move

The last week in Thailand just disappeared... Back to the States. So strange. So exciting and yet so so strange. Even though we knew the end was coming and both Emily and I were actually looking forward to the change, it was hard to process how fast it arrived.

Naturally I became broody, and spent the better half of our last week battling my anticipation for home and my resistance to leaving. It was touch and go there as I did my best to stay in the moment rather than with my thoughts flitting around to the future and the past and back to the future again...until the last day when we arrived in Phuket. An insane drive through the city. One of the sharp turns and narrow misses we made in that van threw some sense into me (or knocked some sense out of me, depending on your views of that whole sort of thing) and I was absolutely present in Thailand. The sun was going down behind heavy wet clouds as the neon lights of the citystreets illuminated a smoky dome of neon glows and tourists and locals and bumpertobumper and a whole lot of bass, all rising from the streets under the tires of our windy ride. I felt nostalgic for the familiarity of that chaos.

The Phuket drive was a total throwback to a specific taxi drive in Bangkok, a moment that stands out to me now as one of things I love most about Thailand. A taxi drive making that much of an impact? It might not make a whole lot of sense, but the crazy spirit of the drive was full of everything I loved about being there. It caught me off guard and made me appreciate the present (which, I realize time and again, can change its tone from moment to moment).

We were stalled for thirty minutes in the middle of Bangkok waving down a taxi, while our time to catch a bus was slipping away with each denial. We were getting increasingly desperate for help. The guy who finally gave into my pleas, Buddhist bow, and promise to be the best passengers of his night (despite his reluctance to brave the traffic en route to the southern bus terminal), he was my favorite random friend. He swerved and sped and created VIP traffic lanes out of thin air, all the while filling the car with the best soundtrack for the spirit of our rush. He was the first guy who didn't try to get more money out of us than was fair (so we tipped him 50%). Fate denied us the other drivers who brushed us by.

And there in Phuket with another driver who took his soundtrack seriously but laughed at life in general, shouting out his windows, veering around cars in a way that should have made me fear for my life but instead assured me that we were in safe hands. It brought the whole Thai experience full circle for our last night there and I couldn't stop smiling.

But of course we realized only minutes after my romantic revelation that our real last night was the night before because, somehow, we had remembered the dates wrong. Our flight was in 6 hours. Ah well. 

We concluded our travels with an Indian dinner, a harried departure, and then an excruciatingly long day of travel. (Longest day of my life--no exaggeration--December 18th will have lasted for 31 hours for us when all is said and done. I consider this further proof that Time is no respectable unit of measurement and hours, minutes, and seconds as we know them are merely fantastical constructs of the human imagination.)

....I am currently in the 20th hour of December 18th and on the second plane, this time traveling from Seoul to Tel Aviv. (The flight paths laid out for us are just as nonsensical as the hours.) To think that only days ago I was simply worried about mini buses and ferries. 

In fact less than a week ago, Emily and I were squeezed into the umpteenth mini bus of our trip, traversing the jungles and en route to another island. The islands of Thailand were languid and delicious but molasses-slow, slower than anything else we saw in Thailand (and slower than anything we're getting into now, on our way home). There was also the rainforest, and that was a world away from anything else, a destination outside of Thailand, deep in Thailand: tree temples, hidden stone chambers, sparkling walls glossed by watery sheets pooling into a rushing stream on a cave tunnel floor. We trudged through mud and over fallen logs, until we were waist deep--chest deep--neck deep in chilled water from the jungle. Another world--and we were only on the edges.

But no matter where we were, the trip always moved on before we were settled, much too little time for all that we wanted to see. Emily and I ended the rush and noise of the trip with a quiet oasis of an island, bringing everything down into a low hum. Maybe it's because Koh Lanta was our last destination, but our time on the island felt much longer than any other portion of our trip. Time swelled into a silent calm. We rode bikes down the main street (as far as I know, the only street) of the island, slicing through red puddles of mud as the rain soaked our clothes through to the skin. What else is there to do when a warm rainstorm is crashing your plans? It was exhilarating to surrender to the elements and another opportunity to laugh at our misguided planning. After so much excitement, our closing ceremonies took place with books, wine, and rain.

In retrospect, better to end on that sort of note...the rain washed away anxiety, the stillness prepared me for the silent meditation of transition, and then hours later...still writing on the same piece...I'm seamlessly in another country in another time zone (and in hours I will be in yet another). The transitions are neverending, but the most important movements are happening within. Words seem a bit superfluous at this point...

Keep walking, though there's no place to get to.
Don't try to see through the distances.
That's not for human beings. Move within,
but don't move the way fear makes you move.
--Rumi

want

We have less than 2 weeks left in Thailand....the countdown has been strange. We realized we only had 2 weeks to go while we were in the forests of Northern Thailand, visiting a hippy backpacker bubble where we easily could have stayed for a week. We left the next day because of how much more we want to do while we're here. There's just not enough time. Whenever one of us says out loud, "only two weeks," there's a mix of nostalgia, sadness, and a touch of relief at the prospect of returning home.

To be home will mean getting to wear more than the same three outfits over and over again. We can reintroduce simple steamed vegetables, Mexican food, and Italian food into our diets. Bike rides and grocery shopping on the weekends. Having weekends. And at some point, I'm going to take a bubble bath again. I'm thinking now of the hand-held shower heads fixed above toilets for showering, but also that cold bucket shower I had in the hills which wasn't honestly all that bad, since I did feel refreshed....but Oh, to have a bubble bath. The word "heaven" comes to mind.

It's easy to get caught up in these kinds of fantasies when I'm sitting in a cold, pale-blue and naked-steel bus station at 4:30 in the morning, after a 6 1/2 hour drive and awaiting the next 5 hours of travel. There's only dark around the silent station. We could be anywhere or nowhere (but hopefully somewhere close to the ferry station--they did tell us to get off the bus). I'm not uncomfortable right now so much as spacey and timelost, turning my thoughts elsewhere, like to how the money I've been saving by cutting corners will ultimately help me out in New York. Having a little extra in New York is worth the grunge in Thailand.

New York in 2 weeks...crazy.

Christmas time in New York, New Year's Eve in New York...I'm so happy we had the insight back in September to know how exciting it would be to end on that kind of note. From genie pants and muddy TOMS, tuk tuks and Thai temples, the smoke and steam of the tropics...there will be scarves and leather boots and my fantastically impractical lace gloves, champagne and the Soho art scene, ice skating and the vintage of Brooklyn...and of course, the people I care about who are spread across the United States and who I'll get to see again first in New York and then eventually in California...

I will miss Thailand, but I am also looking forward to what comes next, both in heading to all those things back home (more than just the small comforts) and to all that I want to start up--and continue--once I am there. The groundedness of appreciating all that I have and can nurture and sustain in my connections to people and education and opportunities for my future. I can't help but think about the future, even living as much as I am in the present moment (but I think my futurethoughts flourish the most when the present is something like this, a bleak bus station).

It is actually in realizing how I miss home and in discovering what can ground me, that makes me realize why this trip has been so important for me, beyond the opportunity to see other ways of living and stretch my perspective through the changing scenery. The missing, itself, is what I'm talking about.

Missing somethings or someones is necessitated by their absence, and--taking a small leap here--what is desire, if not a byproduct of absence? You can only desire what you don't believe you currently have. Desire--thirst and attachment--is an issue I wanted to explore on this trip, which made going to a place like Thailand, where Buddhism is the predominant religion, particularly attractive. As long as I have admired Buddhism, one of the principles I have found most intriguing is the intention to overcome desire. I have tried to wrap my head around that and to embody it in myself, because I believed that it was a higher mode of consciousness. Letting things go, letting go of my attachment, my wants, etc.

Suffering arises when thirst arises. Suffering ceases when thirst ceases. These are the second and third of the Buddhist Noble Truths.

But right now I am in a Buddhist nation, wondering if desire is one of the most important gifts I have in this life.

Longing is the core of mystery.
Longing itself brings the cure.
The only rule is, Suffer the pain.

Your desire must be disciplined,
and what you want to happen
in time, sacrificed.

--Rumi

Yes, discipline is important for growth, and yes, all things in time are sacrificed, but--can't desire also be productive if you nurture it and think about it in the right way? Missing something, wanting something doesn't have to be frustrating or painful. If I am patient with my desire, if I understand it clearly, it can serve as an empty space for fire to burn: when I desire something, the mindful attention I give it has the potential to lead to action. There is something beautiful about the suffering of thirst...

Think that you're gliding out from the face of a cliff
like an eagle. Think you're walking
like a tiger walks by himself in the forest.

You're most handsome when you're after food.

--Rumi

Before I came on this trip, I was not writing as much as I wanted to, but I desired it. I wanted to practice writing regularly and the craving of something missing from my life motivated me. It's a small example, but my desire gave me the spark I needed to start a blog.

In a truly inspiring example of desire at work, I think of Lek, the creator of the Elephant Nature Park that Emily and I visited in Northern Thailand. She saw the suffering of supposedly holy animals (the brutality that elephants often suffer at the hands of humans is tragic), and her desire for their salvation motivated her to dedicate her life to the cause. She says that she will work on saving elephants until the day she dies. There are so many animals that she cannot save; her desire for their healing and safety is an unquenchable thirst. But it has turned her life into something awesome and beautiful. She has 34 elephants at her sanctuary and that is a staggering number considering how much work goes into their care. First of all, they each eat 200-250 tons of fruits and vegetables a day. They also go through the same issues of illnesses, neuroses, and injuries as humans do, which makes a full-time medical staff necessary.

Yet the interactions between humans and elephants in this lush valley does not feel laborious. It is a place full of love. I could see the evidence of old suffering on the elephants' thick skin, dark scars cutting into their deep wrinkles, some of their eyes long-ago blinded, punctured ears and the marks of hooks that went through the tops of their heads...but here, they finally had their own piece of paradise. They were given a second chance at life and at creating unique little tribes amongst themselves, through the desire of one tiny woman whose happiness depends on their happiness.

Maybe desire is a gift when you see it as a function of the divine quality within us all, love. If your thirst is a heartfelt desire born out of love, then it has a certain energy and truth to it.

Love is the way messengers 
from the mystery tell us things.

Love is the mother. We are her children.
She shines inside us, visible-invisible,

as we lose trust or feel it start to grow again.

--Rumi

Throughout my travels, I have thought just as much about love as I have about desire...the blurred line between desire and love...the way love moves me and moves everyone around me, whether I can see it or not.    

I definitely haven't met a single traveler who hides his or her love for life...there is little room for apathy in exploring the world. Perhaps that is much of its appeal for me. The travelers I have met love trying new things, they love adventure, and even if they don't love all the places that they have seen, they love something about their experiences there. As humans, we are all captivated by whatever in life feeds our cravings and fills our hearts.

It has to be love that has kept me engrossed in the last few days of jungles and elephants and buses and schedules. It is certainly not sleep (I am truly exhausted). I simply love what I am doing. Especially with the time restraints (the urgency of temporal reality is a great motivator as well), I am trying to absorb all that I can from my experiences before they shift yet again.

Lanterns and fireworks and cracked city sidewalks, giant tree canopies laden with vines, soft-footed elephants floating like dark storm clouds over grassy seas...

And the people, the fusion of generosity and greed, of reverent and rude, and everything in between. People really are people wherever you go, but--I don't know, maybe it's because there is a glittering, golden temple on every block, and all the fireworks we have seen, and I can literally taste the spices in the air--living with Thailand's people reminds me of being at a big festival every day of the week. Every day is a carnival. There is just such a raw madness--good or bad--with every interaction, in every facet of daily life. Even getting a taxi leaves me feeling like I've just gone through something...like last night, however many hours ago, just getting a ride to the first bus station was such an event. (Unless you have tried to get a metered taxi in Bangkok on a Friday night, there is really no simple way of explaining this one....it's just mad mad mad.)

That taxi episode was only hours ago...and the bus chaos that followed...here I am, absorbed first in Rumi and now in my writing...I really don't understand how I feel so wide awake and settled here in my seat on the ferry (there was a spacial transition sometime in my entry that did not seem important to note). I'm pretty sure we're supposed to be at the island, Koh Tao, in an hour (or two?) but all I see around us is a flat steel blue ocean and a clear sky on the horizon. Only a moment ago (or was it an hour or two?) I was on a dock watching the world shift into day with the dramatics of a painting. Pink blush on the horizon bleeding into a feathery gray curtain, rising above, and there, jutting at an angle right through the middle of the opposing shades, like a searchlight coming out of the ocean looking for the moon, was a streak of cerulean. Mystical Thai Madness.

There's a strange frenzy in my head,
of birds flying,
each particle circulating on its own.
Is the one I love everywhere?

--Rumi

rawr

It is so hot right now, I can barely think straight. Thailand is a whirl of sensory experiences....I've been caught coughing on spices floating in the air; I have practically devoured every sugared and fried banana set in front of me; I lost skin on the sidewalk (there's a violent body-soul integration sort of thing happening for me on this trip) and I was assaulted with a close-range firework; I have woven through crowds of motorbikes and ridden my own down crowded city streets that for all its heated stillness still whips wind around your face when you're flying on your own set of wheels...Chiang Mai is a vibrant sauna of smells and lights and glittering temples. The days have brushed the threshold of my melting point, but today, our last day in the city, my hair is damp against my temple and I haven't left the mild coolness of a hotel lobby for the past couple of hours...I feel like a cat that has been in the sunshine so long, I have lost my will to even pant away the heat. Melting. Hmm but since my thoughts are now trailing into this more defined direction, of the qualia of cathood, I will go ahead and take advantage of the sense of purpose that is now possible in my writing....please bear with me....

When my mind is muddled as it is now, I am more aware than ever of my own animal instincts, the energies that ebb and flow on the primal levels of consciousness. Perhaps that sense of oneness with all other sentient creatures who are subject to life's elements is the source of my anxiety over animals' suffering when it confronts me. It's easy to say that animals are less evolved than humans, that they do not suffer in captivity in the ways that humans might imagine...I've always had mixed feelings over zoos and wild animal domestication. Cats are domesticated animals, yet they seem perfectly content as kept creatures. But what about their distant relatives, the bigger and wilder felines of this world?

One of the experiences I was told I had to take advantage of in Thailand was visiting a place with domesticated tigers. There was one in particular, Tiger Kingdom, that seemed like the most humane option--it boasts of no drugs and no abuse, providing tourists with a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, to spend time in a cage with tamed wild beasts.

I didn't really know what to expect before going, but to finally meet those beautiful beings--touching them and looking into their eyes--felt simultaneously awesome and forbidden. They were far more perceptive and powerful than any house cat; the comparison is laughable. To look into the eyes of a tiger is to see something mystical incarnate, more energy and strength and natural instincts than any human--and yet reduced to an object of entertainment, locked into a life of exhibitionism and submission. It was a confounding experience.

Emily and I walked amongst the cages and saw impatient adults struggling with their limited space and the constant demands of their attention. An endless line of tourists awaiting picture-perfect moments. What a life. I honestly felt ashamed to be a participant and guilty for the excitement I felt at meeting the babies. We had all this time to await our turn, and I spent most of it working myself into a guilt-ridden meditation.

But then we went in the cage and I let it all go to just be in the moment...because controversial as it might have been, this was still a spectacular experience. The cubs were amazing. They were too young to anticipate that this was the only life they would know (ignorance is bliss) and their compliance was startling. They were noticeably sober, these beautiful, energetic bundles of velvet fur and muscular grips and baby roars, all tumbling over each other and across the laps of humans. I held a baby's paw in my hand. Soft, warm, tar-colored pads and much too big for the little one, but small enough to fit in my child-sized palm. For a moment that existed outside the confines of time, I played with baby tigers.

Of course, once Emily and I had exhausted our turn and were moved on to the adult cages, we were once again confronted with the reality of the situation. The babies were playful and carefree, but the adults were painfully tense. They had known years of the same routine. The adults didn't seem to suffer anything violent from the human trainers, but they had obviously come to realize that life would always be this small and boring and sad. Moments before, Emily and I had been put under a spell by the absurdity of rubbing baby tigers' bellies; then suddenly we were shamed by the angst of these adults. Pacing animals with low grumbled roars. We asked to leave early and were answered with surprised shrugs.

What a strange experience...stranger, still, when our taxi driver asked us if we wanted to see the "long-necks" after the tigers. Right. Because after our conflicting sentiments regarding the "humane" treatment of tigers, we really wanted to see a village of persecuted human-beings. The drive back was silent as Emily and I were completely lost in our own thoughts.

Traveling so far from home has opened up my eyes to certain shadows of capitalism I didn't know before (oh boy, and now I'm really sounding like a modern skeptic). But the supply-and-demand of tourism goes beyond simple exchanges of money and goods. There are always living beings--human or not--that are directly affected by globalization and tourism in ways that are not necessarily beneficial to the natives.

The backpacking world, itself, is an alternate reality where certain things fly--the commoditization of the "authentic" (I always wonder), strange, and wonderful--all under the pretense that we are expected to participate, because how many opportunities does a person get in one life time to pet a tiger or see an aesthetic oddity. But where does the money go and what are the true effects of our tourism? Who really benefits? There are entire streets in cities like Bangkok and Chiang Mai that are dedicated to the throngs of visitors with cameras and money to spend. But the underlying attitude of live-in-the-moment doesn't really make sense to me when I think of how many people spend just a moment in any given place. The locals must be worn down with the efforts of a neverending performance put on for a paying public....and then on the other side, there is the fast-paced life of the travelers, especially the forever-backpackers I meet who embark on neverending journeys and somehow sustain the energy (and funds) required for such a life.

And yet from a different angle (there's always another angle) traveling creates an atmosphere of heightened sensitivity, simplifying existence to the necessities that fit in a bag. You meet friends and lovers and travel partners who might very well stay in your life forever. There is also the added brilliance of seeing the world through a kaleidascopal lens, as long as "living in the moment" really means living with an open mind and an open heart. That mode of living, that sort of "be here now" mentality, actually is translatable from a life of backpacking to a more stationary life. As much as I have recently been questioning tourism and backpacking and all the rest, there is also an intention in my traveling that I value more than anything else I could possibly get from this experience--I am very awake. I want to stay this awake when the traveling is done and home is back in California.

I keep thinking about home and all its implications...right now, "home" is the hostel I'm living in at any given time, "home" becomes the rituals I keep wherever I go (like running, running is home for me). Of course, home is also California and the people and places who make up my personal world. I think my two realities of home come together when I meet people in my travels who I know I will meet again in the United States, thus extending my present journey in ways that will hopefully lead to a more solidifying effect from all the lessons and experiences I gain here. My current conflicts about the world of tourism...my preoccupation with living in the moment and ensuring that this experience is, in fact, grounding for me....I am simply in the throes of a wild ride and feeling rocked by my transience. Perhaps I should be less focused on finding security in this experience and instead embrace the entirety of Backpacker Land, the invaluable and the beautiful and even the corruption too. What would this world be without shades of gray?

At least I am staying awake. Opening my eyes and heart and mind to the madness of this world, catching glimpses of perfection and beauty along with my understandings of the darker sides to things. Besides, if I wasn't aware of the ugly, I would not appreciate the beautiful as much as I do. Falling in love with with life happens in the moments when I see the world more fully. Tiger Kingdom was an opportunity for me to understand humanity better. It was an opportunity for me to understand my own sensitivities better, and to contemplate the entire backpacking experience from a new perspective. Up and down, up and down, riding the currents of revelation and emotion tied in with each new experience.

Hours after Tiger Kingdom, settling down from one adventure and entering another, Emily and I were rushing through a new type of madness. Sitting on cushioned seats screwed into the bed of a truck, we danced to the music blasting through the cab's window and watched the streets light up with fireworks and all the lamps from food carts bursting with steam and aromas. There was screaming everywhere and laughing and excitement. Loy Krathong, the festival of lights, was in full bloom in Chiang Mai, and we were blessed to be a part of it. Even in the 3rd night (boy do the Buddhists love celebration), there was still an upwards falling rain of burning lanterns and floating wishes literally papering the sky. Emily's and my lanterns had risen into the sky's parade the night before, when we joined the ceremony with child-like fascination and determination. Chiang Mai became a fairyland for locals and travelers all celebrating life with the same fervor and joy.

Then continuing the party into the third night, my sister and I danced with new friends, spinning circles with each other and total strangers, bursting open and pounding the floor with total abandon as we lost ourselves to the beats that shook the insides of our ribs. In an ecstatic celebration of lights and traveling and the unknown, what we could all clearly see--what I perceived--was that this moment was human and pulsing and impermanent and perfect. Life as a beautiful mess.

blur

Written November 25th, halfway through the 11 week trip.

Part I is from a fiesta-colored, sweaty dreambus on the way to a town with no name. Part II is from that village destination, written in a hammock swinging over leaves the size of platters.

***

I.

Having a hard time keeping up here... Everything blurs together in time, and before I have a moment to catch my breath and hold still for a moment, we're off again. The lull in Kuala Lumpur--for those brief days of being a guest, rather than a vagabond--were beautiful. But holding still allowed me the insight of just how exhausted I am. I'm okay with being exhausted; it's a result of soaking in everything that I possibly can, which takes a lot of energy--but I only say it because I feel like it would be dishonest to not admit it: traveling has made me tired.

Our first real day of relaxation in Kuala Lumpur was going to see Twilight, stocked up with Malaysian coconut treats, a couple bottles of wine, and a whole lot of build-up that surprisingly did not disappoint. It was an epic Thanksgiving.

And now I'm in Thailand, where the world shifts once again and the newness of this space and of the scents and colors and smiles and the curly-cue language I could never hope to read...

We began with a 48-hour stint in Bangkok (planning to return in a week or two), which consisted of a heavenly spa day, meltinyourmouth fish, roasted (and deep fried) bananas--

Our bus driver just pulled over, emergency lights on, so he could go buy himself a stick (a broomstick?), and apparently I'm just as ADD as he is, and it looks like the bargaining is done, he's on his way back now, that was hilarious--

and there are so many smiling faces. The people here--kind--are also always aiming to get something out of you. Even the nicest, it's just part of the experience. White, western, money... But the few times we've been taken (only considering the times I'm aware of) have been so insignificant in the grand scheme of things. 40 baht too much? Okay, so that's a little over a dollar... To think how much I take for granted... But it starts to get to you too... 'Can I trust you?' My questioning eyes are always met with assurances of 'Yes, of course,' but when I've caught the smile disappearing as soon as it appears and then I'm at the "only ticket office for bus tickets in the whole city," refusing to pay but, Fine, yes I'll go in for a whole of two seconds so you can collect your commission for bringing a westerner to their door, and then I'm on alert with every helpful gesture, with every quoted price--now that is exhausting--and I'm thrown by the kind souls who want absolutely nothing for helping me to find the right bus to board...Ahhh it's all a game I don't know how to win (am I even playing to win?) but at least I'm getting by--

And now I'm looking out the window at the most precious little altar. Brick red, Thai temple dollhouse with yellow trim turning up at the edges, tea cups in front and flowers tucked into corners...the celebration of life, love, Buddha, humanity, color--it's everywhere. I must be dreaming. Or maybe I'm just widely, shatteringly, painfully, deliciously awake for the longest stretch I've time I've ever been and that is precisely why I am so utterly drained.
And invigorated.
And turned on and numb and everything all at once, a great bramble of contradictions, loosening threads all over the tropics--

I've been reading Rumi, The Book of Love cover to cover... I'm past "Grief" and onto "Tavern Madness" and, as is often the case when I feel drawn to a particular book at a particular time, the poems I am reading now (as well as the commentary from the insightful Coleman Barks) speak to me like my own inner-dialogue.

Pale sunlight,
pale the wall.

Love moves away.
The light changes.

I need more grace
than I thought.

I do, I do.
There is a word in Arabic, faraji, it means "ripped open," or "happiness," or "one who brings the joy of being opened," and I feel like as if it could be embossed on my heart. There is a kaleidascopal universe twisting different shades of green, blue, gold, rain, smoke, and flame before me and the air I'm breathing is just so thick with the saturation of it all, in moments of madness I shut my lips and my eyes for a visit back home. I see the same slides flicker through my vision:

California coast and the gray foaming edges of waves kissing the shore where my feet pad soft etch-a-sketch prints on evening runs; all the fixings of my own kitchen and the simplicity of salad on a ceramic plate and both made by my hands in a true organic food experience; the friends and family and social fun of familiarity; certain smiles that I miss sweetly and certain embraces that I miss fiercely and -- ah, but it's all so familiar that I can imagine it in vivid detail with the very reoccurance of these memories in reinvented, technicolored fantasy -- what about THIS? This unimagined, unremembered, all brand new. Be here now.

II.

My toes are threaded through the holes of a hammock. I'm swinging to the music of insectual buzz flowing through the air like water; birds of all instrumental persuasions--trumpets and saxaphones and flutes and windchimes--join the melody in rounds.

I feel like a blanket of dust has been peeled off me and I'm new again.

This world--this being human--is at times (most times?) confounding. One moment I'm fighting my body: scratching the bites that cover my skin like a map of conquered territories, islands set on flame; the illnesses of various origins I've tested within just a month and a half; bruises, blood--and then Bliss. I find myself in a state of ecstatic union with my earth form and I'm assuaged with aromas and flavors and serenity, thrown back into a bed of woven cotton or buoyant in a salty ocean bath.

Our last day in Langkawi, Emily and I dove under soft little waves off a sandy empty shore, when it started to rain. The drops were heavy like marbles, bubbling all over the surface of the water. We floated, soaking in a warm sea and the chilled drops rained on our faces. Beautiful boundless bliss. We left only because we had to--the constant motion of this trip, it takes my breath away.

And then today, just as I began to lose grip of my edges, I'm saved, washed ashore, this time on a hill. A cottage close to the clouds, far from the confusion of cities and the deafening dance music roaring from backpackers' bars and I'm with soulful companions and

Silence.

Who looks out with my eyes? What is

the soul? I cannot stop asking.

If I could taste one sip of an answer,

I could break out of this prison for drunks.

I didn't come here of my own accord,

And I can't leave that way.

Whoever brought my here will have to take me home.

This poetry. I never know what I'm going to say.

I don't plan it.

When I'm outside the saying of it,

I get very quiet and rarely speak at all.

...and then...

We have a huge barrel of wine,

                                       but no cups.

That's fine with us. Every morning

we glow and in the evening we glow again.

They say there's no future for us.

                                      They're right.

Which is fine with us.



cozy

It is our last night in Malaysia before we fly to Thailand. Our new friend, Rash, is kind enough to have welcomed us as his guests for a few days and it is amazing to be in a real home again. Right now, I'm sitting cross-legged on the guest bed, wearing my Bob Dylan go-to shirt, with a glass of wine on the nightstand. (Side note: The friendly owner at the buffet down the street let us borrow a couple of glasses for the night. "Oh, you'll bring them back tomorrow? No problem!")

Emily's glass is on the floor. She has the sewing kit between us (her new bag handle started to rip, but that is now fixed) and she just got off the phone with a pizza place that delivers gourmet pizzas, calamari, and strombino.

After dealing with some airline-sanctioned red tape, taking a 9-hour bus ride down the country's coast, and completing our final Kuala Lumpur missions in the last full day we have in Malaysia, Emily and I agreed that all we really wanted to do tonight was hang out and watch movies and drink vino. Basically, we wanted a night that felt like home.

Yesterday, Rash asked us, "What's in your survival kit?" It took me a minute to realize that what he meant was something along the lines of, "What do you need from home to feel grounded as you travel?" I don't need a lot in terms of material objects, but having a cozy night is a main part of my experiential survival kit: Watching an American movie, eating some late night food American-style, browsing life back home through Facebook and email. Wine makes the night better. Pajamas make the night perfect. We've had plenty of Asian cuisine, lugged around a camera every day, and completely submerged ourselves in the travel experience. I can't really describe what a relief it is to just screw it all and become a homebody for a night. I don't think of it as a night wasted, but as a night earned.

Of course just by expressing my sense of relief for a break, I feel compelled to reiterate how lucky I feel to be on a trip that nearly exhausts me. I'm learning things every single day, whether it is how to ride a motorbike, how to cook new foods, or how to have a conversation about foreign politics with people who have a wildly different perspective than myself. I'm out of my element in all sorts of ways and it's awesome.

The people I have met--especially locals--have changed my world. Rash is a perfect example. The cousin of one of my new friends from Birthright (you're the best, Arun!), this guy got up at 3:30 in the morning, and picked Emily and me up from the bus station. He not only saved us a decent amount of money, but also introduced us to a different perspective of Kuala Lumpur. Last night, we joined Rash and his fabulous girlfriend at his buddy's new cigar and whiskey bar, Whisky Tango Foxtrot. We relaxed in the back room with a door that looked like a wall panel, and met some generous, down-to-earth folks who shared Japanese whiskey and traveling stories of their own. It was the kind of night that would only happen with a local friend, a night that was unique to Kuala Lumpur.

And now the pendulum swings and I need the cheesiest night possible: American films that rated poorly on Rotten Tomatoes, wine out of a bottle with a screw top, and thin crust pizza. All in my pjs. It's perfect. As much as I love the surprises of traveling, sometimes having the familiarity of a cozy night is just as wonderful, my personal take on a "survival kit."

lull

I'm enjoying a lull in island adventuring right now, due to a sudden downpour of rain (although monsoon season is mild and warm despite the current waves of water). The break is welcome, since I'm also just on the other side of severe illness. Nothing like the bronchitis I experienced in Israel....this time I learned the hard way that one should NOT drink the tap water in Malaysia.

Since Emily and I are now hiding out in our dry and cozy hostel, it seems like a good time to write. Although I have a feeling this will be much shorter than the normal entry, since I'm currently typing on my iPhone...such a handy little device....and yet such a small screen.

Emily and I are on Langkawi, a beautiful little paradise. The ocean is warm, the people are laid-back, at night the stars blanket the sky, and you can eat a meal for as little as a dollar. (Although I'm pretty sure the place where we ate a $1 lunch is also the source of my water poisoning.) The island caters to a pretty big tourist population and yet still maintains the charms of personal space and community for the locals. It is a great balance.

Yesterday, Emily and I stumbled upon a local scene while we were exploring the jungle. A giant picnic under a waterfall, with kids swimming on different tiers and mothers preparing plates of food on the surrounding rocks. The smaller boys leapt off an old metal sign perched on a ledge and into the shallow pool (I had a minor, mom-like freak-out upon seeing them, but they seemed perfectly fine). The older kids were at the top level, under the biggest part of the waterfall, snacking and chatting and daring each other to jump off the higher rocks. Em and I lingered for a few minutes before we continued our little adventure, passing private beaches where more families were enjoying a relaxing Friday afternoon together. 

Our day's travel was made possible by a motorbike we rented in the morning from a tourist shop.  Best idea ever. I don't know what possessed me to say, "Yeah, I can drive that thing," but lo and behold, I am one with the bike. On our way to the northern part of the island, the ride was mildly terrifying....sharp turns, cars full of dudes pulling up alongside us for polite conversation ("Hey hey hey!! How you doing?? Where you going??"), random and frequent monkey crossings, and all this while driving on the left side of the road. By the end of the day, though, I had gotten a much better feel for how to control the thing. Despite the lurch I felt in my stomach every time I saw a sign indicating a sharp right or left, I was positive that I could handle it with ease. Accelerate and lean in to the turns...stay in the left lane. True to my Angelean roots, I even passed the slower vehicles. It was a very exciting day.

The best part of our exploration was this little clear and gentle bay hiding off the side of the road. Fine and grainy sand, mostly locals with a couple other foreigners, beautiful trees around us and no boats in view. Emily and I were giddy, turning somersaults and doing handstands, floating on our backs like sea otters, saying over and over again, "This is a perfect day. I am so happy we're here." 

We were hoping for another perfect day to follow that one, but maybe this is just a different kind of perfect. The torrential rain is beautiful and resting feels wonderful. Besides, tomorrow should be a big adventure for us if the weather allows. Em is going to show me her driving skills on a jet ski and there are baby islands so close to us that we can see the sand lines. We have much more exploring to do.

wear

Please press play.

I just discovered this 10 hour version of the song, which at first seemed absurd to me, as I'm sure it does to you. But considering how many times I played it while I was writing the following entry, it seems like the perfect accompaniment.

Yesterday, Emily and I took a bus from Kuala Lumpur to Tanah Rata in the Cameron Highlands, giving me plenty of time to catch up in my journal....

Kuala Lumpur....yep, we're in Malaysia. The plans have changed a bit.

***

Kuala Lumpur, November 9-12:

In my AC-chilled hostel room, I comfortably dressed in black spandex pants and a long, baggy T-shirt that hid my curves. Since Malaysia is a predominantly Muslim country, I didn't want to offend the locals by showing too much skin while I went for my morning run. It didn't really occur to me how difficult I was actually making it for myself, attempting my first run in almost a month in such a hot and humid climate and with so much fabric covering my skin. 

I swung my heavy hiking boots forward as I slowly climbed the ascending pavement, into the depths of a park that felt like the outskirts of a rainforest. Water dripped from the trees overhead and onto my bare forearms, mixing with the sweat that glistened on my already wet skin.

About 20 minutes in, I passed the first pair of joggers. The woman was wearing shorts. They were as long as her male companion's, but she was still going for comfort over the rules of dress that I imagined were strictly enforced. By the end of my run, I had passed countless women in high-cut shorts and tank tops running on the same path. Needless to say, I was confused about the advice I had received to dress modestly.

Like most countries in the world, the cultural "rules" in Malaysia vary based on region, and in a modern city like Kuala Lumpur, Western influence has clearly made its mark. I hadn't realized just how developed the place was, with its efficient monorail system, futuristic skyscrapers, and fairyland LED lights which illuminated streets, temples, and even the royal palace. Kuala Lumpur is an urban burst of color and glitter that seems to draw from tradition just as much as it pushes for innovation and modernization. Of course what I'm describing here are the architectural developments I was able to observe.

So what about the social developments? How does the concept of modest dress work in such a modern city? The more time I spent in KL, the more I observed a diverse mix of female clothing, from waves of burqas--the few moth-like women flowing by--to the rainbow headscarves and butterfly tunics visible in every direction. I was also surprised to see plenty of bare shoulders and legs amongst the locals.

My fascination with these varied clothing styles has led me to think about the broader concept of how we, as humans, work with the physical form to express our inner selves. In fact, the ways in which we cover--and don't cover--our bodies reflect much more than our individuality. Clothing is about the relationship between an individual and the public. When I am home, I feel empowered as a woman and as a citizen. I present my body in ways that reflect that sense of freedom, I embrace the curves of my body and I show a decent amount of skin. However, as a young woman traveling without a male companion in Malaysia, I would feel vulnerable if I dressed the same that I normally do in California. Showing skin back home is an expression of my power as a woman, while covering my skin here is a way to empower myself as a woman.

Thinking about "modest dress" in this context gives me appreciation for the particular ways in which Malaysian women empower themselves through dress, even with the restrictions of a Muslim culture. (Although, as open-minded as I try to be, burqas are admittedly strange to me.) The varieties of colors and jewels amongst the women offer opportunities for self-expression that celebrate the physical form. No matter our country, traditions, or concepts of modesty, I think we all want to exert some sense of control over our physicality as way to express our personal power. Muslim clothes can be surprisingly audacious. There is also something sexy and powerful about leaving more to the imagination. By bringing more attention to a woman's face, head scarves and tunics highlight her unique beauty.

I'd be curious to know how the women here perceive tourists' more scandalous clothing choices and how they feel about foreign dress in general. Based on my current physical appearance--wrinkled, Thai "genie" pants, American shirts and shoes, an Indian henna--I probably look like a Western hippy backpacker, which carries its own implications about my identity and personal power. In some ways I think my appearance hinders my relationship with the Malaysian locals. Covered or not, I am still vulnerable as a foreigner and as a single woman, and so I can easily be overcharged by taxi drivers and hassled by strange men. As a foreign woman, I also haven't had a great deal of interaction with the local women. However, my backpacker outfits also empower me by communicating that I need help with translations and directions. My attempts at modesty (and my henna) show that I respect the local culture. My clothing provides me with opportunities to learn more about Malaysia from friendly locals who are intrigued by my appearance and want to engage in conversation. Obviously, I look foreign regardless of my clothes, but I also believe that my particular blend of local and American garb communicates much more than the fact that I am foreign.

It is interesting to consider the power of dress in a place with such different traditions from those I know. I don't believe appearance tells the whole story about an individual or culture--I mean, how could I?--but I am learning more about the power of appearance and clothing here in Malaysia. I am also learning more about Malaysia, simply by keeping my eyes (and mind) open to the explosions of colors and flowing fabric all around me.

"cave"

"Are we going to have coffee?"

"Coffee will be your prize."

Welcome to Bootcamp Kobi. We set off for the hills surrounding Jerusalem with the only Israeli I've met who reminds me of an American boyscout. One can expect him at any moment to pull out either a little-known historical fact about his native country or a camping stove to prepare hot tea or chocolate. He had scheduled the morning like so:

First, we would travel through the caves, to the Springs of Maria.

"Leave behind anything breakable. We will be crawling."

Then we would cook ourselves a shakshuka breakfast on the roof.

"The roof?"

"Yes, you shall see."

As it turned out, the "caves" were more of an ancient sewer system, a 1500-year-old tunnel that opened up at a little fountain on the main road, where some tourists were filling their water bottles (a questionable decision). We hiked ourselves up over the small rivulet and squeezed into a hole that--I swear to you--was maybe a foot and a half squared. I can only imagine what the bystanders were thinking, especially when the last member of our group, who was easily 6'3" tall, disappeared into the darkness.

Broken glass lined the path where our knees were supposed to go (I shed blood for Jerusalem that day) and the "drinking water" ran down a narrow hollow between the bordering stones. Emily and I were forced to scoot our knees and feet along the gutter to avoid the glass.

Our fearless leader headed the stony terrain with a flashlight, but although I was right behind him, I could barely see a thing. Fortunately it was Emily behind me, lending light from her headlamp when I was truly at a loss for how to navigate my path. There was a point when I was wedged between the rocks so that the view from behind was literally just my behind, and our ensuing laughter saved me a couple extra seconds to readjust and drag my legs through.

"I wish I had gotten a picture!"

"Thank god you didn't get a picture."

By the time we were finally able to stand, we had reached the end of the tunnel, which was the bottom of an ancient well. Kobi lit some tea candles so we could see the little cave around us. This was where the Virgin Mary had supposedly stopped to take a drink after John the Baptist told her she was carrying the baby Jesus. The knee-deep pool of water wasn't exactly the spring I had envisioned, but the experience was a total surprise and the crawl was an adventure I don't believe I could ever replicate. We earned that coffee.

One at a time, we climbed up an old rusted ladder--and then we were on a flat roof above the sewer in late morning sunshine. A view of lush hills, bougainvillea, and rustic villas surrounded us. We sat in a circle around the camp stove and bags full of food, and began to prepare a meal for the five of us.

Now, my take on homemade (roofmade?) shakshuka might be a bit unique from a kitchen preparation, but from what I have seen of this Israeli staple, I believe the principles are the same. I'll explain it as a meal for four to simplify things, and I will also make slight adjustments to the rooftop recipe, based on the various shakshukas I've had during my stay in Israel:

Shakshuka
(4 servings)

1 tbsp olive oil
1 white or brown onion, peeled and diced
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 red or green bell pepper, chopped
6-8 tomatoes, diced into small pieces
za'tar, to taste (outside of Israel, I hear you can find this condiment at Kosher stores)
pinch of cayenne pepper (optional)
4 eggs



Heat oil in a large skillet over medium heat and add both the garlic and onion, coating the mixture in oil. Sautee until the onions start to become soft and the garlic is fragrant. Then add the bell pepper. Sautee for about 5-7 minutes, until the bell pepper begins to soften. Add the tomatoes and blend well. Allow the mixture to simmer for another 5-7 minutes, until the juices start to reduce. Then add za'tar to your liking (feel free to taste!), as well as a bit of cayenne, if desired. The concoction will continue to reduce, so be careful to not add too much of either spice. Once blended, crack the eggs evenly over the sauce so that each can be poached on the surface. Cover pan with a lid (we used foil...but that was a matter of impromptu problem-solving) and allow to simmer for about 7 minutes, until the eggs are cooked and the sauce has reduced (took us 15 minutes, because of the foil scavenger hunt). If you like your eggs more on the runny side, reduce the sauce a bit before you cook the eggs so that you can cook the eggs for less time. Also, be sure to keep an eye on the pan--you don't want the sauce to reduce too much, which would burn your delicious Israeli breakfast. 

Each dish should be served with labneh as well as warm, crusty bread or pita for dipping. As far as the bread goes, if you're gluten-free or simply anti-carbs, the shakshuka is yum regardless--but the bread really makes this dish complete. You can hollow out the middle of the end of a loaf and fill it with egg and sauce, or you can spread sauce, labneh, and egg on top of a piece of bread and eat it like toast. Or you can do it my way, and gracelessly scoop all the toppings together on a piece of bread with a few napkins at the ready by your side. However you choose to enjoy shakshuka, don't forget to clean up the pan at the end, with a piece of bread. As Kobi says, "That's the best part."

oops

"You seem nervous. Is this your first time flying?"

Emily's passport is filled with stamps, so this accusation was a bit absurd. Any signs of nervousness were only her reaction to the intensity of the airport security guard. He drilled her with repetitive questions and held her passport behind his back as if she just might not get it back that day.

We hadn't eaten anything and we were running late for an international flight, and then, just as we got to the front of the security line, we were pulled aside for questioning. Airport security was concerned that we weren't leaving with the rest of our Birthright group, as well as by our relation. A straight-haired blonde and a curly brunette claiming to be sisters? Fishy. They focused in on the blonde.

Whispered Hebrew, sideways glances, and then they separated us so they could double-check her answers. When Emily had finally satisfied the guard with her consistency, he gave her an extra sticker to put on her passport. "This one's shady," it seemed to say.

Ever closer to the check-in counter, we laughed about the misfortune.

"Can you imagine what's going to happen when we try to leave Israel again, but after traveling an extra two months through India and Thailand?"

"O god. I'm going to get strip-searched."

We threw our bags onto the X-ray belt, laughing. I stopped laughing at the next obstacle.

"You." The uniform stared me down. Apparently it was my turn for extra inspection. The static group of angsty travelers in the new waiting area looked nearly as frustrated as me, all of us waiting for tediously slow baggage analysis. Forty-five minutes until boarding.

Emily hurried to the check-in counter to see if she could get both our boarding passes printed. Meanwhile, I waited. And waited. Thirty minutes before boarding, I heard a security guard call for my flight and I shouted, "HERE!" like I was snagging the last lifeboat on a sinking ship. We would not miss this flight. We would go to India.

My bag was rushed through the check point and I ran to where Emily stood, leaning on the counter in front of an apathetic woman who pretended she didn't see either of us.

"What's going on?"

"They say we need visas."

Emily and I had bought our tickets to India weeks prior, without any problems. We hadn't read up on the visa situation because, as far as we knew, we didn't need one for our brief amount of travel. Israel didn't require a visa, Thailand didn't. But India--the longest portion of our trip, the place we researched the most, the country I've obsessed over visiting for years--that was the place with the red tape.

At first, we were in disbelief. Then there were tears. But Emily and I finally womaned up and decided we could remedy the situation. We've made some blunders together in the past while traveling...nothing to this degree, but adequately screwed up enough to prepare us for disaster.

We spent the next four hours visiting the Indian embassy, then an intermediary travel agent. We filled out forms, took formal application photos, and handed over our passports to a sympathetic woman who told us, "Anywhere from a couple days to two weeks." Only then did we collapse on the bed of a dingy hostel, where we planted ourselves for the next four nights. Everything happens for a reason. Maybe we were supposed to stay in Israel a little while longer.

This would also be a good time to mention that on the day we were ready to leave for India, I hadn't yet reached the peak of what we would later determine was a bad case of bronchitis. It is just in the last day or so that I've started to get better--and much credit has to be given to my amazing traveling companion for taking my violent coughing in stride. I am so grateful for her calming presence and also that we are traveling together. Going through this madness as a pair brings a bit more humor to the situation. It also makes bronchitis a hell of a lot less miserable.

The plans are a mess, but at least we were given an opportunity to make the most of an unfortunate situation. More time in beautiful Tel Aviv is a far cry from disaster. Our crusty hostel turned out to be a happy oasis, one block away from the gorgeous, soft sandy beach and walking distance from some eclectic restaurants, the movie theatres (go see Looper!), plenty of markets, a post office, and everything else we could need in Limbo.

The past few days slowed us down and gave us a lovely little extension in Israel. A couple days ago, we decided to return to Jerusalem and--thanks to Birthright--we actually have friends up there to visit. A very generous guy who traveled with our group, Kobi, has arranged for us to stay with his girlfriend while we're there. Soon Emily and I will get to experience Shabbat dinner in a traditional, family setting. And, knowing Kobi, I'm sure we will also be experiencing at least one more impromptu hot chocolate session. (Kobi travels with a camping stove and supplies for hot beverages....he is always prepared with hospitality!)

As fun as it has been to explore Tel Aviv, I'm really looking forward to a change of scenery for the next few days....off we go to Jerusalem. The bus awaits.

A tea party from the past. (From left to right: Emily, Amanda, Yael, Kobi, Lewis)

still

Imagine thirty-eight American Jews riding camels through the Israeli desert. Our Bedouin guides unabashedly laughed at us while they led the despairing creatures along in a haphazard line through the sandy terrain. Our steeds angrily nipped at legs, howled with frustration, and provoked howls of laughter from all of us with their determined acts of rebellion against the injustice of the situation. Fortunately for them (and for anyone whose legs were subject to the nipping), our group made a quick U-turn only 10 minutes into the trek. Back we trudged through the camel poop and towards the touristy Bedouin campsite awaiting us. Equal parts ridiculous and hilarious.

Photo credit: Casey Kaminsky

Emily and I took a camel that will heretofore be known as Gabe. Em rode shot gun while I rode in the back and felt up-close camel breath on my shoulder for much of the walk. No concept of personal space, that guy.

With this kind of slapstick introduction to the desert, it was difficult to anticipate how profound the rest of our time there would be. Spending the night in Negev was my favorite part of the Israel Experience, coming near the very end of a whirlwind tour. It was a climax of spiritual awareness, camaraderie, and self-reflection blooming silently in the darkness of a warm windy night.

The tour officially ended yesterday, and it was so crammed with activities and memories that it would be hard to compile into a concise little blog post. I barely had time to sleep, let alone write, but I am now on the other side of the journey and resting at "home." Home, in this case, is an apartment in Tel Aviv where Emily and I have settled in for a few days. We're staying with an Israeli guy named Shaked, who we met through couch surfing. He is a very kind host to accommodate us, especially since I am also very sick and sniffly (too little sleep and too much hookah). Today I made an expensive trip to a local vitamin shop and stocked up on homeopathic meds with labels I cannot read. My favorite remedy at the moment is the cough syrup because it tastes like honey...I've been doubling the doses recommended to me by the cashier.

So here I am, a total degenerate in my comfy clothes while Emily and Shaked are out shopping for groceries. Our host claims to make awesome schnitzel, so I believe that is what we'll be having for dinner. While I trust his abilities with chicken, he has also confided in me that he hates cucumbers and Indian food, thus decreasing my overall faith in his culinary preferences. Stay tuned for word on the schnitzel.

Really, though, it's amazing to have this kind of hospitality from a total stranger...couch surfing is a life saver (or at least a huge money saver). Instead of a hostel or an expensive hotel, I'm staying at a local's apartment. I'm listening to the voices and traffic from Rabin Square through wide open windows, and enjoying a moment of stillness and solitude. It's the perfect atmosphere for reflecting on the hustle of Birthright and the past week since I last wrote.

It's hard to put into words exactly what Israel has meant to me, but I think that what is most important for me to share is my experience in the desert. That part of the tour basically concluded the entire trip (although the real conclusion was a drunken night of debauchery that peaked with a 1:30AM dip in the ocean and ended at 4:00AM, with a tearful send-off to some of the best people I have ever known). But back to the Bedouins and the magical desert....

After we kicked off with the camel ride, our little traveling Kibbutz cleaned up and reconvened in the dining tent. We sat on floor cushions, around communal plates of vegetables and meat as the sky darkened. The Bedouin hosts plied us with tea, pitas, and fruit, and we feasted hand-to-mouth style until we were full. But the carefully planned schedule ended there, and our Birthright family transformed into a freeform state of group activities and smaller gatherings. Our interactions flowed into an easy sort of rhythm that was different than anything we had yet experienced.

I was a part of the larger group that walked out into the desert away from the lights of the campsite. We wanted to see the stars. At first we blinded ourselves with flashlights as we aimed to sidestep the camel debris and whatever rocks were lurking in the dark, but as soon as we realized our mistake in using bulbs to see, our eyes adjusted to the moonlight. It was a world of blues and purples and shadows. The bushes glowed like tropical sea coral and I could see the rocks from a distance before my feet were close. Emily and I hopped between the rocks like rabbits, trying to get a momentum going as we dodged the unseen obstacles. But as our eyes adjusted and the sand sloped down, we slowed our pace and walked until the entire group settled into a flat area surrounded by sweeping hills. We all laid down with our backs on the desert floor and looked up at the stars.

It took a minute or two for them to become visible to us...bright lights still stained our eyes and the moon was glowing more than anything from the campsite, but as we lay there on the rocks and the dust, the sky opened up to us. We were staring at the universe.

In a group like ours, with each person presenting a distinct personality and with a short amount of time to spend with so many new friends, conversations were always going. Even in down times when we were all exhausted, there was always at least one voice that could be heard. So when our tour guide Yoav requested our silence there on the desert floor, it was especially poignant that we did experience total quiet. It was the first moment of stillness that I can remember from the trip, and it was beautiful. I hadn't realized how much I needed a moment of peace.

As much as I loved being a part of a group of people to share the big moments, whether we were walking through Yad Vashem or welcoming Shabbat at the Wailing Wall, it was really special to connect with what was going on inside myself for a small moment and to realize how big that actually was. 

The desert changed the pace of Israel for me. I came back to the campsite on my own when I was ready, with a new appreciation for the community we had created. On one side of our space there was a big bonfire with most of our Birthright family sitting in a close circle, singing and playing instruments for each other. It looked like a really nice time, but I was still feeling the silence and solitude...I made my way to the other side of the camp. 

In a small little group that shifted a few of its members periodically, we sat around a table under a tree that dropped pink petals shaped like ginkgo leaves. We had our own music, a volunteer DJ who provided us with mellow songs that fit perfectly with the atmosphere. We smoked hookah, we drank tea, we shared stories, and we sat quietly listening to the sounds around us. It was such a perfect, comfortable silence. There was something freshly intimate about that circle of friends that made me feel like I was home. 

After about four hours of sleep, I (struggled to) wake up and wandered out of the sleeping tent to find a sky full of stars that rivaled anything we had seen on our desert walk. They were so clear. We all packed up and headed to Masada so that we could hike to the top in time for sunrise. The stars had all but faded by the time we got to the base of the cliffs.

After a short, steep hike and in a delirious state, our group settled on the ruins with a view of the Dead Sea stretched out below. The sun rose over the Eastern wall, peaking through a shield of clouds with the brightest shade of pink. Emily and I met the new day in our own way, stepping aside from the group for our personal version of prayer. In quiet unison, we did a short series of sun salutations and bowed yogi-style to the dawn.

There's a morning where presence comes over you,
and you sing like a rooster in your earth-colored shape.

Your heart hears and, no longer frantic, begins 
to dance. At that moment soul 
reaches total emptiness. Your heart becomes Mary,

miraculously pregnant, and body, like a two-day-old
Jesus says wisdom words. Now the heart 
turns to light, and the body picks up the tempo.

Where Shamsi Tabriz walks, the footprints
are musical notes and holes you fall through into space.

--Rumi

here

Warm wind swirls brown leaves off the ground and carries the laughter and songs of a wedding celebration over Jaffa. The live music is bright and joyful, but there is also a nostalgic quality to its tone, haunting and beautiful. Stray cats leap from stone steps stretched out around us. The city lights across the way contrast with the dark ocean below the hill. This is our first night in Tel Aviv and the city has already swept me off my feet. 

Our tour guide, Yoav, tells us that even though he expects we will have lots of questions throughout the ten days of Taglit-Birthright, we should expect more questions and less answers. "You'll find a way to answer questions later."

***

The first night in Tel Aviv felt like a meditation on what was to come, a moment to reflect on how much I still have to learn about my Jewish roots--and about identity, community, and spirituality in general. My experience of being human is part of an unfathomably larger fabric of history. Perhaps in understanding that history better, I can come to understand my small part better. Israel is so rich with stories of the past, it feels consequential to simply stand on the soil. But then my exploration will also extend beyond Israel and take a turn into complete unfamiliarity in South East Asia. This is a testament to the even greater community of being human that extends beyond myself and my family and my notions of spiritual awareness.

My intention prior to leaving the USA was to find "clarity," to obtain a sense of security in my spiritual and emotional faculties. This seems more like the analytical agenda of my rational mind. The type of clarity I am really seeking isn't about feeling secure and placid, nor about finding answers and making conclusions. Yoav assured us that the more we learn, the more questions we will have. That sounds more like spiritual and self-exploration, doesn't it? Life is messy and expansive. True clarity, then, should light the way down the infinite path of exploration, so as to continue the search.

Before leaving, I put so much weight on this trip, as if it were to be the literal manifestation of my allegorical exploration of life. True, traveling, at its core, is always something like that. A person shakes off all the familiar and sets off into the unknown--that desire to shift scenery must come from a deeper desire to expand. But if I put too much emphasis on searching for clarity or finding answers, I might just miss the point. Much better to be here now.

The beginning of this trip kicked off with my 25th birthday. It feels like starting fresh, like a new phase--and I can't imagine a better place to begin than in Israel. This country is very special. Such a heavy past and so rich a culture, yet the atmosphere is welcoming and light.

We've been here only three days, but my Birthright group generally agrees that time is irrelevant--it might as well have been weeks at this point. So far our stay has been a fantastic blur of hummus, bus rides, political and religious discussions, hot thick air, dust, hookah, and fast bonding. The relationships we are building as a group--superficial as they might be after what is in actuality a very short time--feel surprisingly easy and organic. These are good people. Everyone is so open, they just come as they are.

I'm finding myself more grounded and clear-headed than I've felt in a very long time. I think it has something to do with the welcome familiarity of living out of a backpack and definitely from the laid-back group of people with whom I am lucky enough to travel. I feel free to be myself, passionate and curious and messy as ever. All my heavy expectations about what this trip could be are dissolving into the reality of what it is: I am in a magical place with a little community of beautiful people, waking up every day to wildly different experiences than I have ever had before.

Just yesterday we hiked through the Golan Heights. We ran up rocky paths and found shade from the sun in a cool tree tunnel arching over a stream. Later at Mount Bental, we stood on top of an old bunker and waved to Syria next door. Then last night, Emily and I led a mini drunken yoga session under the stars. Emily learned how to salsa dance and count to ten in Hebrew. Today, our entire group of forty-five sang together in an echoey, ancient citadel in Safed. Emily and I drank fresh squeezed pomegranate juice and ate our third meal of falafels.

And tonight, we are in Jerusalem. It's only day three....I'm in total bliss and blowing my mind.

mama

I graduated in May, yet this past summer was just as packed with growing pains as my years in college: a bonus semester, free of charge. In the span of a few months, I found myself in a new work environment, newly single, making new friends, and then moving to a new condo. I didn't have much time to stop and panic, so it is only in reflection that I am able to see how fluidly those changes transpired. As it turns out, when I'm strapped on time for over-analyzing, my instincts are remarkably reliable. This, my friends, is exciting news to me.

My monstrous move (So. Much. Furniture.) did provide a few moments of panic, but they were minor compared with my excitement. I actively participated in the purchase and design of a home, which, although time-consuming and stressful, was an awesome and creative project. I am also now living with my favorite person on the planet, my sister, Emily. I’ll go ahead and take this opportunity to share that she is coming with me on the trip. This was a last-minute, best-idea-ever decision.

I was prepared to travel alone, which was very empowering, but I am happy beyond belief to go on this pilgrimage with my sister. Emily is the perfect travel buddy. (And as I said to one person who seemed shocked at the amount of time we have now determined to spend together, “It’s a good thing we like each other’s company.”)
 

Another person who I adore, who has always been a rock through my life's transitions, is my mother. She patiently helped me to pack my apartment while I melodramatically declared that I wanted to throw away all of my earthly possessions. She stuck it out through the stressful period of box towers and feng shui furniture shifting, until we entered the fun phase of hanging pictures and cooking nice meals. The woman is truly a saint.

This last week, on the final day of decorating, she showed up ready to help us close the job, as if she hadn’t done enough already. This was maybe her 3^rd or 4^th night assisting us with “final touches.”

When I opened the downstairs door to let her into our building, my first thought was of what a beautiful person she is, inside and out. At 5’2” she is still a force of nature, a tiny woman with voluptuous hips and an angel-sweet smile. She was wearing an ethereal tie-dyed dress and had in her hand an electric drill box. Both Mother Goddess and Ruby the Riveter.

Once we were inside, she fastened her loose curls into a large clip covered in fuzzy yellow, pink, and purple balls. It was a Dr. Seuss sort of accessory and a childlike contrast to the aged silver hair she proudly grew long, despite protests she heard from her age-fearing peers. This is my mom in essence: she pulls off the appearance of being fun and eclectic (which she is, undoubtedly), but underneath her playful façade she is also a wise and feminine pillar of strength. Strong enough to grow her hair gray, to wield a power tool with ease, to set aside her own obligations for her those of her daughters without a second thought. 

At one point, after running to the hardware store for the umpteenth time, she smiled at me and said, “It makes me happy to help you. I’m doing this because it makes me feel good to help my girls.” My mom can come across as sort of a “people-pleaser,” a quality that I can not only relate to, but have often considered a weakness of my own character. Yet when my mom said that making us happy made her happy, she was helping me to see that there is nothing weak or self-sacrificial about going above and beyond for those you love. My mom gives of herself because it brings something into her life that makes her feel more complete. She's a nurturer through and through.

My mom has always empowered me to be true to myself and trust my instincts, but the lesson seems clearer when I witness her example. She pours herself into everything she does--including how she loves--because she is unapologetically herself. I am grateful for her example, but also for her channeling all that mother goddess love into helping me through the tougher transitions. The madness of moving is finally at a close with her undeniable assistance, and that leaves me with nothing to do but finish preparing for the trip. We leave in ten days....just enough time to wrap everything up (but definitely not enough time to stop and panic). Let the next phase begin.

tips

When my sister and I went backpacking through southern Europe, we quickly developed a motto for our five-week free-fall:

“Planning is bullshit.”

Clearly this was an aphorism born from a moment of frustration, but it also helped us to take ourselves less seriously. We learned to laugh whenever unforeseen disasters occurred, like when we couldn’t afford three nights in our Mykonos hostel and decided to spend the third night sleeping on the beach. We fell asleep at 4AM just as the island rager ceased, then woke up an hour later to the rumbles of a garbage truck and pieces of debris sailing down on our sleepy heads. We laughed until there were tears.

Our anti-planning creed also kept our minds open and allowed us to follow our instincts. Three-and-a-half weeks into our trip, we were sick to death of tanning, club music, and fruity cocktails. (There is, as it turns out, a threshold for the amount of beach partying one can handle, and ours happened to be set fairly low.) We were dying to go to Amsterdam. We hadn’t fit the destination into our plan…but then again, we had created the plan. It was ours to change as we liked.

The detour was my favorite part of the trip. We got lost in the fairytale alleys of Amsterdam, had a never-ending gigglefest in sunny Oosterpark, and drank tea in art-filled cafes while the sky churned gray. It was our lush and hazy oasis before returning home—and there was no way we could have planned it better.  

However, as much as I value ditching the plan and embracing spontaneity, I also believe in being prepared. There are little tips and tricks Emily and I used throughout our travels that led us to some amazing experiences, even if it was simply being prepared for the unexpected.

Keeping this in mind, I have already begun to prepare for my next adventure—through a little research, but mostly through stories from friends and friends-of-friends. Of course once I put it out there that I was looking for advice, I got more than I ever expected. It’s amazing how gracious people can be when you simply inquire for a little help….ask and you shall receive.

My rough plan right now is 2 weeks in Israel, 3 weeks in India, 3 weeks in Thailand, and then my final week in Israel. Here is a sampling of my current list of tips and tricks, in no particular order:

Israel

• Travel with an empty suitcase because you’ll want to buy an entirely new wardrobe once you get there.
• Eat lots of hummus (I’m not sure if this was a tip or more of a prediction).
• Bring long, modest skirts and clothing that can cover your shoulders for holy sites.
• Don’t be afraid to wander away from the Birthright group—you might stumble upon a mystical experience on your own.
• Get a travel phone and travel insurance.
• Bring running shoes for exploration-exercise.
• Couch surf your way to friendly lodging when you’re traveling solo.
• Hanukkah: December 8-16, 2012. (Perfect timing.)

India

• Let the road take you where it leads. Do not plan.
• Do not eat anything from a river.
• Despite all precautions, you will definitely get sick.
• Eat street food as soon as you get there so your stomach can adjust.
• Buy traditional Indian clothing as soon as you get there. It shows respect and it’s also gorgeous. Win-win.
• P.S. In all likelihood, you will get sick.
• You will see the full cycle of life in India and in ways you have never seen before—from babies alone on the streets, to bodies being transported home via train.
• Trains are the best way to travel, but a) Buy your tickets way in advance, b) Upgrade if possible, and c) Do not accept cookies from anyone on a train unless you want to wake up two days later with nothing but the clothes on your back.
• Do not take drugs with strangers on a beach your first week there because you could wake up all alone and with nothing but the clothes on your back.
• Carry your valuables on you at all times. Do not use the safes in hotels/hostels.
• Holy spots: Kushinagar (where Gautama Buddha attained Parinirvana after his death); Sarnath (where Gautama Buddha first taught the Dharma); Bodh Gaya (where Gautama Buddha obtained Enlightenment under the Bodhi tree); Varanasi (you must go to the river to watch the sunrise). 

Thailand

• Travel north and see the jungles.
• Travel south and see the beaches.
• Just show up and knock on some doors. You’ll figure it out as you go.
• If you take a tuk tuk to go shopping, get dropped off a block or so from your destination…unless you want to pay extra for your driver’s cut.
• Consider wearing an engagement ring. When in a sketchy situation, you can always say you’re about to meet up with your husband/fiancé.
• Do not accept drinks from strangers—or even new friends. Watch your drink at all times.
• Vaccines: Hepatitis A, Hepatitis B, Typhoid. Get malaria pills.
• Talking about the Thai king is taboo.
• Eat lots of street food—especially if there is a long line of locals for something.
• Mai pen lai (rough translations: “no worries,” “never mind,” “take it easy”).
• Go to Chiang Mai for two full moon festivals at the end of November (O man, I could not have timed this trip better):
• Loi Krathong Festival, November 28, 2012: Locals pay respect to the Buddha and to the goddess of the water by lighting lanterns and floating them down the river. This is also a ritual of letting go of the negative and starting life afresh with positivity and good luck.
• Yi Peng Festival, November 27-29, 2012: Locals honor Phrathat Chulamani by launching floating lanterns into the sky. This is also a ritual in releasing your troubles and in lighting new wishes.