All’s Well that Ends Well

Across the street from my house in a small forest there is a tree that fell over ages ago. The top portion stretches its branches out into a small ditch, as if forever trying to grasp the other side but never quite gets there. Down below there's a narrow stream that runs with a few fish in the deeper spots; its not too loud but the stepping stones I put down as a child now make for good background noise. The moss, soft and moist to the touch, has grown over most of the tree after years of its decay, and I'm certainly not the only creature that enjoys the spot, but I like it all the same. Over the years I’ve spent a lot of time at that tree, just lying there with my bare feet dangling off the side with eyes closed and some fantastical reel playing on the backs of my eyelids. Sometimes I go to think, or to get lost in the silence, sometimes to remember, and sometimes to forget. You can't see the sky because of the leaves above, but I almost like it better that way. Its as if my second childhood mother is shielding me from the harsh light beyond with her majestic green canopy.

One would think that after spending so much time away from home I would want to be with friends and family, sharing stories of getting lost in the Grand Bazaar or learning traditional dance from a Georgian wine maker. Yet, as I showed pictures of crumbling Athenian ruins and blizzarding Swiss mountaintops, I could not help but yearn for that lone bark bed but a few yards away. And so, late one night I slipped through the cracks of my creaking house, over the still hot pavement from the day’s rays, and into the leafy darkness of a sticky midsummer night. The noise of mud squishing through my toes, the rustling of old autumn’s relics beneath my hardened heals, even the air flowing from my mouth seemed to echo on for miles as I followed the sticks that once boarded a neater trail. Passing the tee-pee with our soda cans and the rusted blue hood of some long forgotten ghost story I believed once upon a time I made my way to my spot.

Through the shadows, a dim glow attached to a human hand flicked with red ashes, the unseen smoke clenching to the damp air and sweetening the suspended water droplets. I was too loud for him not to notice, and he turned around as I backed away. For a moment, we both stood silent, allowing our eyes to adjust; each of our figures materializing from ominous outlines to something closer to human. He had grown since I last saw him, three, maybe four years ago- his features much more matured, his hair long and tussled, his clothes a different style. But even through night’s veil his eyes hinted at the boy that I once called my best friend.

We had the normal catching up conversation most old friends do. Those talks that sound like you two are complete strangers despite the fact that they still hold deep inside your most genuine secrets. We sat on that log for a long time without talking to each other. As I listened to an owl nearby, the darkness seemed to illuminate with distant memories of three kids running through these same trees barefoot, crouching low to escape the imaginary warplanes. Of picking out the perfect tree for that fort that was never built. Of catching a leprechaun, our noses frozen and our hoods covered in snow. Eventually, the threat of the sunrise pulled us back to reality. As I got up to leave his hand landed on mine; awkwardly we both pulled away, smiling at the thought of what once lifted me up out of the river below now shying away at my touch.

I doubt I will ever really talk to that old best friend again. We're old now. We're different. Somewhere along the way, we parted paths and never looked back at those secret adventures of three best friends. But despite all that, despite the fact that he will never be someone in my future, for that one brief moment we remembered. Those seconds, minutes, hours we spent on that log- those memories we silently shared- gave me something I hadn’t anticipated.

Six months ago I embarked on the journey of a lifetime, traveling to countries I thought were painted too far off the map for me to pin down. The cultures I’ve not only encountered, but lived, have been as distant to my own customs and as scintillatingly brilliant as the stars that faithfully reappear each night regardless of what continent I gaze from: I have taken part in a supra feast, making a toast from a wooden wine bowl between khatchepuri and lobioni dishes, and have sat silently pious in the Blue Mosque as the devout praised their Lord beneath magnificent tiled patterns and commanding, ornate chandeliers. The people that I’ve met along the way will forever be etched into my most cherished memories: running through orchards in Armenia towards the delectable smoke of a family BBQ and staying up too late in an anarchist café in Athens talking about philosophy have become as dear to me as those three kids. The beauty I have been inspired by will continue to leave me speechless as I marvel at the pictures that cannot possibly capture their aesthetic might: the hidden Haija Sophia church in Bulgaria with its ancient frescoed onion domes or the amazingly creative opera of A Midsummer Night’s Dream and the even more remarkably talented voices that brought it to life will never been forgotten. The nature of each distinct country has not only served as a backdrop for my travels but an integral part of my expedition, from monstrous storms high above the Swiss Alps to an Israeli sunset as magnificent as those of Monet’s pallet. And, finally, the lessons I have learned from teachers as diverse as Sub-Saharan African migrants in Morocco to contemporary artists in Georgia that no classroom could have taught will continue to shape my future opinions.

Years ago, that old best friend and I had the rest of our lives before us as we ducked under branches and hurtled over fallen trees. Our future possibilities were limitless- astronauts, the President, Hollywood, even Yankee Stadium (as a YMCA groundskeeper, of course). We dreamed of traveling to Africa to ride elephants and of inventing a time machine to see dinosaurs. We planned out how I would sing on Broadway and he in a rock band, living in the city, or Paris, or Timbuktu. Somewhere in between becoming blood brothers and shying at each other’s warmth we were both dealt our cards of seemingly infinite possibilities. I suppose we both chose what we thought was our best option at the time. And those choices led to others, that led to who we’ve become, that led to that night we silently shared.

I expected my travels to change me, and they have. How I see the world, how I see America, how I see myself have all changed because of my journeys from Tbilisi to London. But what has ultimately made those changes are not my visit to Mozart’s home in Vienna or fondue in Zurich; rather, it has been my life decisions that have led to those experiences. Looking back at where I’ve been and what I’ve done juxtaposed against my old best friend as the ashy orange glow relit for an encore, the phrase carpe diem never seemed so apparent. Life is entirely what you choose to make of it. It always has been, and I wager that it always will be. It’s about building up the courage to plunge into the labyrinth of a Moroccan medina instead of wondering through the tourist stands, about waking up before the sun and getting in a thirty hour line for Wimbledon tickets, about making the decision to follow your dreams with a full heart despite those inevitable obstacles. At first, I was petrified to return to the United States, fearful that this would be my last time to explore the gems of humanity with graduate school and a full time job on the horizon. But the final lesson that this trip has taught me is not to be afraid, but instead seize each and every opportunity of life. Perhaps it is a hackneyed message, but as I turned my back and left that old friend as silently as I came, I looked onto the rising sun with a smile, knowing that my next adventure will never be too far away.

Avenue Queue

Reshuffling our bags to make the quickest departure possible, my companion and I moved to the front of the bus, eying the other passenger and checking for those carrying tents (luckily to no avail). Though it was far too early on a Sunday morning for any sane person to be strolling the neatly trimmed streets, as soon as we disembarked from our red double decker we joined the handful of groups quickly making their way up the sidewalk with wary eyes glancing back at their competition. No group was running (perhaps because, like us, they thought it rude to pass up a fellow fan), but most were walking so fast that their overstuffed backpacks threatened to burst at every turn- and, in fact, some went further then threatened in an explosion of blankets, peanut butter jars, and underwear. Finally, signs promising of a queue began to appear, and (if possible) the pace quickened until, one by one, the couples past the park gate and the real running race began with increasing numbers of clothes casualties. Despite the fact that the first matches of the Wimbledon Tennis Championships were over twenty-four hours away, the line for tickets had already reached its second row. Making our way through the dewy grass to the back of the queue we passed tent upon tent with their excited owners sitting on lawn chairs watching the more recent campers trickling in and eagerly discussing the upcoming line up. Soon after we (with great difficultly) set up our tent, we too joined those early arrivals in watching the young and old make the trek towards the end of the queue in hopes that they were in the first five hundred to arrive. Thirty hours, six guitar-played Beatles songs by our tent neighbor, two games of soccer, and one game of cricket later we had finally exchanged our queue cards (marking us number 234 out of over 2,000) for center court seats at the 125^th Wimbledon Championships. Taking a deep breath and trying to suppress an impossibly big smile, I handed my ticket to the guard and entered into a dream come true.

Though watching the near mechanical perfection of Rafael Nadal from third row seats was no doubt the highlight of my week, it has had much competition for first place. Last Wednesday night I retired my (now wholly) jeans for my theatre best and made my way to St Martin’s Theatre to see the longest running show in the world, The Mousetrap by Agatha Christie. Growing up with Clue as my favorite board game and hosting a murder mystery dinner at age 12 (for those of you reading this who were there, I apologize now for the ridiculous costumes I made you all wear), The Mousetrap was a wonderful classic drama well worth the climb to the last row of seats. Despite giving over 23,000 performances, the play was just as enthralling and enchanting with its quirky characters and underlying dark humor as the day it opened 59 years ago. The following evening I again traveled to the West End theatre district to seeBlood Brothers, a story of twin brothers separated at birth only to be reunited upon their death. The musical was filled with witty songs of Marilyn Monroe, jests at Irish super station (Mom, I found someone else who won’t let their kids put new shoes on a table), and humorous depictions of childhood love; nevertheless, it ultimately had a stern message of class division in England and the extraordinarily opposite treatment and opportunities of the poor and the wealthy. Progressing from play to musical, on Friday I once again changed theatrical gears to attend a modern operatic interpretation of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Set in an all boys school with the chorus made up of youth, the tone was eerily mystical and dream-like with slow moving, sensual actors that seemed to make the audience almost uncomfortable. The score was absolutely incredible and fit Shakespeare’s verse impeccably and came to life with a faultless beauty in the cherubic voice of Oberon, the darkly deep voice of Titania, and the comically satirical non-singing part of Puck. Rounding out my dramatic week I veered away from drama to see the Shakespearean comedy Much Ado About Nothing at The Globe Theatre. The theatre itself is a reconstruction of the first known theatre in 1599, where Shakespeare worked and for which he wrote many of his best-known plays. Made of wood in a three-floored cylinder with an opened roof, the place has a magically joyful feel. Standing in the center leaning on the stage I had front row ‘seats’ to the hysterical tale of ‘merry wars’ of love, rumour, and deception. Though the actors preformed in Shakespearean English and dress, played towards contemporary perceptions of humor, which made it all the more amusing and memorable. 

Taking a break from the stage for a different aesthetic genre I ventured to the Tate Britain, which houses England’s collection of national artwork. The Romantics and Late Baroque satirical style of the feathery brushstrokes of John Constable’s landscapes and the socially critical dark humour of William Hogarth’s etchings that line the gallery walls give unparalleled insight to both the British mentality and art history. Much larger in size, I spent two days getting lost in the British National Gallery, spending hours following the contour lines of da Vinci’s Madonna in sfumatto and the contrapposto of Ruben’s three beauties in the Judgment of Paris. But by far my favorite canvases stained to perfection we those of J.M.W. Turner, the Romantic British painter whose sunset seascapes bursting with color foreshadowed the works of the famed Impressionists half a century later. His visions combining his affection for humans, belief in the sublime power of the natural world, and ominous premonition of the repercussions of the Industrial Revolution and modernization on both humanity and the environment in stretched linen swirling with dramatically transparent hues and highly intense natural light are simply awe-inspiring, so much so that their impression lingered in my mind long after my visit.

After a week’s worth of cultural outings I finally found myself in the Wimbledon grounds awaiting the first match of the day to commence. The park is faultless with perfectly manicured blooming flowers and shrubberies, precisely placed flagstones and carefully cut grass courts complimented by workers in suits and smiles offering tennis goers classic strawberries and cream. After watching a few players on the outer courts practice we made our way to Center Court, the largest of the complex, to absurdly good seats in the third row. We watched Nadal beat the good-humored American Michael Russell in three sets of unbelievable serves and unstoppable backhands and number six player Francesca Schiavone fend of an ill-tempered Aussi Jelena Dokic who challenged the callers more than I have ever seen in a Championship (to her credit, more than half were initially called incorrectly), and finally cheered on Andy Murray with a wonderfully wild national crowed (including the Royal Box) to defeat the Spanish Daniel Gimeno-Traver in four sets, the last two of which went bagels. Midway through the second match, the rain triumphed over the meek sun (there have only been four tournaments without rain since 1922) and the newly installed retractable roof leisurely covered the now wet spectators.

As I gazed up at the large metal and glass tiles lurch towards one another, I could not help but think back to Turner’s masterpieces of the wonders of man’s new technologies in his day, trains and steamboats, and his forewarning of their environmental ills. I have used our modern day advances at nearly every leg of my journey, from taking planes across oceans to using Skype to call my parents, inventions that make those of Turner’s day seem minuscule. The English painter was fearful that humanity’s modernization would ruin the truth held within the natural landscape and the simple peasants, and to an extent he was right. Constantly talking to my fellow Green Action-ers about domestic energy policies and discussing environmental security issues with past professors along the Thames River are clear testaments to that. But despite how much damage technology has done, it has made so many seemingly impossible feats possible for our generation, whether that is flying to Georgia within a mere day or watching Murray serve at 124 mph in the pouring rain. It is those now seemingly simple tasks of airplanes and retractable roofs that make me optimistic for future technology, and perchance our generation of artists will paint the contours of windmills in harmony with nature and the might of the sun with inviting tones rather than the radiantly dark power of 19th Century trains and boats. 

Song of Solomon's Wisdom

Cast in a faint yellow glow by flickering street lamps, the narrow cobbled streets of Fes shimmer through the permeating desert darkness. Markets of Berber spices and hidden tea cafes intertwine beneath the star-filled sky to create a richly woven tapestry of biting sea smells, freshly enticing aromas, and shadowy faces of peddlers whose crooked white smiles seem to be the only human feature that pervade the night.  Escaping from the main artery through an ancient archway, the labyrinth of the medina continues down less traveled veins filled with key shaped windows and olden wooden doors blessed by the elaborate metal hand of Fatima. Drowsy mules piled high with boxes of fruits and bags of burnished lamps are led by lonely merchants down these roads too tiny for our modern transportation. Every few feet the sandy wall dips into a cut out too small to be noticed save for the sound of artisans chipping away at mosaic tiles or the brilliant blue sparks of a welder’s torch as he works without heed on his textiles. Not far lays the tanneries, perhaps the only part of the city that silences as the sun slips behind distant mountains. Enormous round caskets filled with colors beyond imagination now rest from their demanding day. Only a few hours before the wells were swarmed by men with animal skins stacked high on their backs, shouting to coworkers and constantly adding water and dyes before plunging the leathers into the murky liquids. Though their noses no longer smell the nauseating order of urine and chemicals, to the onlooker it is the most repellent scent for miles. Above the smells and the shops ornate, geometric tiles line the walls in the imperial color of the city (blue) and the symbolic shade of Islam (green), and above the tiles lays an eerily stagnant sea of thousands of satellite dishes.

Last Tuesday evening I sat in the heart of this mystical medina entranced by sounds both foreign and native to this palace fortress amongst the dunes of the Sahara. A single raw voice rose from the silence and echoed through the narrow streets. The notes, each hit with such precision and force only to decrescendo out to nothingness, were masterfully strung together to form a beautiful cadenza. The harmonious poem illumined the darkness with warm visions of the nomadic culture of the Thar desert (Rajasthan, India); soon other voices of the Manganiyars joined the sole singer, their voices flowing over one another’s in a tonal ocean of both unrefined and highly cultivated splendor. The music crescendoed with the additions of the khamaycha (a 17^-string bowed mango-wood instrument) and the dholak (a tar, clay, and sand coated drum) with the light rhythm of the khartaal (a teak made castanet) sprinkled atop. Engulfed in the sinuous Sufi songs of northern India as I sat watching the 2011 Sacred Music Festival in Fes, all other thoughts and qualms vanished from my mind, leaving my soul to become illuminated (as the lyrics dictate) ‘like the expanse of the stars in the night.’

Still spellbound by the incredible performance, I spent the next few days exploring imperial Fes, the once capital of Morocco and still a cherished city to many here in North Africa (it is believed that people from Fes are both the most intelligent and best looking in the country). My travels took me into the plentiful craftsman shops of the textile district and to the old Jewish quarter where a magnificent synagogue still stands as a testament to a once cosmopolitan civilization. The night before my departure from the exotic, I again stood in awe of musical mastery in the festival, only this time moved by a French slammer’s (rapper) new culture built upon a religious and spiritual journey through foreign customs, language, and philosophy.

Embarking on my final leg of his extraordinary expedition, I arrived late last week to a rainy London. Though much more similar to New York than any other city I have visited, it still holds a wealth of distinct culture. The architecture is by far my favorite aspect; save for the infamous Tower of London and Westminster Abby hardly any structures predate the Great Fire of 1666. Most buildings are fashioned from unassuming red bricks or commanding grey stone that measure but a few stories (a stark contrast to the tall trees of Manhattan’s urban jungle). Though gargantuan in its expanse, the city seems quaint and picturesque from any angle. Bubble taxis and double decker red busses bustle along the crowded avenues lined with familiar red telephone booths and oddly fashioned English youth. Hollywoodesque monuments like Big Ben and London Bridge become part of the modern city flanked by contemporary superstructures of glass and steel. Though too afraid to use my British accent here (for those of you who know the Kenyan minister story I will be visiting my ‘hometown’ Bristol to work on that twang), aspects of myself seem to litter every street- literally. There is Victoria street and Victoria line, the large statue of Victoria in front of Buckingham Palace and the Victoria and Albert Museum: there is even a pharmacy called ‘Boots.’ Strolling along the Thames or around Hyde Park, I definitely envision some part of my future back here.

In my few days I have seen far more than anticipated, and there is still so much to fit in. My two visits to the British Museum were not enough to discover even half of the museum’s treasures, though I did saunter through mummies, the Rosetta Stone, Assyrian reliefs of lion hunts, Aboriginal Australian artwork, Asian artifacts, and numerous other objects of humanity’s history. Though seeing what is left of the Mausoleum of Halicarnassus or reading a portion of the Book of the Dead was awe-inspiring, I could not help but think of the nations that were raided of their own possessions. I also visited the Tate Modern, a wonderful Modern Art museum in the former Bankside Power Station with a spectacular collection of Surrealism, Arte Povera, Abstract Expressionism, Cubism, Futurism, Pop Art, and several other modern styles. Despite the wonders within, the most inspiring aspect of this Tate was the large sign on its façade spelling out RELEASE AI WEIWEI (for those who do not know, Ai Weiwei is an amazing contemporary Chinese artist who is currently being detained without reason by the Chinese Government http://freeaiweiwei.org/). After meandering through the Tate Modern, I made my way to Whitechapel, which is now populated by Bengalis and is known for its ethnic cuisine, for a Jack the Ripper tour. Though not nearly as frightening as the Jack the Ripper stories my mom told me as a kid, it was strongly exciting to visit each of the murder scenes and imagine what fear must have struck English citizens in 1888.

My first evening in London I went to the National Theatre to see a performance of Swedish folk songs, and again a few days later to listen to a classical pianist. Much like my experience in Fes, the magnificence of the music overwhelmed me in an expressive elation. As seen by most of my posts, I tend to look for a deeper meaning in my life experiences, whether it is lessons of the breadth of Americanization or the universal goal of ameliorating humanity’s ailments. And yet, as I listened to the mystic voices of the Manganiyars and the quick spitted phrases of Abd al Malik, music as dissimilar as the two cities detailed in this blog, deciphering life lessons was perhaps the farthest thing from my mind. Rather, the simple aesthetic might of the music and the tonal wisdom of the songs was all that existed. Over the past half a year I have seen more beauty in the world than I though possible, from the grand mosques of Istanbul to the severe natural landscapes of the Swiss Alps. Usually, my thirst for knowledge takes precedent over what is in front of me: instead of seeing the allure of the tiled patterns, I see humanity’s interconnectedness; rather than enjoying the purity of church bells and Imam calls, I visualize the harmony of religions. Nonetheless, as I sat this past week engrossed solely in the music, no overarching themes clouded my thoughts. In their place stood only the beauty of the music.  The title of the Fes Sacred Music Festival this year is “Wisdom of the World.” Perhaps the most sacred wisdom is one that has escaped me in my intellectual complexities: the admiration of the aesthetic splendor of a piano piece without searching for meaning. Of beauty, pure and simple. 

The Way We Live Now

Paramus, though a wonderful town to grow up in, has nothing to actually do. There was always Friday night football games, when the team was home, and the more likely than not defeat celebration at Applebees afterwards with the rest of the high school and a few college students looking to relive their glory days (cue Bruce music).  There was the mall, of course, but my friends were hardly the ‘mall-rat’ type, and the movie theatre on RT. 17 if there was something good playing and we could scratch up the few extra bucks to get in. Bowling in the neighboring towns was, in earnest, the only activity we could do. And we did it often. At least of a third of my memories from weekend hangouts took place on the road to bowling allies, while cosmic bowling, or after bowling at the diner. Thus, the question “Have you ever been bowling outside of America?” I have been bowling more times than I can remember, but never abroad, and as I sat late Saturday night watching Jon Stewart talk about New York pizza on a couch in Ifrane, I could not get the question out of my mind.

Boarding a train in Tangier four days earlier, I watched the reel of nature play on repeat out the window for four hours. Flocks of sheep passed by every few kilometers easily outnumbering the humans on the landscape, occasionally dotted with cows grazing on tall grass. Where the red, cracked earth or the grey rocks covered in dying moss did not make an appearance, agricultural fields stretched for miles. Men mounted on lazy mules made their way from the vast expanse of the bled towards solitary buildings on the horizon in straw hats, their animals weighed town with hidden treasures. Women, still covered from head to leg, bent low between the greening rows, scooping up indistinguishable bundles of Moroccan daily life. As we screeched closer to barren train stations en route, children would materialize, playing on vacant train tracks or looking with wide, simple eyes through my window. From afar, the towns we passed through looked like mirages stacked with ancient buildings, an eminent minaret keeping watch over those below, and impoverished tents along the dirt road dabbled with bright colors of fruits and spices from the souk with venders standing close by, their faces etched with some certain understanding of the past and of ourselves as human that modernity has left behind.

After a missed train stop, we finally arrived in Rabat, the political capital of Morocco. Rabat, compared to the port town of Tangier, is incredibly calm. The wide boulevards are lined with trimmed trees and most of the streets are absent of traffic, grime, and chaos. The same cafes and overly anxious beggers found in every town I‘ve visited thus far inevitably emerge out of darkened doorways and rubbish filled corners. The medina, though larger than my encounters to the north, still holds the feeling of an elaborate maze constructed to make travelers mad (or perhaps entrap them within its walls). Outside the medina hosts a mixture of colonial architecture, modern apartment blocs, administrative buildings, and a infinite array of monuments from past civilizations who have laid claim to this grand city. The Kasbah wall fashioned in bright red clay unfolds far into the distance, topped with a geometric pattern and buttressed with disguised art galleries and shops below. The ancient gates into the city are veiled in richly carved arches, above which one can climb to magnificent views of the beckoning estuary and Atlantic Ocean beyond. After sitting down for a lunch of Moroccan fare (tajine chicken with couscous and mint tea), we made our way to the Mausoleum of Mohammed V. Before the mausoleum lays a forest of severed columns that testifies to a once magnificent plan for a mosque before an earthquake in 1755. The minaret, however, still stands tall at 44 meters and casts an ominously tranquil shadow over its marble inferiors. Towards the east end is the resting place of Morocco’s past three kings. The interior, guarded on all four sides, is a large room of patterned zellij (tiles) and carved plaster where visitors can look down onto the tomb from a balcony. Despite their mistakes or misgivings in life, their eternal home is one of an adored and much loved ruler. 

Unfortunately, most of my time in Rabat was filled with meetings rather than sightseeing, but I hope to travel back to the capital to visit the sparse museums and ancient grounds I did not have time for. While there, we met with several grassroot organizations to discuss the situation of women and children Sub-Saharan migrants in Rabat, and efforts to ameliorate their condition. Though I try to isolate emotion from work, it continually becomes a more difficult task to perform as I hear the plight of pregnant women and children being sexually abused while wondering the desert in hopes of finding the Moroccan border. Their stories, though cast a pessimistic mist over the current status quo, make my fervor for human rights of all people all the more ardent.

 Leaving my Rabat nights of roundabout walks through the rues and late night talks over tea on traditional couches with Moroccans, a Russian, a German, and a Dutch I boarded yet another train to Ifrane via bus from Fes (where I was stormed with hundreds of Moroccan soccer fans for the Algeria Morocco game- which we won 4-0). The arid lands outside my window gave way to more mountainous terrain as the train lurched onward into the Atlas Mountains. Soon tall forests of greens and earthy tones covered deep into the expanse, but still held those few peddlers of fruits and meats on the sides of the roads. Finally, after a days worth of traveling, I made it to the small town of Ifrane, unlike any other city in Morocco. The white and brown wooden houses with red tiled roofs slanting steeply downward are more like an Alps village in Switzerland rather than a town in North Africa. The orderliness of this town, though nothing compared to the impeccable precision of Zurich, seems unbelievably out of place here. The sidewalks are all kept neatly and couples and families stroll down them towards the stork filled lake with meandering paths into the wilderness. There are cafes in town that serve non-Moroccan food (something I have not seen save for the Thai restaurant I went to for my birthday) and people on the streets say hello simply to be nice rather to sell you something. There are many mansions tucked away behind high walls of affluent Moroccans and French that escape the heats of the summer in this cool haven and ski in the winter. The souk, though not as extensive or exotic as Tangiers, still boasts of sheep intestines (though I will stay away from meat after watching a sheep be slaughtered for a ritual on Friday), a dozen types of olives, and everything else in between. The center of town has manicured gardens where young children summersalt onto soft grass and unexpected rendez-vous occur regularly just beyond an ancient stone lion that keeps guard over the inhabitants.

My next few days here will hopefully be filled with hikes into monkey filled forests and under waterfalls (not alone but with my gracious host and his friends). Currently, however, the town finds itself in the midst of a treacherous lightening storm with torrential downpours of hail that push all indoors, including my group of Americans, Moroccans, Canadians, and Brazilians. Taking refuge inside the town’s bowling ally (quite different from the pool hall we played in in Tangier where a girl wielding a stick and taking aim was a spectacle to be watched by all), we tied our laces and entered our names in the screen. As I was tightening my shoes, my companion asked the question that startled me.

Whether I found myself in a taxi in Yerevan or searching for food in Tel Aviv, some aspect of home seems forever present: Beyonce blasting from a Georgian marshuka driver’s radio, a café boasting of ‘New York Pizza’ in Rabat, even the simple English phrases that young children repeat back from Hollywood films all hold testament to the breadth of Americanization. As an International Relations major back at Lehigh, I am well aware of the global stretch America has obtained over the past half century. Nontheless, as I travel across borders, I tend to blind myself from those instances of cultural imperialism in an attempt to indulge myself in the essence of Georgian or Moroccan life. Exploring exotic cultures, one does not like to encounter American influences, dismissing them as “un-Moroccan.” Yet, in reality, living in Tangier or Rabat today as a Moroccan means that certain aspects of American culture are inherently part of your identity, from the movies on TV to the food on your plate. As I near the end of my travels abroad, I have realized that those American manifestations I have avoided are not only impossible to ignore, but truly part of other people’s lives in our time. Moroccan belgha (pointed shoes) and djellaba (robes) are of course still an integral part of this generation, but so are Superman shirts and Gossip Girl key chains. To truly learn about what daily life is like in another country in 2011, it is imprudent to ignore American influences: amusingly, it took a Moroccan bowling ball to teach me. 

Three Cups of Mint Tea

As I stared down the hollow metal tube a few meters down the dirt path, the bright red wildflowers dancing around us and the low grown of mountain goats orchestrating some folk medley as ancient as the rocks surrounding us, memoires long forgotten and dreams still unfulfilled burst into focus with each heart beat: that one day when we chased a leprechaun through the snow, those ducks we named outside our hotel room in Disney, my younger brother holding my sister and I the night before my grandfather’s funeral. Moments, at their time, that seemed as insignificant as any other, and yet, that pastel color of Francesca’s jacked crouched in the snow beside me and the feel of my siblings tears on my skin were the only things I could think about. Movies make you believe that in near-death experiences the milestones of your life flash before you: my acceptance to Lehigh, or perhaps my high school graduation, even my Bat-Mitzvah would have sufficed. And yet, as I heard the boy cock the gun, all I could think of was how lackluster my final seconds would be: a gun pointed at my head and thoughts of George and Martha the ducks behind the target.

A week before I was jostled from my Hemmingway reading with a similar sound as the wing to my left prepared for the flight’s descent. Bright-eyed and eager about the adventures that lay before me in this desert land, I embraced the far too windy air outside the airport. Tangier, though only a few hours away from Switzerland, is truly a world apart. The city is cramped untidily with massive apartment and business towers adorned in deteriorating facades and soot gnawing at the once white paint of a once incredible place. Pollution liters the streets, as does the smell of rotting refuse. The city itself seems alive, wheezing in and out as its inhabitants fight through unbearable temperatures. Both men and women wear traditional attire: a long dress down to the ankles, pointed leather shoes, a veil for women, and a petit hat for men. Though I can hardly claim to have assimilated into the crowds of Istanbul or Yerevan, here with my increasingly red Irish skin, ripped jeans, and uncovered head I clearly stand out.

Within Tanger there are four distinct atmospheres: the central, chic part of town, the coastlines, the medina, and the outlying neighborhoods. In my first week I have been to all four. The main area of town, my home for the next four weeks, is filled with cafes where men old and young sip mint tea into the wee hours of the morning. Bakeries with delicious smelling breads and even more delectable tasting meat pastries, and a strangely disproportionate number of barbershops line the boulvards. Every so often a minaret juts above the building line or the cross to a church peaks its way out from behind the trees; there is also a synagogue in Tanger, though I have yet to find it. The most intriguing aspect of my neighborhood, however, are the international territories. In the mid 20^th Century Tanger was deemed an International City governed by multiple countries within the United Nations. Although it has long since been repatriated to the Kingdom of Morocco, legal territories of other states still remain. Behind high walls you find Spanish, French, and even Italian areas with their own hospitals, school systems, and consulates.

The oldest part of the city, the medina, lies to the west and is an even tighter design than the center. The cobblestone allies weave in and out of peddlers’ storefronts selling everything from carved leather to brass lamps reminiscent of those found in Aladian. The sook, or marketplace, is a vast labyrinth of every food one could imagine: fish the size of my body, goat’s heads hanging from strings, at least a dozen different types of dates, country eggs and cheese, and rows of fresh fruits and vegetables (never again will I buy an entire watermelon for myself, though the jam I made from a Kilo of fresh apricots will surely be recreated). While meandering through the medina, I visited the Kasbah Museum, which told the history of the town’s fortress. My visits to French, Spanish, and Moroccan art galleries, different religious cemeteries, and a Moroccan style ‘running of the bulls’ have all given me unique insights into distinctive life perspectives of those who call this city on the tip of Africa home.

The final two parts, the coast and the neighborhoods, create the physical boundaries of Tanger. Both the Mediteranian and the Atlantic make their shores here, allowing breathtaking views of both the sunrise and the sunset with horsemen, camel nomads, and crowds of muscular fishermen casting their nets as your only companions. On the other side, the poorer neighborhoods (where I work) are teeming with Sub-Saharan migrants, impoverished Moroccans, and in recent months calls for revolutions (which have been echoed in many protests during my short stay).

Getting my fill of Tanger I decided to take a weekend trip to Chefchouen, an enchanting mountain town three hours away by public transportation through winding dirt roads tucked away in the Riff Mountains, not far from where Hercules supposedly completed his twelve labors (for you OMers, there was no sign of a thirteenth labor). The captivating medina is painted entirely in white and pale blue, which stands starkly against both its red walled fortress and the austere rocky mountains above. The architecture and the local flavor have been deeply influenced by the Andalusian migrants form Spain in the 15^th Century. After a visit to their Kasbah Museum and a rousing but unfortunate soccer game (wherein I was the only person to adorn a Manchester United jersey), I took a path from behind the village’s waterfall and up through the mountain range, passing by spectacular views, hidden mosques, and fields of marijuana plantations.

 Upon my descent I met the boy, no more than twelve, with the dark barrel and unforgiving stare. In my first post five months ago I penned how grateful I was to have the opportunity to get on a plane and engulf myself in exotic cultures from around the world. Having nearly half a year’s worth of foreign experiences has given me wonderful memories that I will forever be appreciative of: I will always cherish the impressions of the first time trying Khatapouri in Georgia over a conversation on gay rights and the awe-inspiring atmosphere of the Haiga Sofia. But working with Sub-Saharans living in complete desolation and watching a hollow-cheeked boy raise a gun for a few dollars has made me even more grateful for what, and who, I have left behind an ocean away. Growing up with a loving family and food on the table every night, thoughts of begging or being sold into a trafficking network were not only unimaginable, but entirely unknown. My childhood and beyond has always been filled with friends and family who have done nothing but support me in my endeavors and shown nothing but the warmest of hearts. It would be a lie to say I have not suffered through hardships, but through everything, I have always had the support network and more than enough material necessities to get through. Making the decision to run, through my pounding heartbeats and steps kicking up lose dirt, I could not help but imagine the destitute that led that boy to where he stood behind me, his boney arm raised and extended into an ugly metal machine. Words cannot express my gratitude for my friends and family who have made my life beyond incredible; I am aware that a simple Thank-You could not possible be adequate to what you all have given to me, but for now it is all I have to give. Please know that the emotions behind that two word phrase are the most sincere I have ever felt.

In My Time

Hunched up against the cold windowpane of my midnight bus, I doze in and out of a restless sleep, watching the hills of the countryside lurched forward in the darkness. A few hours into the journey, a woman wakes me with heavy shakes and a flashlight (at first, I am almost certain that this is a drill from Arriel for our IPE exam and I am about to blurt out what the Stolper-Samuelson theorem is- thank you Professor Moon). Drowsily I find the energy to descend the bus, get my passport stamped at the border post, and await my arrival to Bulgaria as the sun pierces through the mellow blue pallet, relieving the dark storms that plagued the evening’s ride. After a three-week reprieve I am back in post-Soviet territory, and it becomes evident almost immediately. The mundane Soviet Realist monuments are disarrayed throughout the parks, the apartment blocs tower over the newly constructed businesses as an eerie reminder of time gone by, and the Slavic origins of the Bulgarian language seem much more reminiscent of Russian than Georgian or Armenian.  Unlike Turkey, the air in Bulgaria is still chilled and I wear a winter jacket as I stroll the streets in search of cultural discovery, which comes in the form of the Early Christian church of St George constructed as a rotunda in red brick in the 4^th Century, the much more extravagant Byzantium Hagia Sophia Church, which mimics its counterpart in Istanbul well with large onion domes and high vaulted ceilings, the National Gallery of Foreign Art where I marvel at countless masterpieces ranging from Italian Renaissance painters to immaculately naturalistic Russian colorists, and finally a conversation (or rather a monologue in Bulgarian) with an elderly woman on a park bench. Perhaps the most rewarding aspect of my time on this side of the Black Sea was my host, an Economics student, with whom I visited the rock-climbing wall, tried tea in a unique apartment-turned café, and traversed the rest of Studenski grad, a student section separate from the main part of town that houses over 40,000 university students.

En route to Zurich, I had a lengthy layover in Vienna where I quickly zipped through the suburbs to the center of the city via speed train. While there, I made my way to Mozart’s apartment, which has been renovated and turn into a museum. The baroque building consists of two portions: the first is strictly a museum stuccoed in white plaster and lined with display cases that illuminate the grand composer’s freemason activities, gambling, and social life (accompanied with an audioguide filled with Mozart’s monumentally baronial compositions). A few floors below lies a replica of the rather large apartment that Mozart lived in between 1784 to1787, which he shared with his wife, two children, at times his father, two servants, and a seemingly endless flow of guests. Being in the same room where masterpieces like The Marriage of Figaro were conceived was a truly inspirational experience and provoked a new appreciation for the scores that I have grown accustomed to from pop culture and choir rehearsals. Before racing back to the airport, I had time to visit St. Stephen’s Cathedral, or Stephansdom, a colossal combination of Romanesque and Gothic architectural aspects originally constructed in 1147. With its multi-color tiled roof, soaring towers embellished with elaborate floral patterns, and bas-relief depictions of apostles, it was fascinating to compare this cathedral with those of Byzantium that I stood in awe of just a week before.

Zurich itself is perhaps as different as can be to almost every other city I have visited; Tbilisi and Istanbul were muddled with insane drivers, a labyrinth of unlabeled streets, and covered with a sheer, undetectable layer of anarchy; Yerevan and Sofia were soaked in a dark undertone of their poor and oppressed history; the diversity found in Tel Aviv among Arabs and Jews and in Athens between Greeks and North African migrants created an uneasy tension that, though not acted upon, was undoubtedly a tangible sensation. Zurich is, in a word, perfect. The trains and trams run on schedule to the second, every pedestrian waits patiently at the crosswalk for the blinking green light (a nightmare for someone who grew up jaywalking on nearly every corner in New York), and even the ‘self-serve’ fountain drinks have a line on the cup where by customers meticulously measure out their Coke. Though crime rates are low and fairness is the rule of the land (save perchance for women’s equality), the city with its majestic bell tower, cobble stone bridges, and swans elegantly swimming in a nearby lake is too perfect that it seems more like a country in Epcot (Disney) rather than the real thing. Despite the fact that our visits to both the history museum and the art museum gave us some reprieve from the precision, after a few days the cleanliness and exactness was overbearing for someone who has spent the last month on couches in gritty sideally apartments. Taking refuge from Zurich, we went hiking through the vast countryside of Switzerland. Our trekking brought us up muddy mountain trails canopied by a thick layer of pines and leaves, through wide, open meadows of wildflowers and cows jingling happily with rusty bells, and even through a ferocious snow storm as we made our way up towards the summit of Jungfrau deep within the Alps. Thankfully our extensive hikes made up for the amount of decadent Swiss chocolate, fondue, and rochlette we feasted on throughout the week.

Six years ago was the first time I had left America on a plane bound for Europe with forty other high school students I had never met. Coming from a family that hasn’t left the East Coast, let alone the country, I would be lying if I claimed that I wasn’t terrified of what laid beyond the watery depths of the Atlantic as the rest of the travelers slept silently through that fateful journey. I like to remind myself of that trip more often than I probably should, of spending worry-free nights watching the sun set over an olive orchid in Spain, of frantically sprinting down the steps of the Eiffel Tower to catch our bus already half-way down the boulevard, of the conversations after our first concentration camp visit around a table in some long forgotten restaurant hidden in the forests of Germany, and, most importantly, of the inexplicable passion for exploration that those adventures ignited that I’m still yearning to feed so many years later. A few days into my time in Switzerland I traveled to the Rhine Falls, the largest plain waterfalls in Europe, with my companions.  I watched the water cascade over the mighty rocks, the streams of water avalanching in white surges of pure force to the melodic orchestra of crashes and plunges. Nothing had changed since the day my host family took me across the border to visit these falls six years ago. The water still pounded relentlessly downstream, the eroded rocks still stood sedate among the chaos, even the fish in the lake below resembled those I had fed bits of bread to with my younger home-stay brother as he dangled his hands over our boat, never quite reaching the watery mirror.  Back in Zurich the same jeans I wore at 15 are stuffed untidily into my canvas bag, and that passion for exploration still follows dutifully in my shadow as I venture onward.

 In a few weeks I turn 21, something seemingly unimaginable as I stood in the same spot as my 15-year-old self, looking out onto the falls as eternally unchanged as the Great Pyramids. Though my clothes and, grudgingly, height may be the same, I know that I am not like the water that forever flows below the austere stone castle perched high on its cliffs. Before boarding that plane in 2005 I had every intention to become a veterinarian, attend Cornel, and go on to work at some exotic zoo or conservation clinic. My fears were far and few in between, save for the occasional anxiety of being caught for our misconduct of playing Uno into the wee hours of the morning (Erica I hope remember that night of having to hide in the bathtub). Those memories now seem like someone else’s story as I begin my work with Sub-Saharan refugees in Morocco and talk with Erica about what will come of us after graduation next year. Boarding trains and busses so often I tend to, consciously or unconsciously, neglect the fact that I’m growing up; that I’m no longer afraid to immerse myself completely alone in a town where I know neither the language nor the customs. I am no longer terrified of what lays beyond the watery depths of the Atlantic like I was six years ago, but instead panic at the thought of what lays beyond the cap and gown a year from now. For one last moment I take in the view of the falls, feel of the mist in my tussled hair, smell the sent of earth and moisture intertwined: it all looks the same, smells the same, feels the same. In the end, I realize what’s changed is me.

The Turkish Letters

Covering my head and removing my shoes, I took refuge from the driving rains (once again) under the grandiose ceiling of the silently majestic Blue Mosque of Sultan Ahmed. Though awe-inspired as I approached the pious sanctuary by the exterior onion domes and lofty minarets rising into the somberly grey sky, the interior left me, if possible, more amazed. One large room stretched the entirety of the building, covered by an immense red carpet of intricately woven geometric shapes. The overpowering candle chandelier hung low to the ground, creating an intimate atmosphere for prayer despite its humbling size, and devout Muslims kneeled with bowed heads just below it’s arched metal arms as if it were shielding them from what lay beyond the tiled walls. Every surface of the mosque was embellished with brilliantly dramatic mosaics of blues, whites, and turquoise (which comes from the word ‘Turk’ for those who didn’t know). Though the decorations lacked any human or animal attributes, the swirls and flourishes of the mosaic came to life in one spectacular show projected onto white glazed tiles.

Like the colorful glass plates at the Blue Mosque, Turkey is a mosaic comprised of pieces from Europe and Asia, Christianity and Islam, Modern western skyscrapers and ancient civilization ruins. From porting at Kudasadai to my departure on a night bus from Istanbul my week exploring the diversely opulent palate of this montage has been one filled with some of the most aesthetically inspiring masterpieces and culturally astounding experiences I have encountered since my departure from New York in January. I began my orient adventure in the small city of Selcuk in southeastern Turkey drinking far too much apple tea with Persian carpet salesmen and trying rubbery Turkish ice cream in a hidden mountain village nearby. Almost immediately I was struck by how friendly and opened Turks were; looking past the abhorrent calls from merchants about low prices and the best quality, locals truly enjoy taking the time to sit down over a cup of complimentary tea or sweets to tell you about their brother in LA or their thoughts about the Korean tour group that passed through last week.  Leaving the gregarious waterpipe smoker behind in his dimly lit shop, I made my way to Ephesus, an ancient Greek and then Roman city on the port of the Agean Sea. At one point of the Roman Empire, Ephesus was the second largest city behind Rome in the world and included dozens of luxurious homes, a library, commercial center and the Temple of Artemis, one of the seven wonders of the ancient world. Although only one column still stands testament to this long destroyed ancient wonder, the Ephesus complex is perhaps the largest and most intact excavation site that I have meandered through thus far. Facing the still-standing façade of the Library of Celsus or crouching through the tunnels leading to the baths of Hadrian made me feel as if I were moments away from exploring 12,000 scrolls of classic literature or joining the city elite for a relaxing afternoon in the caldarium (thank you Roman Archeology class for recently proving your worth).  Before heading to the airport for a short ride north to Istanbul, I visited the Tomb of the Seven Sleepers- an ancient tomb where it is said seven young Christian men hid sleeping for 200 years to escape Roman persecution- and the ancient ruins of St. John’s church- who spent the last years of his life in Ephesus with the Virgin Mary after Christ’s crucifixion.

Leaving the warm weather in the south, I embraced the winding streets of my first Islamic capital with wide eyes and an open mind. Istanbul is an incredible city. Minarets and domed sanctuaries jut up above the old wooden buildings in the old part of town and dozens of Imams call prayer five times a day in one melodious orchestra of Allah. The streets hum with a constant hustle of veiled women and young boys carrying Turkish tea on wobbly treys. Merchants call out their products, doing, and saying, quite possibly anything to get you to pause a moment for their commercial attack. The streets twist and turn upwards, pausing for a patch of blooming red tulips or an entrance to another one of its jewels. Every turn seems to lead to a lesson of this once grand empire’s history through breathtaking architecture and monuments. The remainder of the city’s neighborhoods, and its 13 million inhabitants, follow the flow of the Bosporus River, which mimics the bustle of the streets as a watery highway.

My first day was spent jumping to and from mosques and churches seemingly more superlative than the last. The Mosque of Suleymaniye the Magnificent conceived by the most revered Ottoman architect Mimar Sinan, whose designs can be seen from Damascus to Baghdad, was an architectural masterpiece of massive arches and columns; the buttresses, usually flying or piers exposed in western churches, are hidden from view both on the exterior and interior through elaborate colonnaded galleries. The New Mosque (Yeni Camii) built in the 17^th Century, is topped with sixty-six domes, preceded by a courtyard, and flanked with the other expected buildings of an imperial mosque- madrese, public baths, a hospital, and a market. The Aya Sofia was, perchance expectedly, my favorite; the red-bricked exterior weathered from centuries beckons visitors into its splendors of Byzantium architecture- the inspiration for all those mosques and churches that would be erected for the next millennium. The church converted mosque converted museum is littered with innovative engineering feats, massive marble and granite columns, golden mosaics, and still vibrant frescos. Large black medallions with golden Arabic hang heavy on its four corners surrounded by golden encrusted frescos of archangels, epitomizing the vast and profound history of Byzantium Constantinople and Ottoman Istanbul.

Leaving crosses and half moons behind I ventured to two of the three imperial palaces of Ottoman rule. The first, Topkapi Palace, sits in the heart of the old city on the Golden Horn and stretches on for kilometers with velvety green grass and vibrant spring flowers dotted with kitchens, treasuries, mosques, thrown rooms, private chambers, and all else in between that is required by an Sultan ruling over three continents. This fortress, with its ornate woodwork and meandering tile designs seemed reminiscent of my visit to the Alhambra in Moorish Spain many years ago, while the latter Palace, the Dolmabahce Palace in use from 1856 until the final days of Ataturk and the birth of Modern Turkey, seemed more evocative of my memories of the Palace of Versailles with European Rococo styled crystal chandeliers, overly plush armchairs, and putti covered ceiling murals. Pulling myself away from the enchantment of the years years ago, I explored the halls of the Turkish and Islamic Art Museum where I marveled at illuminated Korans, Persian carpets, and calligraphic Arabic, cruised the shores of the Bosporus to see the restored wooden homes and stone fortresses further along its shores, attended a play in Turkish about modern relationships, got lost in the labyrinth of the Grand Bazaar, and feasted on far too much baklava, Alinazik Kebabs, and kofte.

As many of you know, rather than staying in hotels or hostels as I skip across countries I am lodging on local’s couches, which has afforded me the opportunity to see a side of these countries most tourists miss; it has also provided some of the most interesting and thought-provoking conversations covering everything from Keynesian economic policy in Bulgaria to the relationship between Israel and Turkey in an era of Islamic democratic revolution. One conversation with my host in Istanbul lingered a bit longer than the others in my mind, one about the individualism of the West in contrast to the communalism of the East. Though I have studied this observation from World Humanities my freshman year in high school to the trade policies of America and Japan in International Political Economy, I had never seen first hand what it meant to compare my individualistic, capitalist lifestyle with a way of life based on trust and community. Traveling for half a year alone certainly emphasizes my individualism, but it has also highlighted those communities that, though thousands of miles away, still play an integral role in my life. My videochats with family on a weekly basis, my e-mails to Green Action about solar panel petitions and legislation on water in Delaware, and my phone calls to friends talking about the latest episode of Glee have made me more conscious my own communities. Many of the people I meet from cultures rather different than ours in America comment negatively about the aspect of individualism, but perhaps we are not as self-focused as I once thought. Perhaps we are more like the magnificent mosaics of the Blue Mosque- each tile’s design independent of one another’s, able to stand as a self-sufficient work of art, but the true beauty lies in the pattern of the grand design when all of the singular tiles come together.

Now Bring Me that Horizon

Clutching hard onto the metal rail for just a moment longer, I braced myself for another punch from the far too furious sea. The taste of salt had crept into my tightly pursed lips and stung my nostrils despite the fresh water relief efforts from the rain. With squinted eyes and a wet face, I watched silently as ominously dark shapes passed not far from deck, veiled by the mist of the storm, turning islands into mythological monsters.  Soon an unseen voice would rise from the speakers above the clash of the thunder, ushering us overly audacious travelers back indoors, and I would walk back to my seat, being thrown by the weight of the boat every few steps into voyagers whose stomachs were less fortunate than mine. But for just a moment longer I had to grip onto that rusty bar and fight through the watery war that raged without sympathy.

Though rainclouds had replaced the Israeli sun here in Greece (perhaps an unsung blessing for my sun burn), my week was filled with all that it could physically hold.  After hauling my too heavy backpack to a flat somewhere south of the wonders of white marble I made my way towards the Acropolis. Athens is, simply, a labyrinth of urban jungle teeming with tourists at its core and slowly diluting the fanypacks and baseball hats as its spidery veins spread across the valley. The grime and grit of modernity is spotted every so often with the majestic beauty of time gone by, both as a memento of its extraordinary origins and as a reminder of how much industrialization and urbanization has changed this once sacred ground. Graffiti covers every conceivable inch of concrete, metal, and glass screaming personal tags, political slogans, and hurtful signs of the economic crisis. Walking towards the white columned beacon above, glancing from souvenir shop to Starbucks, I realized just how far a leap Europe is from where I’ve been.

Leaving the graffiti and anarchist posters behind, I hiked up the plateau towards the contemporary jewel of ancient civilization. The Acropolis is truly an awe-inspiring place. Overlooking expanse of our time’s Athens I wandered through the crowds to gaze upon the aesthetic might of eternally rawring lion heads and perfectly sculpted caryatids. The historical weight hangs heavy in the air on the archeological grounds as one sits in the amphitheatre of Dionysus or strolls along fluted columns fallen from grace. I think of how such minute fragments of ancient Greece have the immense power to inspire such emotion and can only fathom what the reaction would be if I could experience these temples in all their glory millennia ago.

Hoping to capture some of that lost magic I made my way to the Acropolis Museum, which housed replicas of what the buildings looked like before the disastrous bombing in 1687 or the centuries at the mercy of the elements. Leaving the statues of mythology and ceramics of everyday life behind I then ventured to the History of Athens Museum and the National History Museum to trace the progression of civilization here from the phidian drapery of maidens to the velvet military costumes of the fight for independence.  Through corroded pistols and discolored maps I learned all about this great nation through Byzantium, Ottoman rule, the struggle for independence and unification, and the folk culture that survived throughout all the turmoil. Perchance the most alluring exhibition of both museums was of historical paintings documenting the Acropolis throughout its history- as it became a church, a mosque, was bombed, fallen into disarray, and the first efforts of restoration. My final day led me to a jewelry museum that connected contemporary designers to their ancient inspirations by displaying works created thousands of years ago with pieces designed in two thousand ten.

 

Taking the first boat of many I voyaged from the ports of the mainland to Mykonos, and though drizzling, I was immediately taken by its splendor. The crystal clear water rushed against the sandy shores illuminated by what little sunlight my trip afforded, acting as a window into the depths of the sea. The isle rose above the deep blue in fits of mountains dense with just greening trees and raw, earthy rocks. The buildings, all with curved lines as if taken from a late le Courbusier design, of the main city (and all of the houses and buildings throughout the land) were painted an impossible white dotted with richly blue shutters and doorways- in earnest the scene looked as if it was a paradise taken from some Hollywood movie set. Due to the off-season, I was luckily able to enjoy getting lost in the winding alleyways of white walls and blue staircases without pressing against a crowd of Frenchmen fresh from a tour bus. Letting my hair toss in the wind as I motorcycled through the countryside or dangled my feet off the dock Mykonos felt dreamlike and very real all at once. While there, I took a day trip to Delos, the birthplace of Apollo, to visit the archeological site and museum of a once vibrant city before the burning by pirates. The site was magnificent. A row of lions stood somberly as bright red, purple, and yellow wildflowers danced in the breeze at its clawed feet to the music of distant waves. The history of the island, from hallowed sanctuary to the premier commercial center of the Aegean made me long to take an ancients course next semester. The site told both of private life through tiny stones of still in situ mosaics and of the public sphere through temples and monuments erected by Romans, Athenians, and Nexians to show the power and wealth of their states. Though much was lost in the plundering and smoldering, the enchantment of the isle is still very much alive.

My final stop in Greece was on the island Samos, the birthplace of Pythagoras. Though the natural terrain was reminiscent of Mykonos, the towns couldn’t be more different. The buildings lined the port in pastel blues, yellows, and pinks topped with red tiled roofs and twisting ornate metal balconies. Overhanging streetlamps reflected in the water below illuminated the stoned pathway, as if it yearned to be swept up and placed down on the French Riviera. Though I only had time for street wandering, an attempted (and failed) visit to the archeological museum, and a large helping of Greek food (yes Nina, I have eaten spinach pies, Greek yogurt, gyros, and everything else on your list of vicarious living and fully expect you to pay my gym bill this summer), the mild reprise from the storm on this beautiful island was pleasantly spent.

In truth, my first days in Athens were filled with a twitch of disappointment. My travels in Georgia and the Caucasus were absent of factory made magnets and snowglobes, and I nearly forgot what it was like to be in a tourist destination where people don’t look at you like medusa if you ask a question in English. I felt almost suffocated by a warped sense of what Athens was, seemingly more a gimmick for foreigners instead of the birthplace of civilization. But past the American fastfood stands and ‘I <3 Greece’ tee-shirts I was still able to quench my appetite for adventure. Discussing the philosophy of life and toil with my Sudanese host in a dimly lit café on a side street far removed from four star hotels I felt the presence of all those ancient philosophers from here we sat that paved the way for this conversation centuries into the future. Discovering an abandoned boat tied to a long forgotten port in Delos over a mountain and through an unmarked cave path I wondered how many, if any, had stumbled through the bramble to pause here before me. As I travel westward, I know that the number of tourists and grande frappichinos will increase exponentially, but that fleeting feeling of dissatisfaction from Athens has disappeared. Traveling, like anything else, is what you make of it, whether that be eating McDonalds French fries in Tbilisi or taking a chance and trying a doughy pouch of some unlabeled local filling. Just because more of my friends have heard of Athens compared to Tbilisi does not make it any more culturally enthralling or exotically delicious, and though my appetite for the path less traveled my prove to be a more difficult journey in the countries to come, I know that will make the venture all the more rewarding. And so, for just a moment longer as my fellow passengers closed their blinds and shielded their site from the storm, I slipped along the deck boards, watching my hair fall lose from my hood and fall victim to the waves, until I caught my first glimpse of the Turkish shore in the distance. 

This Year in Jerusalem (well, almost)

On the plane from Kiev to Tel Aviv I sat wedged between an elderly Ukrainian woman and a young curly haired Israeli in Tie Dye responding to an e-mail correspondence asking what my favorite part of my favorite city, New York, was. Saved as a draft awaiting an Internet connection, I almost immediately rewrote it by the time I settled into my bed last Sunday night. Perhaps the fact that I have spend the last three months surrounded by monotonous Soviet buildings or the cold weather of the Caucasus (or the fact that no one here has questioned what ‘being Kosher’ means) is to blame, but Tel Aviv has inched its way closer and closer to New York’s exalted place in my mind. Of course nothing will replace the feeling of leaving a Yankee game high fiving people I don’t know or grabbing a slice of the pizza and sinking my teeth into sweet sauce and savory crust. Yet, Tel Aviv is an incredible city. Each section, much like New York, has its own distinct personality. Neve Tzedeck, where I have spent this past week with relatives from France, is an old neighborhood with richly renovated flats lining the narrow stone streets that overhang with lushes gardens. Its main arteries are clogged with petite Parisian cafes serving up a modern mixture of sushi, falafel, and gelatos, Israeli fashion designer shops with quirky crafts and run way cature, and art galleries filled with sophisticated canvases of old men in Kippas.

 Only a few blocks away is a restored district of Bauhaus houses, known as the White City, built in the late 1920s and 1930s by both local architects and immigrants from Europe. Stark white washed facades line the wide promenade with geometric faces and functionality in the smallest of details. Walking in the opposite direction one happens upon Jaffa, the original town as ancient as civilization’s history (the solitary rock that stands among crashing waves off the port is said to be where Andromeda was chained in Greek mythology). The olden rocks intertwine to form a maze of walls, hidden arched doorways, minarets, and gardens of bright orange and purple flowers. Even the more urban parts of Tel Aviv seem beautiful with parks and monuments penetrating the corporate towers. And, finally, all this moves towards the shores of the Mediterranean Sea, which completes the utopia with crystal clear waters, sandy (and free) beaches, and a boardwalk lined with fruit juice stands, parks, and even a lane for bikers (a far cry from my summers at Belmar, though to be honest wading through the waves did make me long for some DJais cheese fries and the porch of a certain 19^th Ave apartment).

But what really puts this city in the running with the Big Apple is the people. For the first time in months I see bright colors (no, not my current hue of red but in local attire) and diversity: the single ethnicity that crowds the streets of Tbilisi and Yerevan save for a lonesome foreign diplomat is replaced with men and women of all races and religions. There are Ethiopian Jews and Philippine Christians rollerblading, a male couple sitting together on a bench overlooking a serene sunset, lubavitches in tall fur hats buying water next to a tall girl with pink hair and a tattoo across her back. And, in contrast to those Caucasians I have left behind, when I smile on the streets people smile back, and I even make a friend with an Arab environmentalist who also enjoys a run at seven each morning.

Prying myself from walking the streets and absorbing its energy, I spend my first pesach in Israel, finally making Next Year in Jerusalem a reality (well, almost). We join twenty other fellow Frenchmen in a private hotel room for our first seder, done entirely in Hebrew. Though I miss wearing a Boston hat for the Wicked son and answering questions for ‘I’m an Egyptian, now get me out of here!’ while charocet circles the table, this year’s seder is filled with my cousin Victoria teaching me Who Know’s One in Hebrew and swallowing a long string of bitter herbs (Herrmann family- if you thought our ‘big chucks’ were bad wait till you see the size of what I ate).  Once the four questions were asked and all our hand washing was done we began on the meal, a buffet, and on conversation, in French, about everything from the differences in American and French universities to Justin Beber’s recent visit to Israel. Despite me hoping this is not the last Passover spent in my homeland, these seders will truly be something I will never forget.

While not busy holding a shank bone above my head or hiding a piece of matzah in the hotel I find my way to the Palmach Museum, wherein I took a vivid and interactive journey following eleven freedom fighters of the Palmach from 1941 to 1948 through desert battles, celebratory camp fires, and sobering grave visits. The Palmach was the elite fighting force of the Haganah, the underground army of the Jewish community) during the period of the British Mandate of Palestine, and though the stories told are of fabricated soldiers the emotions one leaves with are very real. I also visited the Tel Aviv Museum of Modern Art, where I found halls filled with wonderful Degas and a large collection of Chagall combined with a rarely impressive exhibition of contemporary figurative paintings; a few days later I biked North to the Eretz Yisrael Museum, a large outdoor expanse of archeological sites, Jewish folk dress from Morocco to Uzbekistan, Roman mosaics, wine presses, an Israeli postal history and coin museum, and even a planetarium- in essence an entire Smithsonian within in one city bloc. Friday morning I accompanied my cousins to the shook, or the market place. The narrow street, hidden from the sun by awnings, is flanked with everything anyone could possibly need: fish heads lay on ice next to a mountain of fresh strawberries and passion fruit as vendors yell their prices; the sweet aroma of spices flow from enormous bowls of blue, red, and yellow seasonings while all of Tel Aviv frantically scans the stands for a few last minute dates or avocados for tonight’s feast. 

As Shabbat fell onto Tel Aviv, extinguishing lights in lofty apartment buildings and halting the busses that usually bustle along in bright yellow, I found myself looking out from a balcony at a breathtaking view in Jaffa, in the oldest part of the city. The sea rushed calmly onto invisible rocks beyond the sand colored city walls as distant hotel towers stood solemnly against the blackness, leaving an ominous neon reflection in the dark waters. Looking below, I watched a single candle being lit through the darkness of a church window. One by one, pious faces came into sight lit by a warm glow until the entire interior was basked in a dance of orange and yellow flames. As the figures took their seats in the pews, the bell tower sprang to life with a droning wail, soon to be joined by a nearby Imam calling from an unseen minaret. “Even the sounds are fighting each other.” My eyes peel from a little girl bowed in prayer towards the host of the evening, our Kiddush cup and Matzot waiting for us just behind the ajar door. I watch as he too looks down at the church, listening to the bell echo off the Imam’s melodious chanting.

If asked what first came to mind when reading about my runs with Mohammed, surely the first thing for many is that he is an Arab and I a Jew; the fact that we are both environmentalists with pessimistic views towards a comprehensive and multilateral climate change mandate is at best a second thought. Either by society’s nudge or our own human characteristics we tend to highlight differences rather than similarities; the media is perchance the guiltiest of this practice. This past Thursday hundreds of demonstrators took to the streets of Tel Aviv to sign a declaration for an independent Palestine. The media broadcasted footage of those against the demonstration holding signs with ‘traitors’ and ‘Jewish Nazis’ screaming against white cardboard as men and women marched peacefully in the backdrop. What they failed to mention was the diversity of both groups: artists, soldiers, Sephardics, Ashkenazis, Arabs, and all else in between were present, pushing aside their vast differences to rise in unison. The Israeli-Palestinian conflict may be as distant to a peace accord as an understanding on environmental initiatives is between Green Action and The Patriot at Lehigh. And yet, I cannot help but find some hope in the cooperation I see between individuals I thought could not possibly find even a favorite food in common. The Do Touch theatre in Neve Tzedeck brings together those who see the world through their fingertips and those through their eyes for a common vision. The Israeli PETA stands at the corners of Yitzack Rabin Square, both Arabs and Jews with pamphlets in hand. Even the soccer game broadcasted on the beach of Real Madrid against Barcelona brings English, French, Hebrew, and Spanish speakers together to scream at a missed goal. If we open our eyes a bit wider, perhaps we will realize that in a region seemingly overflowing with disagreement and differences, similarities, and collaboration, are actually all around us. Bundling my scarf around my neck and turning towards the Shabbat table I respond to my host’s comment. “No, not fighting. They’re in harmony.”