 |
| Jimbaran Bay, April 2014 |
Friday, August 15, 2014
From the archives: June 2005
I still remember my very first journal entry. I was ten years old, and it was approximately 7:30am. I was waiting at my old elementary school for the big yellow bus to come take me to my new magnet school. My first journal was a small white diary with blue and red pencils and black horizontal lines printed on the cover. I wrote that morning in a very sarcastic voice, about how GREAT it was and how damned lucky I was for it to be raining and cold.
Subsequent journal entries that year would be about S, a boy in my class who shared my bus stop and waited with me each morning. I had the hugest crush on him for two years, but I could never gather the courage to tell him.
I was a horribly shy child, my nose always buried in a book. My fourth grade teacher had to call a conference to discuss with my parents what to do regarding my startling behavior of ignoring everything she said, preferring instead to spend my class time leisurely reading a novel. At the time, I was deeply engrossed in the works of Anne Rice and Gaston Leroux, the macabre content of which greatly disturbed my instructors. I’m surprised I didn’t turn out a goth kid.
It was not until two years later that I moved away from dark stories of vampires, phantoms, and the supernatural, to stories of the interminable suffering of mere mortals. It took me six months to finish the unabridged version of Les Miserables, and when I finally closed the cover of that heavy tome, I felt I knew much more about the sacrifice and inequity of human existence than a girl who had not yet begun to menstruate should know.
Fourteen years later, I am still writing, on this blog and in a tattered journal whose brown, coming-apart cover depicts an ancient world map.
Fourteen years later, it's still raining outside and I'm still waiting for someone to pick me up and take me somewhere safe, where I can sit, bury my nose in a book, and ignore all else.
Subsequent journal entries that year would be about S, a boy in my class who shared my bus stop and waited with me each morning. I had the hugest crush on him for two years, but I could never gather the courage to tell him.
I was a horribly shy child, my nose always buried in a book. My fourth grade teacher had to call a conference to discuss with my parents what to do regarding my startling behavior of ignoring everything she said, preferring instead to spend my class time leisurely reading a novel. At the time, I was deeply engrossed in the works of Anne Rice and Gaston Leroux, the macabre content of which greatly disturbed my instructors. I’m surprised I didn’t turn out a goth kid.
It was not until two years later that I moved away from dark stories of vampires, phantoms, and the supernatural, to stories of the interminable suffering of mere mortals. It took me six months to finish the unabridged version of Les Miserables, and when I finally closed the cover of that heavy tome, I felt I knew much more about the sacrifice and inequity of human existence than a girl who had not yet begun to menstruate should know.
Fourteen years later, I am still writing, on this blog and in a tattered journal whose brown, coming-apart cover depicts an ancient world map.
Fourteen years later, it's still raining outside and I'm still waiting for someone to pick me up and take me somewhere safe, where I can sit, bury my nose in a book, and ignore all else.
 |
| Hong Kong from my bedroom window, summer 2005 |
Saturday, April 24, 2010
From the archives: Turkey 2010
hello all.
where do ı begın? the last tıme any of you got one of these from me was probably two years ago ınvolvıng rıdıng elephants ın the jungle. so much has happened sınce then. hope everyone's doıng fabulously.
ı am currently reportıng from olympos. a bıt of a sudden decısıon but one that ı defınıtely don't regret. olympos ıs on the Mediterranean coast of turkey. landed today ın the coastal town of antalya wıth perfect sunny weather and took a bumpy bus rıde along the breathtaking coastlıne where mountaıns seem to come rıght down to the sea, and then up a wındıng mountaın road where ı could catch glımpses of bubblıng streams and small waterfalls through the trees. back down a road, whıch turned ınto a dırt path. forged across a shallow rıver (ın a van!) and arrıved ın olympos. thıs place ıs pretty darn close to paradıse. roman ruıns overgrown wıth trees tumblıng onto the turquoıse pebble beach. hammocks. treehouses. thıs ıs where the chımaera are - eternal natural gas flames that have been burnıng on these rocks for thousands of years.
touched down ın ıstanbul last frıday and spent a few leısurely days wanderıng around the cobblestone streets and vısıtıng the major sıghts, gettıng lost ın the grand bazaar. you can read about the blue mosque, taksım square, the palace, etc. etc. from google, but what touched me the most about my tıme here ıs how often ı am remınded, each tıme ı travel, that ıf you sıt stıll and waıt, the most magıcal thıngs happen.
ı've been dreamıng of vısıtıng the hagıa sophıa for thırteen years--from the moment ı studıed ıt ın art hıstory. several days ago that dream came true and ı found myself under a massıve glass chandelıer suspended ın a space so large my guıdebook says the statue of lıberty could do jumpıng jacks ın here.
ı clımbed up to the gallery and sat ın the lıght of a wındowsıll, and started to wrıte ın my travel journal. each tıme ı do thıs ıt remınds me of all the other places where ı have stopped and sat and wrıtten--so sıttıng ın the hagıa sophıa ı somehow felt so close to angkor wat, the sacre couer, tıkal, atıtlan, the rooftops of hong kong... all such unspeakably beautıful memorıes.
the fırst person to come up to me as ı sat there was an old man. he approached me and asked. are you wrıtıng poems? no. ı saıd, ı'm wrıtıng ın my travel journal. he smıled and saıd, ıt's all poetry...and turned around and walked away.
the second person was a mıddle aged korean man who came, sat down next to me, and asked ın haltıng englısh what ı was doıng. ı told hım ı lıke to sıt and wrıte at the places ı vısıt. wordlessly, he reached ınto hıs bag and pulled out a pıle of papers, all handwrıtten ın korean, some on the backs of envelopes, hotel statıonery, backs of advertısements--each wıth, wrıtten ın englısh, the name of the place--places all over the world--where he too had been sıttıng when he wrote these thıngs. you should have seen the smıle on both of our faces. then, ı got up and walked away. ı lıke to thınk he stayed a lıttle after ı left to add another chapter to hıs story.
well. the hammock under the orange tree beckons. tıll next tıme. ;)
happy traıls,
K
where do ı begın? the last tıme any of you got one of these from me was probably two years ago ınvolvıng rıdıng elephants ın the jungle. so much has happened sınce then. hope everyone's doıng fabulously.
ı am currently reportıng from olympos. a bıt of a sudden decısıon but one that ı defınıtely don't regret. olympos ıs on the Mediterranean coast of turkey. landed today ın the coastal town of antalya wıth perfect sunny weather and took a bumpy bus rıde along the breathtaking coastlıne where mountaıns seem to come rıght down to the sea, and then up a wındıng mountaın road where ı could catch glımpses of bubblıng streams and small waterfalls through the trees. back down a road, whıch turned ınto a dırt path. forged across a shallow rıver (ın a van!) and arrıved ın olympos. thıs place ıs pretty darn close to paradıse. roman ruıns overgrown wıth trees tumblıng onto the turquoıse pebble beach. hammocks. treehouses. thıs ıs where the chımaera are - eternal natural gas flames that have been burnıng on these rocks for thousands of years.
touched down ın ıstanbul last frıday and spent a few leısurely days wanderıng around the cobblestone streets and vısıtıng the major sıghts, gettıng lost ın the grand bazaar. you can read about the blue mosque, taksım square, the palace, etc. etc. from google, but what touched me the most about my tıme here ıs how often ı am remınded, each tıme ı travel, that ıf you sıt stıll and waıt, the most magıcal thıngs happen.
ı've been dreamıng of vısıtıng the hagıa sophıa for thırteen years--from the moment ı studıed ıt ın art hıstory. several days ago that dream came true and ı found myself under a massıve glass chandelıer suspended ın a space so large my guıdebook says the statue of lıberty could do jumpıng jacks ın here.
ı clımbed up to the gallery and sat ın the lıght of a wındowsıll, and started to wrıte ın my travel journal. each tıme ı do thıs ıt remınds me of all the other places where ı have stopped and sat and wrıtten--so sıttıng ın the hagıa sophıa ı somehow felt so close to angkor wat, the sacre couer, tıkal, atıtlan, the rooftops of hong kong... all such unspeakably beautıful memorıes.
the fırst person to come up to me as ı sat there was an old man. he approached me and asked. are you wrıtıng poems? no. ı saıd, ı'm wrıtıng ın my travel journal. he smıled and saıd, ıt's all poetry...and turned around and walked away.
the second person was a mıddle aged korean man who came, sat down next to me, and asked ın haltıng englısh what ı was doıng. ı told hım ı lıke to sıt and wrıte at the places ı vısıt. wordlessly, he reached ınto hıs bag and pulled out a pıle of papers, all handwrıtten ın korean, some on the backs of envelopes, hotel statıonery, backs of advertısements--each wıth, wrıtten ın englısh, the name of the place--places all over the world--where he too had been sıttıng when he wrote these thıngs. you should have seen the smıle on both of our faces. then, ı got up and walked away. ı lıke to thınk he stayed a lıttle after ı left to add another chapter to hıs story.
well. the hammock under the orange tree beckons. tıll next tıme. ;)
happy traıls,
K
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Chiang Mai
From my travel journal, 6/14/08:
We arrived the day before yesterday in Chiang Mai and spent the evening wandering the night market.
The next morning, we piled into a pickup truck to go jungle trekking. Our guides call themselves James Bond and Jack Sparrow, and they very much live up to their nicknames. Both of them carry 2 1/2 foot-long machetes which turned out to be surprisingly versatile. James used his to cut me a bamboo walking stick, make a waterpipe out of a gourd, and make dinner.
When I signed up for this trek, I didn't quite appreciate how tough it would actually be. I imagined something like the hike up Volcan Pacaya in Guatemala, or perhaps my jungle treks in Tikal--but instead, this hike was, oh, about 10 times harder. We trekked with all our gear in 90 degree weather with 100% humidity, through red mud, alongside and across streams, hopping rocks to keep from falling in the water, and through jungle foliage so dense that at times it brushed against my body on both sides (which helped wipe off the sweat that was running in rivulets down my body), and over paths so lightly trodden we were still stepping on live grass. I don't think I have ever hiked or exercised that hard in my life. Two hours into the hike, I was soaked through from head to toe in my own sweat, laboring to take the next step and leaning heavily on my walking stick. James Bond and Jack Sparrow, on the other hand, sauntered along barely even breaking a sweat (Jack was wearing rubber flip flops), entertaining us with whistled pitch-perfect renditions of favorites from Bob Marley, the Beatles, the Scorpions, and the Lion King.
We finally arrived at a hill-town perched in the clouds in the middle of the jungle. We enjoyed a dinner, cooked by James Bond with the aid of his machete, of red curry with fish balls, tofu with bean sprouts, and stir-fried veggies.
That night, we gathered around a campfire and listened to our guides play the guitar and sing.
It's morning now. I am sitting in a hut on stilts, literally inside of a cloud on the jungle hillside. All around there is no other sign of civilization. The only noise is the crackling of the fire behind me as our guides cook breakfast, and the occasional rooster crow.
We arrived the day before yesterday in Chiang Mai and spent the evening wandering the night market.
The next morning, we piled into a pickup truck to go jungle trekking. Our guides call themselves James Bond and Jack Sparrow, and they very much live up to their nicknames. Both of them carry 2 1/2 foot-long machetes which turned out to be surprisingly versatile. James used his to cut me a bamboo walking stick, make a waterpipe out of a gourd, and make dinner.
When I signed up for this trek, I didn't quite appreciate how tough it would actually be. I imagined something like the hike up Volcan Pacaya in Guatemala, or perhaps my jungle treks in Tikal--but instead, this hike was, oh, about 10 times harder. We trekked with all our gear in 90 degree weather with 100% humidity, through red mud, alongside and across streams, hopping rocks to keep from falling in the water, and through jungle foliage so dense that at times it brushed against my body on both sides (which helped wipe off the sweat that was running in rivulets down my body), and over paths so lightly trodden we were still stepping on live grass. I don't think I have ever hiked or exercised that hard in my life. Two hours into the hike, I was soaked through from head to toe in my own sweat, laboring to take the next step and leaning heavily on my walking stick. James Bond and Jack Sparrow, on the other hand, sauntered along barely even breaking a sweat (Jack was wearing rubber flip flops), entertaining us with whistled pitch-perfect renditions of favorites from Bob Marley, the Beatles, the Scorpions, and the Lion King.
We finally arrived at a hill-town perched in the clouds in the middle of the jungle. We enjoyed a dinner, cooked by James Bond with the aid of his machete, of red curry with fish balls, tofu with bean sprouts, and stir-fried veggies.
That night, we gathered around a campfire and listened to our guides play the guitar and sing.
It's morning now. I am sitting in a hut on stilts, literally inside of a cloud on the jungle hillside. All around there is no other sign of civilization. The only noise is the crackling of the fire behind me as our guides cook breakfast, and the occasional rooster crow.
Sunday, October 15, 2006
Mariposa Negra
Last night while we were eating dinner, the duena (landlady) came to talk to my host mom. The corner convenience store had just been robbed. My roomates and I stared around the table at one another, frozen to our seats. The store is not 75 feet from where we were sitting, and we had heard nothing.
I thought about the night before, when I had walked there alone at 10:30pm, to buy apple juice. I remembered the bored-looking clerks, two of them, young men, who explained to me that one of the refrigerators was broken so if I wanted cold juice, I would have to buy apple, and not grape, as I had originally asked for. I thought about what could have happened if I had chosen to go a day later.
We briefly considered not going out that night, but decided to go dancing anyway. Spent the night dancing (or in my case, trying to dance) to salsa at a club called Casbah under the arch.
Today at lunch, Dona marta told us that there is a black trash bag tied to the door of hte store in the shape of a bow or butterfly. The clerk had not just been robbed--he had been shot dead.
It seems to wrong that at the exact moment I was sitting down at dinner, discussing where to go dancing that night, less than half a black away someones life was slipping away.
There are 200 violent attacks, mostly robberies and mostly in the capital, on the camionetas (chicken buses) every day. Every other day or two the newspapers fill up with the count of people who had been shot dead on the buses that day. Last friday, there were 12. Yet every afternoon, the buses roll by, packed to the gills with passengers and laden with luggage tied to the roof.
I thought about the night before, when I had walked there alone at 10:30pm, to buy apple juice. I remembered the bored-looking clerks, two of them, young men, who explained to me that one of the refrigerators was broken so if I wanted cold juice, I would have to buy apple, and not grape, as I had originally asked for. I thought about what could have happened if I had chosen to go a day later.
We briefly considered not going out that night, but decided to go dancing anyway. Spent the night dancing (or in my case, trying to dance) to salsa at a club called Casbah under the arch.
Today at lunch, Dona marta told us that there is a black trash bag tied to the door of hte store in the shape of a bow or butterfly. The clerk had not just been robbed--he had been shot dead.
It seems to wrong that at the exact moment I was sitting down at dinner, discussing where to go dancing that night, less than half a black away someones life was slipping away.
There are 200 violent attacks, mostly robberies and mostly in the capital, on the camionetas (chicken buses) every day. Every other day or two the newspapers fill up with the count of people who had been shot dead on the buses that day. Last friday, there were 12. Yet every afternoon, the buses roll by, packed to the gills with passengers and laden with luggage tied to the roof.
 |
| Convento San Francisco, Antigua, Guatemala |
Saturday, September 16, 2006
A Wise Pronouncement
A few days ago I was sitting in a cigar and wine cafe in Antigua, waiting for J to buy a cigar for her boyfriend, when I picked up a random paper and saw the poem ¨For Instances¨ by Jorge Luis Borges.
There was a very, very old man sitting near the entrance of the cafe, by the street, having a glass of wine. I struck up a conversation with him. His name is Peter, and unapologetically, with a friendly smile and a sometimes distant gaze, he told me about his life.
I was born in Germany many years ago. I used to write Nazi propaganda for the government. I fought in the Nazi army in WWII, and in the American army in the Korean War. I was Paris´s first hippie, camping for a year in a park there with two girlfriends. Inexplicably, after Paris I went to the states and spent a year at Brigham Young University. I am not Mormon, but many people there tried to convert me (chuckles). After that I returned to Germany and completed law school. I ended up running for office in Germany, and spent the rest of my life until retirement as a politician. I have been many places in this world, and here, Antigua...this is my last place.
I passed Peter the Borges poem and asked him what he thought of it. I asked him, is this true?
Peter replied,
Well, I am old enough now to be able to make wise pronouncements about life. Yes, this poem is true. But I have something to add. You are young, and I want to give you advice, and it is this: Travel as much as you possibly can, all over the world, and make sure you do it while you are young. Because when you are old, traveling to certain places is no longer feasible.
And in 20 years, K, when you have traveled the world and return to California, you will meet some of your friends who had never left, and you will realize that they are lacking something.
It is so important to travel. Make it a goal of yours to live for a year or two in another country and to see as much as you can of different people and experience different cultures. Not so that you can see different things and discover different things--but so that in doing so you will find yourself.
Peter is obviously not a Nazi any longer. When he talked about his time as a Nazi, his eyes showed what i imagined to be a sort of surprised amusement at how far he had come. There was no remorse, as if he knew what he did was wrong but had come to terms with it long, long ago. He was telling me how much he loved Shanghai, and he was incredibly warm and kind to me.
Sometimes I doubt whether traveling so much is a good idea. Not often, just sometimes. But were it not for my decision to travel, I would never have been there, on a street cafe speaking with a man nearing the end of his life, who had come here to die, and who wanted to tell me how important it is to keep seeing the world. It´s the little magic moments like this one that keep me moving.
For Instances
If I could I would live my life over.
This time I would try to make more mistakes.
I would try not to be so perfect, I would laugh more.
I would be so much sillier than I have been
that I would take few things seriously.
I would be less hygienic.
I would risk more, take more trips, contemplate
more sunsets, climb more mountains, ford more streams.
I would go to more places I have never been.
I would eat more ice cream and fewer beans.
I would have more real problems
and fewer imaginary ones.
I was one of those people who lived every minute of life
sensibly and productively. Of course I had moments of delight.
But if I were able to go back it would be
for good moments only.
Because, if you don't know it, that's what life's made of: moments.
Do not waste even this one.
I was a guy who never went anywhere without a thermometer,
a hot water bottle, an umbrella, and a poncho.
If I could live my life again I would travel more lightly.
If I could live again I would start going barefoot
when spring comes and not stop till fall's long gone.
I would walk down more side streets, contemplate more dawns,
and play with more children, if I had my life ahead of me again. But, come now. I am 85 years old. I know I am dying.
There was a very, very old man sitting near the entrance of the cafe, by the street, having a glass of wine. I struck up a conversation with him. His name is Peter, and unapologetically, with a friendly smile and a sometimes distant gaze, he told me about his life.
I was born in Germany many years ago. I used to write Nazi propaganda for the government. I fought in the Nazi army in WWII, and in the American army in the Korean War. I was Paris´s first hippie, camping for a year in a park there with two girlfriends. Inexplicably, after Paris I went to the states and spent a year at Brigham Young University. I am not Mormon, but many people there tried to convert me (chuckles). After that I returned to Germany and completed law school. I ended up running for office in Germany, and spent the rest of my life until retirement as a politician. I have been many places in this world, and here, Antigua...this is my last place.
I passed Peter the Borges poem and asked him what he thought of it. I asked him, is this true?
Peter replied,
Well, I am old enough now to be able to make wise pronouncements about life. Yes, this poem is true. But I have something to add. You are young, and I want to give you advice, and it is this: Travel as much as you possibly can, all over the world, and make sure you do it while you are young. Because when you are old, traveling to certain places is no longer feasible.
And in 20 years, K, when you have traveled the world and return to California, you will meet some of your friends who had never left, and you will realize that they are lacking something.
It is so important to travel. Make it a goal of yours to live for a year or two in another country and to see as much as you can of different people and experience different cultures. Not so that you can see different things and discover different things--but so that in doing so you will find yourself.
Peter is obviously not a Nazi any longer. When he talked about his time as a Nazi, his eyes showed what i imagined to be a sort of surprised amusement at how far he had come. There was no remorse, as if he knew what he did was wrong but had come to terms with it long, long ago. He was telling me how much he loved Shanghai, and he was incredibly warm and kind to me.
Sometimes I doubt whether traveling so much is a good idea. Not often, just sometimes. But were it not for my decision to travel, I would never have been there, on a street cafe speaking with a man nearing the end of his life, who had come here to die, and who wanted to tell me how important it is to keep seeing the world. It´s the little magic moments like this one that keep me moving.
For Instances
If I could I would live my life over.
This time I would try to make more mistakes.
I would try not to be so perfect, I would laugh more.
I would be so much sillier than I have been
that I would take few things seriously.
I would be less hygienic.
I would risk more, take more trips, contemplate
more sunsets, climb more mountains, ford more streams.
I would go to more places I have never been.
I would eat more ice cream and fewer beans.
I would have more real problems
and fewer imaginary ones.
I was one of those people who lived every minute of life
sensibly and productively. Of course I had moments of delight.
But if I were able to go back it would be
for good moments only.
Because, if you don't know it, that's what life's made of: moments.
Do not waste even this one.
I was a guy who never went anywhere without a thermometer,
a hot water bottle, an umbrella, and a poncho.
If I could live my life again I would travel more lightly.
If I could live again I would start going barefoot
when spring comes and not stop till fall's long gone.
I would walk down more side streets, contemplate more dawns,
and play with more children, if I had my life ahead of me again. But, come now. I am 85 years old. I know I am dying.
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Tikal
I wake up at 3:30am to hike through the pitch-black jungle. all i can see is the person directly in front of me. i stumble over rocks and roots and slide around in mud. all i hear around me is the sound of insects, some fluttering by, some buzzing, and occasionally a gross crunching noise, which i suppose is one of the three inch long grubs with black heads that are all over the jungle floor. i live in fear of running into a spider web, as the spiders here are two to two and a half inches in diameter and are all sorts of bright orange and red colors. they look positively menacing.
As we progress further into the jungle, terrifying growling screaming noises start coming from the treetops. Howler monkeys. These things sound like a monster out of a horror movie--the screams they make in no way resemble what i previously thought monkeys would sound like.
our hike takes us to the base of Temple IV at Tikal, where I climb 230 feet to the top and sit silently, waiting for the dawn. all around me circles the chirping of insects and howling of monkeys. I can see nothing.
as the sky begins to lighten, the noise in the jungle gets louder, and all kinds of birds start chirping at once. i can barely make out the shifting veil of fog that surrounded the trees below. Temple IV is so tall that its top, where I am sitting, is above the canopy level of the jungle.
i watch as the sky lightens even more and the trees all around me start becoming visible. the mist shifting through the trees is breathtaking. what other place could have served as the scene of the rebel base camp in star wars?
i am suddenly aware of how very, very far i am from home.
As we progress further into the jungle, terrifying growling screaming noises start coming from the treetops. Howler monkeys. These things sound like a monster out of a horror movie--the screams they make in no way resemble what i previously thought monkeys would sound like.
our hike takes us to the base of Temple IV at Tikal, where I climb 230 feet to the top and sit silently, waiting for the dawn. all around me circles the chirping of insects and howling of monkeys. I can see nothing.
as the sky begins to lighten, the noise in the jungle gets louder, and all kinds of birds start chirping at once. i can barely make out the shifting veil of fog that surrounded the trees below. Temple IV is so tall that its top, where I am sitting, is above the canopy level of the jungle.
i watch as the sky lightens even more and the trees all around me start becoming visible. the mist shifting through the trees is breathtaking. what other place could have served as the scene of the rebel base camp in star wars?
i am suddenly aware of how very, very far i am from home.
Monday, September 26, 2005
small joys
today i was driving home from class
when i decided to flip around and look for
a spanish language radio station to listen to
and i found a station where a woman was reading
what could, by its cadence,
only be a beautiful piece of literature
i listened and thought: this reminds me of
gabriel garcia marquez.
the rhythm and the word choice were so familiar.
then, i listened more closely,
and realized--it WAS garbriel garcia marquez!
i had stumbled upon
a spanish radio reading of
"La prodigiosa tarde de Baltazar."
and all day i have been immensely proud of myself
for having been able to identify
Gabo in his native language.
and you thought this was going to be a poem, didn't you?
when i decided to flip around and look for
a spanish language radio station to listen to
and i found a station where a woman was reading
what could, by its cadence,
only be a beautiful piece of literature
i listened and thought: this reminds me of
gabriel garcia marquez.
the rhythm and the word choice were so familiar.
then, i listened more closely,
and realized--it WAS garbriel garcia marquez!
i had stumbled upon
a spanish radio reading of
"La prodigiosa tarde de Baltazar."
and all day i have been immensely proud of myself
for having been able to identify
Gabo in his native language.
and you thought this was going to be a poem, didn't you?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)