Day 17: Leaving Istanbul

Last day in Istanbul. Visited a couple of Sinan mosques, but mostly walked all day- my pedometer (I am a complete travel dork) says 9.6 miles. Nothing is worn out but my ankles, though, from climbing up and down all these lovely steep cobblestone streets. On the advice of Jessica C, who wisely told me that if I didn't buy one of those lovely hanging lamps, I'd regret it as soon as I left the city, I bought a lamp. I drank tea on the rooftop terrace upstairs, took the tram one last time, and did my favorite walk back across the bridge to the Spice Market at dusk, and I drank a glass of fresh-squeezed pomegranite juice, which is the reddest thing I have ever seen.

Despite all the theatrics in the street, and all of these very entertaining Istanbul men feigning heartaches at every turn, the truth is this: the only heart actually breaking as I pack to leave Istanbul is mine. Sigh.

I am depending on Athens and the Greek Isles to cheer me up. I have started reading Ovid's Metamorphosis to prep me for being in the land of Mt. Olympus and all the stories that go with it. Much busier travel week ahead- planes and ferries and a couple of islands to visit, not to mention the Acropolis. Miss everyone back home! Send news!

Day 16. Walk walk walk.

One of the things I really, really love about traveling: everyone assumes I am a simpleton. And, seriously, as a tourist, I am. I don't know the language, I don't know how to buy a tram token, I don't know what any of the food on the street is until I taste it. Yesterday, when I gave somebody correct change, he smiled and clapped with surprise, as if I'd done a party trick. I am shamelessly taking advantage of the shillers on the square- if we are going to to the "we are all about Turkish Hospitality" thing, I am going to let them walk me to the tram token window and give me directions. After all these years of being expected to know everything, it is so nice when nobody expects anything at all. Architecture is really damn hard- with every design decision you have to consider solar orientation, environmental impacts, the effect of your building on the public realm, the context of the city, the structural system, material interactions, the digital and physical representation, the graphic design of your presentation, the speech you will give to defend your decisions to your jury- it's exhausting. There's a good reason that, even with a master's degree, I'll have to intern for years before I can sit for licensing exams. Sitting in a cafe eating gozleme (scrumptious salty crumbled cheese pancake, thank you Kristen Hawk) I am totally in the dark about everything going on around me: conversations over the backgammon boards, the lyrics to the music videos playing on the tv, and how to order one of those baklava rolls piled up in the window dripping with honey. This is so fabulous.

So. I have a huge crush on the guy at the kebap shop, on the corner next to Galata Tower. The first time I passed him I was lost, and it was dark, as I headed downhill and stumbled onto the streets of light sellers. He gave me a piercing look as I passed and said, "Hello." The next day, wandering down Istiklal Street, I realized that it dead-ended at the tower, just around a curve. If I'd known the trick of walking straight uphill, from any direction, I would have found it 50 feet away. So again, tumbling downhill, same shop, same hello, same piercing look. I am not flattered by this piercing look, dearly though I would love to be. If you had this man's eyes, my friends, you would not be able to give a look that was not piercing, to anyone. He looks, but exactly, like Luka from E.R. Anyone? Anyone else have a crush on Luka? It is totally him. He is beautiful. I want to go back there and drop something in front of him, like the shoe-shine guys do. They know if they drop something in your path, and you stop to help them pick it up, you have already formed a bond....

On to today. I have gotten into a really nice routine- get up whenever I wake up, linger over breakfast at my lovely pension (fluffy bread, olives, cucumbers, tomatoes, and a boiled egg) and then strike out to see some culture. I am limiting myself, for the most part, to one monument/mosque/museum per day, in order to avoid traveler's burnout. The rest of the time I spend exploring the city. This morning I went with my new Australian friend, Sarah, on a marathon walk while her boyfriend stayed behind to play backgammon in a cafe. We ended up at Dolambache Palace, which I think is fascinating because it was built for sultans to use, but not until the 1800's. It's relatively modern- the harem situation seems a little bit jarring here among the Versailles-style furniture. We wandered up the waterfront, where Sarah had a shoe-shine forcibly administered, before turning back- great fun. After hours of walking, I did some present shopping in the Grand Bazaar- prices tend to drop at sunset when the vendors sense a "last sale of the day" coming on.

In ths Spice Bazaar at dusk: still my favorite. Lured into a tea shop, because the bins of flowery tea and spices were gorgeously piled high in little pyramids, and because the guys out front said, "MICHAEL JORDAN!" when I said Carolina.

"I am not letting you buy Love Tea," sas Kilic.
"I am totally buying Love Tea, Kilic," I say.
"No, no, no. Don't need. You buy Lemon Tea. You buy Rose Tea. You are too beautiful for Love Tea. You just live in the wrong place."

Did I mention, I love Istanbul?

And I did buy Lemon Tea, and Rose Tea, and Love Tea. The Love Tea is for the kebap man in front of Galata Tower. Kilic drew a big heart on my Love Tea with a Sharpie. If all else fails, I am going to drop THAT in front of the kebap man who looks like Luka and see if he takes the hint. Our courtship has progressed dramatically- yesterday we made it to a three-sentence conversation. I walked past and he made a giant ruckus clapping and stamping his feet from the cold.

"Cold today!" I said.
"Yes! Cold today- but tomorrow hot!"

And damned if he didn't manage to give me a piercing look again, while laughing and stomping his feet.

Day 15: Hamam. My dignity is gone (but I don't really miss it.)

Note: This is not for the easily scandalized. Or, Mom. : )

Today: Hamam. Turkish Bath. Does not include modesty...but really, you sort of have to do it if you come to Turkey. Finding this place in the rain was an adventure; I arrived chilled through, and actually wet from the knees down. My hands were raw. I first stopped at the main entrance- women, as it turns out, are sent around the corner, down a little alley to an inauspicious little door that looks like a service entrance, with a battered sign. I followed a cold little stairway up to a wooden room, with cubicles like phone booths all along the perimeter.

I had, from this point on, some idea of what was to happen. I have friends who have visited hamams. I am aware of the age-old tradition of public baths. I sat next to Virginia all semester as she designed a lovely hamam combining new and old traditions. But if you are not familior with the hamam, here is how it goes down:

A matronly, plump lady with her grey hair in a bun gives you a key and shows you to your cubicle.

"Everting oft."

"Everything?" you say.

"Everyting."


Inexplicably, the little changing booth has textured glass for privacy on three sides. The side facing the main entrance: totally transparent.

You are given a small wrap, lock the door, and put on a pair of clompy wooden sandals. You are led to a marble room, maybe 20' X 20', lined with basins and faucets. Overhead is a dome inset with pieces of colored glass, which is beautiful. In the center, taking up about 80 % of the space, is a marble slab. A hot, hot marble slab.

Lady with the bun: "Oft."

She whips off your wrap, which she spreads out on the hot marble. "Down," she says. You are not alone on the slab, which is big enough to hold about 5 people. If, like me, you are 6" longer than your wrap, the marble is hot enough that your toes, wrap-free, feel like they're on fire. You are left to melt, in a really pleasant way, on the slab. There is soft ancient music playing in the background, and all around you is the sound of dripping, from the sauna heat. The warmth seeps in.

A different hammam attendant, the scrubber, wearing a scrap of fabric twisted into a bandeau as a top, comes in and starts very kindly bossing you around. Up. Over. Rinse. Head here. You start at one of the basins, dumping hot water head to toe from a copper bowl. Back to the slab- where you are scrubbed with something scratchy, until you can see down two or three layers of skin. More rinsing and bowls of hot water. The most fun: The scrubber uses some sort of pillowcase to fluff out hot bubbles, head to toe. you are massaged and scrubbed and flipped and bubbled several more times- still lying on the hot slab. After the bubbles- more rinsing, and then your hair is washed. It's not a gentle sort of Robert Redford/Meryl Streep in Out of Africa waching- but a good scrub with many buckets of water dumped unceremoniously over your head. It's actually awesome. After that, you go lie on the slab as long as you like, before you go back to the transparent changing room to dress. This is not the Umstead Spa, for sure- it's pretty gritty, no fluff, no cushy robe, no careful rearranging of the spa sheet to preserve your comfort and privacy. No hairdryer, so you are walking back out onto Istaklal Street with wet hair.

The whole process is terrifying enough that I knew I had to do it. I don't even like changing at the Y, so being in the altogether in a room full of strangers, one of them manhandling me with a loofah, was a bit out of my comfort zone. Deliberately so. People of all ages, shapes, and sizes- nothin' to see here, folks, just going about our shampooing. Really, a very nice tradition.

Day 14. True Love.

I have fallen head over heels in love. They say you never know exactly how and when love will find you...but sometimes it really is love at first sight. I know, already, that this is a bad idea. This particular love affair will cost me too dearly. It won't last. It will start to fray, and wear thin in places, and won't get me as far as I need to go. It will slow me down, and it will leave me with too much baggage. And yet...for a brief and shining moment, it will be glorious....and I'm not sure I have the strength to resist.

I have found The One. Except, The One is actually two- a pair of handmade embroidered Turkish suzani boots. Knee-high, black, with a kaliedoscope of brightly-colored flowers. Waiting for me in the Grand Bazaar. Even if I have the nerve to haggle a little, they are 3 days' worth of spending money on my backpacker budget. But they are SO my type....

What say you, people? Should I take the plunge? To boot? or not to boot??

Day 13: Snippets from the street

ONE: 9:15 a.m. "I could not find you on Facebook!" is the first thing I hear upon leaving my hotel for the Palace. Ozgur, one of the guys hanging on the square, has launched a campaign to have a beer with me. He says he is not shilling- just hanging out with his friends who are shilling- but he is. He is so darn likeable , though, I might have a beer with him anyway. But I am not going into any carpet shops.

TWO: 9:30 a.m. I realize, with no small shame, that I would probably toss aside all of my feminist ideals if somebody invited me to live in the Topkapi Palace harem.

THREE: 2 p.m. Grand Bazaar. I stopped outside in one of the winding lanes leading out of the labyrinth of the Bazaar, in front of a push cart with a giant samovar. I held up a finger for "one please!" expecting tea, but something white came out, steaming hot. The man with the samovar fussed over it for a minute, sprinkling spices on top, and fished out some coins from the change in my hand. Sweet heavenly deliciousness. It was like drinking a cloud. Not a "nog," not a custard, not an "au lait" of any kind- just thick milky cinnamon-y bliss.

FOUR: 2:10 p.m. Grand Bazaar. I am flagged down by a long-haired Turk outside a leather shop. He is pretty entertaining- I am invited in to this impossibly small space, already occupied by four people smoking and drinking tea. A computer is playing Dire Straits on Itunes. I am given a plastic stool, after a round of photographs. Abdullah, the shopkeeper, instructs me to tell all of my friends back home that I have just met Turkey's Antonio Banderas. (Consider it done.) Apparently he is half Spanish. He proceeds to clean my shoes, covered in salt from the slushy streets. As a leather goods salesman he instructs me that, from here on out, I should carry them over my head to protect them. He also makes me read my future in the dregs in a coffee cup. This is some kind of Turkish Rorshach test. I see absolutely nothing resembling anything- and I am a designer, people- and I say quizzically, "That part kind of looks like a bird? Maybe flying? Maybe a trip?" And Abdullah looks at me and says with his eyes, "You are not very good at this game."

FIVE: 4 p.m. I have decided to live in the spice Bazaar. I got hungry walking towards the big bridge, and figured it was my best chance at a cheap meal. I love this place. Today I found the row of cheese sellers- they are each screaming at the top of their lungs like it's a bar fight, but I think they're just saying "CHEESE! CHEESE!!" I stopped at a "kebap" stand. The kid behind the counter said, "Germany?" And I said, "USA." And he said, "America? OBAMA!" and I said yes, and he said, "Obama good! Yes? Yes!" And I proceeded, for 2 lira, to have one of the best meals I've ever eaten. The sliced meat was in a soft puffy pita kind of thing, with fresh parsley and pepper, and something in there was also perfectly deliciously crunchy. I am going back tomorrow.

SIX: 6 p.m. Went up the ancient Galata Tower, across the water. Gorgeous sunset view. I came down and had a vague intention of wandering towards Istikal Street, but with the winding streets leading straight downhill in approximately eight directions, I was immediately confounded and lost. And it was dark. And cold. (I had two maps, actually, but those are for dire emergencies.) I started walking down a pleasant little lane, figuring I'd have to find a cab...and rounded the corner onto a street of light sellers. Both sides gloriously lit up by thousands of beautiful lamps, as far as the eye could see. And I wandered from lane to lane, downhill towards the water, and lane after lane was filled with lights. Surely, a reminder that, even lost in the dark, an improbable plentitude of lights will appear to show you the way home?

Istanbul: This is what the head cheerleader must feel like.

Istanbul: magical snowy wondrous fairy-tale city. I can't even describe how lovely it is- but I arrived in a gorgeous snowstorm. I'm staying between Hagia Sofia and the Blue Mosque; I was out the door in no time to start taking snow pictures. Quaint winding streets and minarets everywhere; beautiful Turkish language, spiral strings of lanterns hanging from doorways, windows full of rolls and cubes and sugary stacks of Turkish delight. And snow!

I'm having a different sort of tourist issue here than in Indonesia. I have been warned by numerous people about attracting attention from all of these Turkish men; I was not warned that it would be this much fun. These gentlemen are charming, every last one- not remotely lecherous, more "I am falling over because your American beauty has pierced my heart" kind of thing. I mean seriously, when was the last time anyone kissed my hand? Most of them, of course, are trying to sell me a carpet, or a leather jacket. Two different guys tried to engage me in a snowball fight. Some just call you princess, or look stricken and whisper that you are beautiful. The most severe cases actually blush and stammer while trying to entice you for a drink somewhere. I do not have this affect on American gentlemen, mind you. And I also don't care that it's a sales tactic- I'm going to enjoy the flattery. My self esteem could use a boost. And have mercy, these men are devastatingly handsome. I have instituted a policy of not looking into their eyes- snake-charmer eyes, mesmerizing, for sure. One of my all-time favorite movie lines, from Moonstruck, when Cher has just slept with her finace's brother: "You got them bad eyes, like a gypsy, and I don't know why I didn't see it yesterday!" I totally get it. I have to look away.

In more cultural news, I spent the morning at Hagia Sofia. Difficult to overstate the scale; I've never been in a space that huge that wasn't a giant stadium. It has the huge central dome, flanked by two half-domes; seriously, they've made some good educated guesses, but I don't think anyone's sure exactly how that ceiling stays up. It is spectacular. My favorite thing, apart from the domes, is the twisty stone ramps that wind their way to the top instead of staircases. Hagia Sofia, I think, is Turkish for "beautiful unheated building." I sketched for about an hour in the same spot, and had to stop because I realized my fingers were blue and I couldn't feel my feet. Worth it- I'm sure I'll have to go back.

After thawing: decided to go wandering, a habit that drives my mother insane, but it's the only way to get to know a place, as far as I'm concerned. There's no great risk of getting lost here; I'm staying 150 from one of the great landmarks of world civilization, so if I get in a jam I will hand some Lira to a cab driver and say clearly, "HAGIA SOFIA." Anyway, followed the tram line on foot till it reached the waterfront, and accidentally reached a bridge to the other side of the city, just as the sunset turned everything on the far shore golden. Unbelievable vista. I crossed the bridge just for fun so I could visit the other side for a minute, then walked back at dusk into the Spice Bazaar. Riotously beautiful. So glad to be staying a few more days.....

Day 10: Jakarta. Pay for a peanut, get a monkey (or two.)

Jakarta. Low, low expectations- actually, I've sort of been dreading this leg of the trip. It's the only place I didn't really want to go, and was only there for travel logistics. For starters, it's giant, hot, and dirty. When I talked to the Dutch guy who owned the hostel where I stayed in Jogja, I said, "It's one of the biggest cities in the world, right? And he said, "If it earned the distinction of being called a city, it would be- it's certainly a huge collection of people, but by any other definition of architecture, planning, or infrastructure, it's definitely not." Add a few other dimensions: conservative Muslim city, anti-American sentiment, female traveling alone, recent terrorism...you know. Not many selling points.

And so. Arrived at the airport ot check my luggage for a long 12 hour wait between flights, and was dreading trying to pick one out of the mob of cab drivers in the crowd to haggle about a ride into the city and back. A couple of guys at the luggage office offered to be my chauffeur and tour guide- so what the heck, I talked them down to 3 hours for $30 (exorbitant for Indonesia, but what the heck.) They were fun- Ilan and Iwan, although I'm sure it's not spelled like that. We started out at Old Batavia, the original colonial city wtih a collection of crumbling Dutch buildings. Then we went to the Monas, or Independence Monument- neither of the guys had ever been in, so we toured the museum at the bottom. (2 hour wait to get to the top of the needle, for which I was not willing to pay my expensive guides.) Drove past the White House and then, my favorite stop, Obama's elementary school, where there's a lovely statue of him as a child. I learned all kinds of things- Jakarta is not a beautiful city but it is very lively, and would be a fun place to get to know in a gritty kind of way.

The monkeys: Ilan was laughing about tourists being ripped off here, and he said there's a saying that as a tourist, you pay for the peanut and they give you the monkey. I think it loses something in translation, but I'm taking that to mean that they charge you so much for the peanut, they throw in the whole monkey for free. Kind of like my exorbitant tour: $30, three hours, and two monkeys (and I mean that most affectionately.) Toward the end of the tour Ilan started to give me long penetrating looks- you can always tell when things take that turn. Of course he knew from the luggage office my flight wasn't until midnight, so he came and "bumped into me" a couple of hours later at the airport and insisted on buying me a lemonade. I had to pull out my first fake boyfriend story of the trip. Totally harmless....a little dramatic there at the end, "Oh stay just a few minutes so I can keep talking to you....I know you are going to forget all about me...." Oh my. I think he was just feeling guilty about overcharging me.

Cute vignette- waiting for my flight at midnight, hot tired, disheveled again. Decided to pull out my Ipod and had enough time to watch an episode of "Arrested Development." I was just at the point where the mom says, "Would you just look at what the homosexuals have done to me?" and the son says, "Can't you just comb that out??" (can't even type that without snickering,) and I was indeed snickering in my seat when I felt someone staring hard at me. I heard a little, "Hahlooo!" and at was the cutest, tiniest little lady next to me, of totally indeterminate age. She was wearing a headscarf, but with some structure behind it- she atually reminded me more of Yoda than anything else, mainly because of being so tiny and so wise looking. She was delightful- she has six children, and is professor of education, and wanted me to come stay with her in her village, and then asked for my Facebook info. I love it. Another moment of solitude, diverted into a much better use of my time.

And then, glory of glories, an overseas flight- with a whole row to myself.

Day 9: Paparazzi, religion, and rickshaws

One last climb up Borabudur- I had admittedly been racing past the famous stone reliefs for a couple of days, unable to figure out exactly how they represented the stories and tenets of Buddhism even with a map. These thousands of panels are integral to the whole instructive spiritual significance of the temple, but I confess I've found them a bit...dull. Last night I was lazing about in my room and discovered a continuous-loop video which brought the panels to life a bit; I was anxious to go bak up and pick out a few key scenes I felt I cold identify. Again, it was not to be. 7:30 is alarmingly early for me- but the hordes of tour buses were already there. Today's school children were armed not only with an assignment to interview foreigners for practice, but also with laminated instruction cards, checklists of questions, and speeches about Borobudur. Before I reached the first level, I'd been interviewed and photographed a few times, and halfway around I met a group with the lamitated cards. They were adorable. They asked questions, recited some information, and asked, "Do you like dancing?" and I said, "Nope." And they laughed and said, "Yes, yes, you do!" And I said, "I like to watch dancing." And they insisted on teaching me some Indonesian dance steps- actually, quite elegant and beautiful, Bali-style. By that time I'd already wilted in the sun and my time was up. Slipping back down the stairs and heading towards the hotel, I started to hear an alarming sound of frantic flippety-flopping feet- Miss! Miss! - and the crowd got bigger, and I feared a Beatles-style mob. I was photographed about a dozen more times and had kids with leaflets following me as I backed away slowly, saying "Thank you! You speak very good English! My time is up...." And by 8:30 a.m., I was spent.

The rest of the day: a dizzying array of temples and world heritage sites. I am so, so grateful- my hostel asked what I wanted to see and put together a tour for me and sent a driver. For $15 I got 8 hours with a private guide, and he was a really good storyteller so I got all kinds of information about Indonesia, and everything else. Adi will be one of the highlighs of my trip- he told me about his family, and his home in Sulawesi, and his wife who works in the rice fields, and how he learned English working at the U.S. Embassy in Jakarta- he was finally let go because so few Americans visit here these days. He was actually working in Bali in 2002 when the bombs went off- he was headed to pick someone up in Kuta Beach where the explosion happened, when he got a call on his cell phone to turn around, fast.

So- Adi drove me first to the two smaller temples which form a straight line to Borobudur. If you were making a pilgrimage, you'd start at Mendut, where the stone carvings tell stories of the foolishness of animals- meant to remind us of the contradictions within ourselves. Inside there's a huge, graceful Buddha with dangling feet. Next you'd make your way down a hill to cross a smal river, then up and down again to cross another; then you'd stop and rest at Pawan temple, very small and simple. Then you'd begin the final climb to Borobudur. By car all of these temples are in a straight east/west line within about 2 miles; on foot, with two rivers to cross, it would have been a much more significant effort.

After the temples: 45 minute drive to Prambanan, a huge Hinu temple complex. We had to drive across the foothills of Mt. Merapi, an active volcano, to get there, and through the rice fields in the countryside. Prambanan, for sure, is spectacular; three large temples to Bramah, Shivah, and Vishnu, and many smaller temples all around. Unfortunately I got the rock star treatment there, too- I could not go more than a few steps in any direction without photographs and stares and giggles. On the grounds there are also three Buddhist temples, mostly ruins, one of them huge. Then on to a place called Ratu Boko: I have no idea what I was looking at there, as it was kind of a bonus and I was totally unprepared and all the signs were in Indonesian, but it was also huge. It was a giant complex containing, I think, a palace throne room, sacred pools, women's quarters, a temple, and several other structures. Pretty much all that was left was foundations- I still need to go back and study up on what I saw. By that stage of the game I was a little hot and tired and had temple fatigue; at some point I wandered through a patch of something with sticky seeds, so my long black skirt was covered from the knee down in little cling-ons; generally disheveled and hot.

Was sorely tempted to stay in for the evening after that, but Yogyakarta (Jogja for short) is a funky, gritty little city, and knowing I was not likely to pass through again, decided to venture out alone. Adi drove me down to the main drag, Malioboro Street, to a crazy little side alley known as a backpacker's street. It looked like the kind of street that would have opium dens. Adi warned me to stay from a few buildings which housed "ladies of the night." The hostel owner had assured me it was perfectly safe to be out alone at night; Adi was less convinced. He gave me about 20 instructions- passport locked up? Money safe? You don't talk to anybody long. You need something, some cab, you tell the restaurant people for you, ok? Adi is exactly 2 years older than I am- but I appreciated the fatherly wisdon.

Dinner was unremarkable, but the ride home was fun. I had instructions, typed in Indonesian with a map, to give to the bike rickshaw guy I found on the street; I assumed that would be sufficient, but didn't take into account that the driver might not be able to read. Anyway, with a few stops along the way to assure him that no, we were not yet anywhere near my destination, I got a nice ride down the "Champs Elysees" of Jogja, with the Sultan's Palace all lit up in the distance, and the crazy, loud conglomeration of people crusing by using every possible form of transportation all around us.

Sunrise, Day 8, Borobudur: Now That's What I Came For.

This morning I got up at 4 a.m. for the sunrise tour. I picked up my ticket and flashlight from the front desk...and I was the only one there. One of the porters, Agung (he and I are tight now) walked me to the base of the monument, making 4:30 in the morning small talk. At the gate I passed my ticket to the gate guys, and here pieced together that "Sunrise Tour" means, "Welcome to your flashlight, and good luck with all of THAT." Agung saw the stricken look on my face- we're talking pitch black darkness and a huge temple, people- and said, "Okay, I walk you up to the platform! " And we climbed these steep, dark stone steps up to the first wide, grassy plinth. Standing in the pitch black dark with my little plastic flashlight, I said, "Seriously Agung? It's just me, up in the pitch black dark?" And it dawned on me why, in our 4:30 am small talk, he'd suggested helpfully, "Maybe you bring a friend next time?"

Borobudur, mind you, is like a layer cake of winding paths, forming an extruded mandala. For a structure that is quite simple in concept, a stepped pyramid base with a bell-shaped stupa on top, it is surprisingly windy and disorienting inside. Because of the way the pathways zig and zag, you can't see very far in any direction, until you reach the wide round platforms at the top. If you shortcut the whole procedure and go straight up the stone steps to the stupa, it's a lot more direct, but still steep and dicey in broad daylight. And this was not, my friends, broad daylight.

I said meekly, "Can we walk one time around the bottom first?" And Agung affably agreed and said, "Ok. Maybe somebody else come soon. We wait." So we walked around the base and he pointed out the volcanoes and the villages and other landmarks which were barely visible in the black sky. Making small talk, I asked him what animals live on Java. "Tigers," he said. "Maybe up there near the top...temple tigers." And then my eyes got really big, and he said, "Got you." More walking- and I said, "Agung, I am sorry to be keeping you from your work!" And he was not even condescending at all, seriously, when he said, "It's ok. I tell them at the desk Miss Katherine too afraid alone."

Damn straight.

When we got back around to the east entrance, as my Dad used to say, it was time to fish-or-cut-bait. And I stood at the foot of this giant, beautiful, peaceful temple, faintly silhouetted against the black night sky, with cavernous black openings with their dim stone stairways threaded straight upwards, and I was met with the gaze of 126 east-facing Buddhas, meditating waves of peace in my direction...

And I was struck, there, with holy cosmic mortal sublime terror. For a moment, those radiating waves of peace rushed down over me like a wind. Black sky above me, misty black valley below me, and thick fog rising from the rice fields in every direction; I was frozen to my spot.

Even Agung, who sees this every day, was visibly shaken. He said, "This place...very mystic...I feel different here." And he rubbed his arms and shivered. Torn by the great fortune of having Borobudur all to myself, and the great misfortune of having it all to myself in the pitch black spooky cosmic darkness, I took a deep breath, and feared that I was too scared to take advantage of the opportunity of a lifetime.

More great good fortune- just at that moment, some other early risers appeared with cameras and I said too loudly, "FRIENDS!" and then shamlessly and cheerfully followed them straight to the top where, indeed, it was not spooky at all....it was minutes until the sky behind the distant volcano lit up the plume of smoke always billowing from it, and the clouds went pink and gold, and as I've dreamed for two years, I watched the sun rise, through the eyes of all of those Buddhas, radiating waves of peace into the valley below.

And the holy cosmic mortal terror of the sublime: it was real, and it was brief, and it was beautiful- and isn't that why these great works of architecture were built in the first place, in these mystic places? And why we're willing to fly halfway around the world to stand in front of them at sunrise?

Day 7, Borobudur: On Blending In, or, I Was Photographed Nine Times Before I Reached the Top

Arrival at Borobudur. I was a bit uncertain leaving Bali- I had been warned that, upon setting foot in Java, I was immediately to be separated from my money by marauding bands of rude people. For this reason I was happy to spring for a cab to my hotel, just in case- a good thing, since it took over an hour to get from the Yogyakarta airport to Borobudur, and it's only about 20 miles- can't imagine the bus. It will surprise nobody that I got a bit emotional on the way- Borobudur is impetus for this trip around the world- particularly when I saw the BOROBUDUR WORLD CULTURE HERITAGE 2 KM sign.

A word about the trip, and why it was necessary to fly thousands and thousands of miles to get to this particular spot: Back in the dark days of third semester, when we were all pretty broken down and exhausted from the workload, I actually remember saying to my friend Virginia, "Is it wrong to be in my 30's and feel like I have nothing left to look forward to? Because, seriously, I can not see out of this right now." And then within a few hours of that low point, I stood up and tore the cartilage in my knee, again, and there was surgery and 12 weeks of crutches, again, and I went from "I love all of my classes and I think if I work hard I can make all A's" to "I just don't want to have to withdraw." Somewhere in the middle of that fog, I was on the front row of the auditorium where you have to crane your neck upward to see the slides from my World Architecture class. Thank you, Kristen Schaffer, for that saving grace- when we got to Buddhist architecture and Borobudur, I was mesmerized. I made a solemn vow that, when I survived it all, I was going. No matter what, and as soon as possible. Months of physical therapy: Borobudur. Building a six-foot model base while balancing on one foot: Borobudur. Vision all trippy from exhaustion: Borobudur. Doctor's orders to spend three months resting: Hah. I'm in architecture school. But....Borobudur.

And so. Two years later, and almost exactly half a world away, I am here. It all rushed back to me, with much gratitude, when I saw the sign. And when I walked the lane that led me to the temple itself and finally stood in at the base, I of course I cried outright. Followed by a reminder from the universe to take nothing too seriously: I approached the monument solemnly, intending to circum-ambulate clockwise according to custom and reflect and meditate my way to the top, and was beset immediately by many busloads of Indonesian middle schoolers. Despite my former-teacher reflex, which still makes me want to instruct, and hide from, unruly groups of teens, it was actually really amusing. They raced straight up the steep stairs to the top ("Circum-ambulate clockwise, people! Reflect!") and proceeded to drape themselves over every surface of the temple, as is the nature of teenagers since time immemorial. Half of them were on cell phones.

Mind you, I was expecting a mob scene, and I had no illusions about blending in with this gorgeous Indonesian population- but I was SO not prepared for what came next. Apparently the appearance of a foreigner here is an event worth photographing. The first group who approached me were teenage boys; at first I thought they were just trying to sell a tour or something. The second and third groups were girls in headscarves, who skittered off giggling after the photos saying, "I'm so happy! So happy!" Then a family, and more school children, and two older men- and so on. All very polite, and friendly, and just wanted to ask, "What's your name? Where are you from? Ok BYE!" I got super self-conscious about being the object of all of these photos, so I started taking photos back, and I have about a million. My cowgirl sunhat, which is admittedly ridiculous but effective (you know the one) was probably conspicuous, and according to the kids here, my sunglasses are a little bit Hollywood.

Besieged again on every subsequent trip; I think this is a hint of what celebrities must feel like...Today it was a busload of young adults, 17, 18, and 19, in an English class. Their field trip was to visit Borobudur, specifically to practice English on foreigners. I know this because they showed me their itinerary: I think 6 hours were allowed for the "practice English on foreigners" bullet. I posed for pictures about every 10 feet. Their teacher, once he saw I was friendly, started sending shy groups to me. One cluster would leave, and another would come- and each one, sincerely, delightful. They spoke very good English and asked me great questions, and gave me a list of foods I have to try and monuments to visit when I go through Jakarta. One invited me to her house. Half of Indonesia now has my e-mail address.

I had noble intentions of sitting and sketching the lovely stone Buddhas in their lovely stone lattice bells, but sitting still makes you an even easier target- so I did not do my best work. They all said, "Keep going! We want to watch! What's your favorite food? Where is your husband? What is Washington DC like?" So I gave up on the Buddha drawings and drew maps of DC for them instead. And snowmen, they wanted to know about snowmen. My dreams of idyllic sketching and serious photography and reflection on my place in the cosmos? Mmm....probably not today. I still have time to take a few more trips to the top, and I did get one big dose of what I wanted today- but that's in my next entry! For now, it's 3 cups of coffee, and regrouping so I can go contribute to international peace and diplomacy up there again....

And thank you universe, you do indeed have a sense of humor.

Days 4,5,and 6: Nusa Lembongan

So many ways to begin this entry. "I just shared a boat with a live chicken..." "I was a long, long way from my bungalow when the rain hit..." or my favorite, "With a mix of hesitation and excitement, I wrapped my arms around this beautiful young Indonesian man..." And all of them are true. I am on the island of Nusa Lembongan, 12 miles south of Bali, and am finding that this is the image of Bali I had in mind. Rocky cliffs, crashing surf, beautiful beaches, and lush, lush vegetation- some of it kind of otherworldly, and some of it familiar, like the almond trees and coconut trees and palm trees everywhere along the coast. Inland, it could be Vietnam, or the Caribbean, except for the distinctly Indonesian architecture, and shrines everywhere. These range from little tiny mailbox-sized platforms for offerings along the street, to household pavilion shrines on the uphill side of every compound, to a few full-blown village temples.



The island is hilly and not very large; it would probably take a day to to get to the far end and back on foot, but it's not an easy walk. The roads are about 1/3 paved, and by that I do not mean that 1/3 of the roads are paved, but that the paved roads are about 1/3 pavement, 1/3 rocks, and 1/3 dirt. This does not deter the motor bikes, which are everywhere and surprisingly quiet and very politely driven. The beaches are spectacularly beautiful, but not in the Carolina miles-of-sand way. Here it's more postcard coves surrounded by rocky cliffs and crashing waves and mist, interrupted by more rocks, and on to the next cove. My beach, Mushroom Bay, would be a gorgeous swimming beach, but because it's so calm, it's full of boats. Yesterday I walked down the lane to a place called Dream Beach, and had lunch at Sunset Beach, and wandered through a field of cows to a tiny spt called "Devil's Tear." One of those crashing-surf, ocean mist, Hollywood-blue water settings- very dramatic.

Today I decided to strike out for Lembongan village- a beautiful, if somewhat uncertain walk. I do have a map, but none of the roads have names, and lots of roads aren't on it, so it's anyone's guess where I actually am. Not a problem- about every 10 minutes someone shouts "Hallo! Where you going? Motorbike?" so there's no chance of getting too badly lost. I wandered up and down some steep windy roads, and was greeted by lots of small children on the backs of motorbikes on their way to school with their mothers, and stumbled across some beautiful temples.

As a side note, I am struggling with the balance between obsessive photographer and sensitive traveler- everything is so beautiful, but I don't want to be invasive. In particular, I lvoed the temple entrances- they're gated and closed, but they serve as a place to leave daily offerings. People bring exquisite little bundles of flowers wrapped in a tidy leaf basket, with a little rice and a stick of incense, and leave them on the the temple steps. I did a project on Balinese architecture and am fascinated with the house compounds, too- I'm dying to peek inside but privacy in the compounds is one of the key design factors. All the compounds are rectilinear and have a variety of pavilions, sheltered on 3 sides, for sleeping, cooking, worship, etc. The compounds deliberately turn a blank wall to the street, with an elaborate entry gate (always on the downhill, ocean side) with little niches for offerings and incense. You can see the family shrines, the tallest part of each compound, peeking over the top of the walls. All the shrines on a street are oriented in the same direction, towards the high ground and away from the sea, which makes a lovely pattern when the compounds are close together and form a continuous chain on both sides of a street. In this culture, the mountains represent the sacred, and the sea represents the profane; in both the architecture and daily habit it is very important to locate yourself in this cosmic orientation at all times, metaphorically with your head to the mountains and your feet to the sea. (I swear, I am not on an Eat, Pray, Love tour- but for those of you who have read it, she is dead right about the impact this has on daily life. Here they ask first, "Where are you from?" and then immediately "Where are you going?" and it's used almost like "How are you?" And if you seem out of whack in your cosmic orientation, for example being past 20 and single and traveling halfway around the world from your home, they will let you know that. I got all kinds of clucking and scolding over this point yesterday, most of which was not translated to me by my guide, but I got the general idea.)

And so. Back to the early morning walk which led me to the village- where the sky opened up with no warning and I was caught in a deluge. I was immediately soaked and stumbled into a beachside cafe where the locals justifiably laughed at me, and it seemed as good a time as any to try a pineapple pancake and my first cup of Balinese coffee, or any coffee, since leaving Raleigh. Note to self, bad idea to leave your hotel without a clear understanding of weather patterns and find yourself an hour away on foot, and without a waterproof camera bag. (Liquid damage is already a familiar foe.) It all turned out great; my waiter offered me a ride back on the motorbike- these are everywhere- when the rain let up. As previously mentioned, I did indeed climb on the back, wrap my arms around him, and held on tight- and it was really, really fun. I'm not sure I actually agreed to this, since I couldn't hear half of what he was saying from behind, but he ended up taking me on a tour of Ceninda, the next island over, which is connected to Lembongan by a long wooden bridge. Just wide enough for a motorbike or two- I swear he did not even slow down. We only had to stop once for brief bout of rain, under a porch where the ladies disapproved of my globetrotting and outfit and lack of wedding ring. Then, the clouds parted, and we went to the top of the island- from there, we could look back across Nusa Lembongan all the way to Bali. Alec (by then we were on a first-name basis) took me to a few other places so beautiful that they were surreal- a place called Blue Lagoon, and another cliff where some guys who wouldn't stop shaking my hand, were fishing for barracuda.

All in all: to re-iterate, it was really, really fun- something I feel like I've only experienced lately in furtive, guilty little spurts in between design reviews and papers to write and research to do and, well, the general super-serious tone we've all felt in grad school. Worth thousands and thousands of miles of travel already, and I just got started.....

There's lots more, but I'm actually typing all this in from in Internet cafe back in Sanur on the mainland- I already want to go back to the island, but tomorrow I fly to Java to see Borabodur, the original impetus behind this trip. Hello to all back home, miss you, wish you were here, send news!

Day One

Bags: packed. Passport, visas, immunizations, flights: check. Minor meltdown: yes. Lots of love and a big send-off from all directions: yes indeed.

So- I'm leaving today for a tour that include eight countries, eight weeks, and large numbers of architectural wonders and World Heritage sites. People keep asking me what I'm most excited about, and the answer is "Borobudur! No-wait. Pyramids! Or the Acropolis. No Zanzibar! Definitely Zanzibar! Or Rome..." and so forth. Right now it all sounds great- other than the 32-odd hours of air travel it will take to get me to my first stop. Don't feel too sorry for me, the fist stop is Bali. I have made a brief to-do list for the trip:

• lie on a beach in Bali, although I might be convinced to move long enough to do a yoga class.

• take my Episcopalian self up to the top of Borabodur, to see what the valley looks like through the eyes of all of those Buddhas.

• haggle in a bazaar in Istanbul. And see what makes the domes in Hagia Sofia stand up. And hear the calls to prayer five times a day.

• eat something that terrifies me

• climb the Acropolis and sit on the steps of the Erectheion, mainly because that was the topic of my first grad school paper.

• stand on a hill on a Grecian island and see the blue domes against the white walls and the blue sea, and maybe even get lost in the Labyrinth (they say the minotaur is gone.)

• embarrass myself in Italian. I’d like to learn a curse word in every country I visit.

• stare down The Sphinx.

• hear some crazy loud music in Zanzibar, and hang out with my old friends at a rooftop bar on a narrow windy street.

• If I see a Maasai warrior silhouetted in a sunset somewhere along the way, I will be ecstatic. I want to fly past Kilimanjaro on the way back to Dar es Salaam, just so I can say that sentence aloud to somebody.

• visit Italy as a grown-up, and slap my 21 year old self for having no idea whatsoever what architectural and cultural treasures she was half-appreciating as a backpacker.

• pet the lions in the Court of the Myrtles, and have coffee in Parc Guell, and start dinner at 11 pm like the Spanish do.

• see if I can love Paris (I don’t.)

• go back to London (which I do indeed love) and visit Primrose Hill, and Covent Garden, and Camden Town. And see what my sister’s been up to in Belgium, and drink a beer at Delirium Tremens with her exotic friends.

• secretly sketch people in airports (not in a creepy way) and stand on the deck of a ferry somewhere gorgeous, and ride some trains. I want to wear out some shoes.

• appreciate getting warm, after a day spent in the windy cold. Or, appreciate a cold tropical beer after a day on the equator.

In short, I want to step entirely out of my life, my routine, and my comfort zone and see what the rest of the world has been doing while I’ve been sitting at a desk for 3 1/2 years. I need, quite literally, to lay my hands on some of the treasures I’ve studied in architecture school. The people who built these temples, monuments, marketplaces, duomos, cathedrals, hamams, and public places had something they wanted to say to future generations. Now seems like I great time to find out what it was, and then maybe I'll be better prepared to go build some of these things for myself. *

*or, at least think about lovely things while I'm waiting tables and job hunting.