I’ve never been what you would consider flexible. Growing up, whenever I had to sit “Indian style” for team photos, I ended up doing something more like a bent-kneed Caucasian. I can touch my toes, although living in Germany for 8 months has made it noticeably tougher.
So when Molly suggested a weeklong yoga retreat in Turkey, I thought why not? Maybe I just need more flexibility practice.
The retreat was a little bit of heaven. Held in the Kabak Mountains of southern Turkey, the rustic, makeshift camp consisted of about 10-15 tree houses and tents but had a bar and several lounge areas with huge pillows, all overlooking a valley that flowed into a small bay on the Mediterranean.
Every day we woke up under our mosquito-netted beds and ambled down to the platform for meditation and some yoga. We spent most days chilling and reading, or going on a hike or for a swim at the beach before coming back for the evening yoga session.
After the first few days of getting over the soreness in the morning, I really felt like I was making progress. Sunnah, the instructor, was really supportive and even tried to cram my legs into position every once in a while.
Although some poses were harder than others, I did notice when I focused on my breathing I could actually get into some of them, but molly definitely whooped me in the headstand department.
Oh, did I mention the group was made up of 9 british girls, molly and me?
We all “got on” really well, learned interesting tidbits about each other’s culture and even had a talent show the last night (apparently in England you do the hokey “cokey” and you turn yourself around).
After a full week of two yoga sessions each day, though, I can say I felt refreshed, in better spirits and perhaps even a bit taller.
The buddymollys are settling back into our cozy German lifestyle, having returned more than week ago from our 10-day Turkish adventure.
The trip itself was an epic journey consisting of a weeklong Yoga retreat in Kabak Valley (deep south, along the Mediterranean coast) and a whirlwind two-day scramble through Istanbul.
We feel the whole journey is too much for one blog entry (we know your short attention span, readers) so I will take the book-ends, telling the tale of the start and end of the journey and Jeremy will expose the creamy Yoga center in a later entry … e-oh-oh! Stay tuned!
Additionally, we have no photographs of this part of the journey because day 3 of our yoga trip, while on a small fishing boat, Jeremy and I inadvertently decided to give up our travel camera as an offering, in which the gods of the sea accepted with might, pulled down the depths of the Mediterranean and are currently wading in our captured memories.
Ho hum.
Airport Mayhem
To begin, a few short weeks ago, we boarded a train to Nuremburg to catch our Turkish Airlines flight to Dalaman airport in Southern Turkey, with a quick change-over in Istanbul.
Our first flight left a half an hour late and circled above the Istanbul airport for another 30 minutes due to a traffic jam. We, however, distracted by the awesome airplane food, failed notice the delay. (That’s right, not only do they feed you on the short flight, but the food is also good!)
With only two scheduled hours between our flights, we were in a bit of a rush once we landed. And little did we know you needed to purchase a visa and then (and only then) go through passport control.
By the time we finished all of these tasks and continued through the endless lines, we had six minutes to get through security and make our flight.
Only one thing to do in a situation like this – run.
Apparently running through an airport raises some suspicion (who knew?) and numerous people attempted to stop us. Jeremy ignored most, continuing a few strides ahead of me. At one point I pointed out our flight number on the television screen to a frantically waving “airport security guy” at which time he gave me the international signal for “run like the wind.”
How we made it through the screening area without being stopped and searched, I’ll never know. We placed our backpacks on the revolving belt – ran through the metal detector (both of us beeped), grabbed our bags and continued the sprint. The guards watched us the whole time, heads cocked, jaws dropped a bit, foreheads wrinkled and face that read “what the ...? ” – but oddly, no one tried to stop us.
We found our gate, which had changed again, so we ran the few steps to the newly changed gate number as the shuttlebus door was closing. A hearty “wait!” opened the doors once again and allowed us to enter.
Sweating and exhausted, we checked to make we didn’t lose anything, then high-fived to our success. We were on our way.
We landed in Dalaman a few hours later and stepped into the hot Turkish air. Although it was well after 9 p.m., the summer heat was upon us – and we couldn’t be happier.
We hopped into the cab that was waiting for us and began the hour-and-a-half trek to the Kabak Valley, which was an adventure in itself. We picked up and dropped off numerous friends of the cabbie, changed cabs, a leopard print 4-runner being the latter, and held on for dear life while driving down steep mountain roads. At one point, we were left in the car while the cab driver made a house call. (Feel free to raise your own suspicions about this …)
At last – around midnight, we arrived to our destination and were welcomed as if we were family. Thus began another chapter.
Nobody’s business but the Turks
After the week ended we made the same trek back to Dalaman Airport for the short flight to Istanbul, arriving early Sunday afternoon.
As we stepped into a cab bound for our hostel, an earlier suspicion about cab drivers was solidified - techno music is, in fact, the theme music of Turkish cab drivers, and those white lines in the middle of the road, mere suggestions.
The costal drive to the Old City left us mesmerized by the amount of people lounging up on the grassy knolls. We both independently thought of Kapiolani Park in Honolulu on a holiday weekend … times 100,000.
The smell of grilled kebabs permeated the air and small children floated in makeshift hammocks. As we looked to the left, numerous mosques poked out between buildings every few blocks.
Our first stop was the Blue Mosque. The cascading domes and six slender minarets of the mosquedominate the skyline of Istanbul, and the 20,000 blue tiles (hence the name) fixed to the high ceilingof the inside was just as impressive.
Istanbul itself is a European capital of culture. It bridges the gap between traditional culture and modern living the same way it bridges the gap between Europe and Asia. We lost ourselves in these traditions our first day, wandering through the city, barely breaking the surface, listening to the “calls to prayer” and watching locals mix with tourists.
The next day we explored the Grand Bazaar. Fitting name, the place is HUGE! (31 thousand square meters to be exact.) Vendors vie for your time (and money!) offering goods ranging from jewelry to ceramics to carpets and textiles.
“Hayır, teşekkür!” (pronounced “Hi-yur Tesh-sheh-kewr” Meaning: no thanks) became our mantra as we fought our way through the bazaar, looking for our only desired purchase – an authentic backgammon board (referred to as Tavla in Turkish.)
We chose one store with an impressive selection of boards and began our game of good cop bad cop, (starring Jeremy as bad cop and myself as good cop.) After showing us a “designer” board, the vendor started the bidding at 180 Turkish lira, which is about $120.
Jeremy: “20”
Vendor: “160”
“20”
“140”
“20”
“100”
“20”
In my good cop role I stated, “Maybe we could spend a bit more, what about 40?”
“20,” said Jeremy.
The vendor then showed us the “designer” logo on the board (one he obviously nailed on himself…)
“20,” said Jeremy.
The vendor then turned to him and said “You do not want this board,” pointed to me and said “You want this board.” He then explained that we would never find a board that cheap in all of Turkey.
“20,” said Jeremy.
Not willing to pay his final offer of 80 Turkish lira, we said ““Hayır, teşekkür” and stepped out of his store. He followed us a few steps and shouted “Don’t talk to those Americans, they have no money!”
This made us laugh as we turned the corner, easily losing the vendor who chided us and once again finding ourselves in a madhouse of Turkish goods.
We continued our stroll a few streets from the Bazaar and found the exact same backgammon board for 25 Turkish lira. (score!)
We then saunter through the equally impressive spice market, ate the best döner kebab of our lives and shopped for hand-blown glass tea sets, and fancy tea to put in it.
The Dylan Experiment
Later that night, we tried our luck at the open-air theater on the outskirts of the New City. On the flight over we read Bob Dylan was playing the only full day we happened to be in town. (Fortuitous, no?) And, as to be expected in a tiny 2,000-folk venue, the concert was sold out.
So we pulled a drawing of our friend Jeb out of Jeremy’s sketchbook, turned him over and wrote “Need 2 tickets” on the back. Jeb always brings us luck. We also added a “bitte” (German for “please”) for extra luck.
The sign got a ton of laughs, numerous smiles, one sad face and various offers ranging from 500 Turkish lira tickets to the “cheap” ones of 180. (We weren’t packing that much cash and were forced to decline.)
We took a break, as sign holding can really make you thirsty, and picked up a few beers and a bottle of raki (the official “firewater” of Turkey) at a local grocery store.
We opened our beers and continued our ploy for tickets. If anything, we thought, the sign was an awesome social experiment. Numerous people from all over the world stopped to talk to us and we even became a meeting point.
“Hey, I’m right next to the two people holding the Need 2 tickets, bitte sign.”
“Oh yeah, I just passed them, be right there.”
Our last-ditch attempt came 5 minutes before show time. We repositioned ourselves right by the entrance when a young couple came up offering us tickets – for less than 100 Turkish lira each. We didn’t have assigned seats, but were able to sit on the stairs. (A fire hazard for sure in the states ...)
We hid our unopened bottle of raki under a bush and entered the venue. (The bottle was still there later …)
The concert itself was amazing. Dylan rocked the harp and showed that music truly is a universal language. For almost two hours, the crowd swayed in unison and sang along.
Dylan ended the night singing “How does it feel?” We ended the night at a hookah lounge, relaxing on pillows, smoking apple-flavored tobacco out of a water pipe, and asking ourselves the same question.
… And our top story this evening, an American woman was sucker punched in what German authorities have been calling “a cultural misunderstanding.”
Molly Hayden, the victim, was apparently struck by an older German gentleman at the sportsplatz in Schlict during a 50th birthday celebration for a co-worker.
“I was having a great time, laughing, drinking, when this guy just sucker punched me in the arm!” Hayden said. “I guess I didn’t lock arms quickly enough during the ‘Ein Prosit’ song.”
During the song, which is usually accompanied by an accordion, celebrants lock arms, sway in unison from left to right and sing, “Ein Prosit, Ein Prosit, die Gemütlichkeit.”
Participants then drink a hefty gulp of beer. (The song’s lyrics literally translate to: “A toast, a toast, the coziness.”)
Hayden later left the gathering on her own volition, gingerly nursing her left arm.
The alleged assailant could not be reached for a comment. The German Polizi are still investigating.
“Why would Frau Hayden just not lock arms when ‘Ein Prosit’ started? That does not make sense,” said Helmut Zeilmann, commander, German Polizi Schlict station.
Sports
In sporting news, members of the Weiden-West / Grafenwoehr sommerrodelbahning team have been practicing hard in Pottenstein for this year’s competition.
Here’s a video clip of what it feels like to sit in the driver’s seat of these single-person rocket cars.
The team followed up its practice session with a hearty meal of kangaroo steaks at “Steak on a Stone.”
Team Treasurer Todd "Tad" Tivisonno lays into his fillet, here, after several intense runs on the course.
In other sporting news, once-revered Bosconian icon who is known in the gaming world by simply the letters “JDG” (or Jay-Dawg) has been bested by hometown favorite “JRO.”
“I couldn't sleep knowing his initials were still there, corrupting my plug-n-play,” JRO said, “so I got fired up and figured I’d do something about it.”
After eclipsing JDG’s high score of 199,000 points by a mere 390 points (left), JRO later went on what subject matter experts have been to referring to as “a tear” before achieving the new high score of 429,660.
Sources close to JDG have said he has traded his space suit for a scientist's lab coat.
*These reports were delayed by several weeks due to late-breaking stories in Istanbul and southern Turkey. Stay tuned to this station for more on how to get viciously chided out of the Grand Bazaar and ways to strettccccchhh your Turkish lira.
After having grown tired of searching for the music scene here in Bavaria, we’ve decided to just create it ourselves. The buddymollys added another notch on the ol' gig belt Saturday when we played a few ditties at an open mic night.
But maybe I should qualify the term “open mic.” For most people, open mic means a smoky pub with a microphone stand and a random assortment of poets and folk singers. In this case, the only similarity was the word “random.”
Don’t get me wrong, there were definitely some talented folks there. One guy rocked an a cappella rendition of an R&B song; another did a hilarious impression of Prince’s “Kiss”; and a girl aroused the entire audience with a sultry, dancing-singing number from “Chicago” (wow); but as the night wore on, we began to realize it really wasn’t an open mic at all.
Instead, we had stumbled into this parallel universe where one of the high school drama students had stolen a key to the auditorium and they all decided to have a party to rehearse their lines and get “wacky.” Except we’re not in high school, and karaoke isn’t open mic.
This became overtly clear when the majority of the performers came back on stage to give what was left of the audience some “improv” comedy.
Despite all this, though, we were still happy to be able to play few more songs and work on reducing our stage fright. We sang a folky version of “Prince of Bel-Air” and followed up with the Violent Femmes “Blister in the Sun” (see partial clip above).
I even made my solo debut with a poem called “Damn” I wrote 10 years and finally put some chords to (the solo album is still being mastered in the studio).
All in all, we had a blast and hopefully if we continue to build it, the music scene will come.
It started off as a lazy Sunday adventure. Jeremy and I teamed up with Jeb and Tad (not their real names …) for a five-hour canoe trip down the Pegnitz River. Jeb and I represented “Team Awesome” in our inflatable, yet surprisingly sound canoe, while Jeremy and Tad coined themselves “Swantasia” drifting next to us in the slow moving current.
We paddled nine kilometers, through various climate changes and landscapes, over three dangerous “.5” river rapid sections and quite a few portages. (Luckily, we all have freakishly strong upper body strength, so lifting and carrying the boats to the next put-in point was easy breezy.)
It was smooth sailing until a run in with a fearless swan.
We saw the two swans up ahead, noticed how ridiculously large they were and muttered “aren’t they beautiful!” amongst ourselves.
We held on to this false identity of beauty until we approached them.
And then it happened. And THEN it happened.
The male swan turned into a six-foot fire breathing beak-fanged monster and refused to let us pass. He floated in front of us, hissing and spitting as we paddled left, then right, then left, trying (and failing) to get around him.
Mama swan sat pretty the whole time.
Jeb and I somehow created a diversion on the right side of the river as Tad and Jeremy hauled ass on the left in an attempt to pass.
This only angered the swan-monster.
He took off at a rapid speed, chasing the two, narrowly missing the boat as they screeched like six-year-old girls. The brave boaters leaned to the side, ready to use their paddles as weapons if needed, but mostly trying to avoid the disapproving monster-swan.
They successfully made it to the next portage, jumped out of the boat and pulled it safely to land.
With one enemy boat out of the way, the swan turned around, eyes red with vengeance and headed straight for our boat. I leaped six feet into the air as our boat neared the land and pulled the canoe to shore, Jeb still tucked inside, frozen with fear. (Of course, this is after Jeb talked me into safety with his superior river-guide knowledge …)
A German woman on the bank explained that the swan had a nest nearby and all Papa was doing was protecting. (Well, we understood two words – egg and nest, out of the numerous words she spoke, so that is what we gathered.)
So yes, noble swan, you protected your offspring and succeeded in scaring us into fits of laughter.
Tad said it was the second scariest incident with an animal he had ever experienced. I believe that says it all …
Not to mention this swan incident surpassed my then current scariest swan memory watching my older sister being chased and eventually attacked by a similar large beaked bird during my childhood.
… What I am saying is, there is nothing funnier than watching your sister being chased through a cemetery by an angry swan. (Sorry about your kneecap, Shannon.)
In comparison, the rest of the day was uneventful. You know, your basic breathtaking landscape, hidden caves, fields of wildflowers and small, unnamed towns. Nothing as noteworthy as successfully evading an animal attack, but a storybook ending nonetheless - for mere seconds after we packed up our gear and headed to the nearest biergarten, the torrential downpour began. I believe the sky was weeping with joy at our narrow escape from the ninja swan-monster. In all honesty, we wept a little, too.
Jeremy and I are officially in our 13th month of marriage. Oddly enough, we are sporting our 13th round of wedding rings. (I believe that is good luck.)
Let’s take a stroll down ring lane, shall we?
Since we skipped the engagement part of our relationship – no such ring exists. (and I think it’s silly anyway. It’s like guys can put us on layaway or something … )
Our first official wedding rings were made of Koa wood and hand-carved by a friend of a friend on the Big Island of Hawaii. I was quite nervous during our ceremony, expecting it to fall into the ocean – but it survived and held strong for a few good months.
The demise of the rings started during a Frisbee game in Boston when Jeremy’s ring cracked under an awesome catch. (it was almost worth it ...) A few weeks later, on a shuttle bus in Milwaukee, Jeremy opened his palm to display the crumpled ring, much to my chagrin. My ring was okay, besides the outside layer slightly peeling, but for solidarity we decided we both should get new ones.
Continuing our travels to St. Louis, we picked up some mood rings that constantly reminded us that we were happy, but lasted only a few days before turning our fingers green. The shell rings were cheap and not expected to last – and they didn’t. Next came the green string (which I believe held the longest thus far, although not esthetically pleasing) and the tiny childhood ring my mother found that said “Molly” and fit on the top half of Jeremy’s pinkie finger. (He wore it proudly.)
Once back in Hawaii we found a shop that sold Koa rings (less quality and less expensive than our original) and we ordered two each, different thickness and styles, but eventually they too started chipping. We also picked up coral rings and turquoise rings. Pretty, but wavering. Ho Hum.
A month later, in California, we bought two sets of steel rings from an artist along Venice Beach. These rings looked cool but were heavy, and again, turned our fingers green.
Fast -forward to Florida where we found another set of shell rings, green this time. (You sorta have to buy shell rings when you’re in Florida.)
Plenty in numbers at this point, through all of our open ringlationships, variety remained the spice of life.
The shining star came a few months ago during a visit to the Christmas Market in Bayreuth, Germany. The ChristKindl Markets house a variety of artists and goodies – including ring makers!
I picked up two simple black steel rings that feel as if you are wearing no ring at all. (But doesn’t make you any less married ...probably.)
Although these rings are still our favorite and the ones we wear the most, we decided on another pair during our recent Cinque Terre trip. Jeremy picked out silver rings doused in bronze and metal. Fancy. All for the bargain price of 20 Euros. Fancy, indeed.
So, each day, we take our newfound fanciness, choose a new look and decided together which ring to wear – because marriage should always match your outfit.
We heard Amsterdam calling a few weeks ago when finding suspiciously cheap airline tickets ... just in time for my big 3-2 birthday celebration. The suspicion, however, turned to volcanic ash and we realized (the morning of) that our flight had been canceled.
Whaaa, whaaaa.
But if ever a rendezvous were to start on that note and continue with a free-falling, wandering adventure of a trip – Amsterdam seems only fitting.
We headed to the airport anyway, shifted through numerous lines, listened to stranded stories of nearby passengers and eventually traded in our cheap airline tickets for overpriced train tickets. Seven hours later (four of which we stood) we were cruising the canals.
As an added bonus for my birthday, Jeremy indulged me in a museum-free, no plans, no Rick, extended weekend celebration – which I deem as the best gift EVER.
Party on Wayne.
We spent the next three days wandering the streets, finding hidden cafes, people watching and getting lost. Amsterdam is a circular city with an elaborate canal system - you sort of have to walk sideways in order to go straight. Getting lost comes easy … for various reasons.
Whaaa, whaaaa.
But whatever street you happen to walk down, you find bicycles shuffling down the lane. We happily joined the peddling revolution.
To say it’s the city of bikes is an understatement. In Amsterdam, the bike is a way of life. (And the most logical form of transportation.)
You see fathers with children, grandmothers toting flowers, business folk bringing home groceries, police officers patrolling the streets, hippies walking their dogs and so on, happily on their bikes. Almost everyone who lives in Amsterdam owns a bicycle.
Not to mention the traditional locally produced bikes allow for the Dutch to demonstrate their superior posture.
The days quickly turned to night and the eye candy of the nightlife kept us wandering for more. We strolled through the red light district and rated prostitutes gesturing in the brightly lit windows, listened to music pour out on the sidewalk from numerous clubs and danced to the chatter of hipsters cruising the canals on boats.
Our Amsterdam experience made the exhausting 10-hour journey home seem worth it.
The highlight of the trip came when Jeremy made my heart go pitter-patter saying, “You know, we haven’t done anything this weekend but wander around. And it’s been awesome.”
That and when he spotted the fat Matt Winfree – which made us both heave with laughter – (we narrowly avoided peeing ourselves.)
