I had seen him do this act before and so I was all set for the show on this particular July day.  It started out in the predictable way.  First he shuffled to the centerof the train car with a horrible grimace cemented to his face.  Next he pulled out the plastic instrument from somewhere beneath his slightly dirty mustard-yellow shirt.  While maintaining his perfectly pained expression, he put the tiny piano to his lips and began to blow out a tune.  Today, however, the spectators were in for a special treat as he began to kick his leg out to the side.  Was he about to perform a little dance as well?  No! Instead, something white and pillowy began to peek forth from his pant leg.  With each kick, the protrusion escaped more and more till he finally gave one last hurrah and it flew up into the air and planted itself firmly on the floor of the subway car with a slightly sick thud.  There it was,  an  adult diaper glaring at the whole train car.

When the musical number was finished, the old man fumbled over his newly liberated undergarment and moved on to the next train car.  If he felt any remorse, it was undetectable.  The rest of us, however, were left to contemplate the the meaning of the aftermath.  I was overcome by the absolute absurdity of the entire situation.  Others, it seemed, didn’t share my joy filled sentiment.  The absolute horror on many of the faces only amplified my joy which only amplified their horror.  Oh well.  This city really is crazy.  I love it.

Food Coma

If you are wondering why I’ve entirely abandoned posting for the past couple months, the best explanation I can give is something of a resting recovery. Yeah, I’ve kind of been hibernating, trying to digest and process the experiences I have had. In one word – overwhelming.  In multiple words – it’s been awesome, exhilarating and even traumatic.  I’ve needed some time.  Know, I haven’t forgotten about posting.  Rather, I feel I’m being responsive to the ebb and flow of the creative juices in my soul. While my life has been rich in stories, the desire to transcribe them in full has not been present. Fortunately, the tide is changing and you will soon see the faucet turning back on.  I  recognize the need for an outlet. No promises of a time line though.  I am approaching the end of one great adventure and soon to begin a new chapter.  Know that a lack of blogging did/does not coincide with a lack of writing – the journal is thick and I do have more than a few juicy tidbits still.  There is much to share.

Love, Mike