Day 23: Labyrinth.

I am pretty seriously amused right now. I have just toured the Palace of Knossos- home of the ancient Minoan civilization, on the island of Crete. We studied this place in school, with it's off-kilter upside-down columnst and lustral basins and ridiculously intricate floor plan. For some reason, as I was paring down my list of must-sees along the way, I just couldn't drop this one off, as long as it was within striking distance of Athens.

"Striking distance" is actually a bit of a stretch, depending on your definition. Because of the off-season ferry schedules, there was no painless way to get here and back, so I've committed myself to two consecutive overnight ferries. Arriving here in the dark at 6 am. Returning tomorrow to Athens at 5 am, doubly painful because the subway doesn't run until 5:50, and my hotel check-in is at 2. So, this was work. I figured that when a boat big enough to have goth a swimming pool and a night club comes ashore at dawn, someone would have coffee brewing somewhere- not exactly. Because I am just that smart, I also managed to store my Heraklion map in my luggage, locked up at the hotel in Athens. So, having no better option, I went with the "walk uphill" tactic hoping to find something promising in the dark. Other than a stand serving french fries (??) to cab drivers, the streets were dark.

6 am dark, though, isn't as scary as, say, 1 am dark. For starters, you know the sun will eventually come up; also, it's not like there are drunkies stumbling out of bars around you or something. Wrong again: 6 am and the music is still thumping, and bouncers are still camped out in their doorways from last night. Two women, I'd say early 50's, sail out into the street dressed as pirates. Thankfully, about 15 minutes uphill in the dark, there were signs of life- coffee and a 24/7 internet cafe, full of adolescent gamers before dawn. Good place to pull up a map, at least, and watch the sun come up.

All that aside, I made it to the Palace. Frankly, it's mostly rubble. You can at least trace the massive web of foundations around this giant complex. The most fun, though, is the re-invented areas. I'd say "re-constructed" or "preserved" but those are pretty far off the mark. At some point in time, a guy from Oxford got involved with this place and gained permission to excavate. In his day I don't think his methods raised any eyebrows, but by our standards of historic preservation, he took some giant liberties. Because the crumbling sparkly gypsum foundations were so badly weathered, he thought concrete reinforcement might be a good idea. He pieced together some rooms here, some corners there, with a good dose of both imagination and European flair. He painted things. He built things. He detailed faux wood grain in paint on the concrete beams, for effect. He vividly described "lustral basins" as sacred ritual pools, although there's no evidence they actually held water. He named one reconstruction the "Piano Nobile," as if this were a Venetian Palazzo. He conjectured "tri-columnar shrines" and made up all kinds of purposes for rooms, which he lovingly re-imaged with a combination of original stone, concrete, and liberal paint. It's as if a 12-year old were given a set of legos and an hour, and you said, "GO! See what this might have been."

And it is, after all, really interesting. Seeing it in person, I think this man was at least a little nutty, if not downright Quixotic, but his handprint is everywhere, and you can't help but like him. The bright colors do bring the place to life, a little, and lustral basins seem as plausible an explanation as any other, and who's to say that wasn't a throne room, after all? In some places, sure, he was way off (faux wood-grain concrete, for example) but he did make some sound educated guesses about Minoan architecture and culture. At some point I went from, "Hmm, interesting foundation patterns," to "this guy is a combination of Indiana Jones and the Mad Hatter and Walt Disney." It's worth a trip.

The real reason I came, I confess, wasn't for the Palace at all. It was for the myth of King Minos and the Minotaur, because I am seriously just a big kid. I know, academically, that there wasn't really a labyrinth here, if "here" is actually the origin of that story as rumored. If you look at a floor plan, you'd just have to describe it as "labyrinthine," because that's just how those cagey Minoans built. Probably it did keep people from barging into the king's throne room, as there's no direct way to get anywhere. Even so. I wanted to see the seeds of that story, and traipse around the labyrinth. And I did. I feel a little like I did when I went to Loch Ness years ago, and tried really, really hard to see the Loch Ness Monster. And I'd do it again today. I know. Unlikely on every level. To try and spot one of these mythical creatures defies all logic- but really, deep down, don't you want to believe that you could?

Day 22. Acropolis. Contains both ranting, and gushing, about architecture.

Woke up to another gorgeous day- perfect Acropolis weather, cool and sunny. Surprisingly, it's a very short hike to the top, for all the talk about the importance of the processional route. I was kind of expecting an epic journey. The Acropolis was good; it's really a huge construction site, with a multi-decade restoration in progress. It's not really a "Look out for the wrath of the gods!" experience, so much as a "Look out, here comes that guy with the bobcat again!" situation. I have lost count of the major monuments I've visited shrouded in scaffolding- so it's really no big deal. I can't tell how extensive this restoration is- it looks like they're inserting placeholder stones, so I don't know whether they're just rebuilding key spots, or rebuilding major sections? The Parthenon, more than anything else, is in ruins because the in the 1600s it was occupied by the Ottoman Turks, who used it for munitions storage. It was hit by a bomb from below and the munitions exploded, causing the major damage we see today. There's a big historical lesson embedded in here somewhere....

More impressive than the Parthenon to me, though, is the Erectheion. There is something so graceful about the way it negotiates the change in grade and changes each face to accommodate a different function. I love the famous caryatid porch, although all the original caryatids are down the hill in the museum. It's tiny, compared to the Parthenon, but really lovely. The temple of Athena Nike is completelyenclosed in construction, so I didn't see that. The Propylaea was pretty cool- as intended, I was so dazed winding up the stairs and seeing the full framed view of the Parthenon that I kind of missed it, and had to go back in and look for the transition points, and the way it re-orients you and captures the view after climbing the hill.. Spent a couple of hours up there and came down to re-group and find food- fiercely hungry. I needed to re-energize before tackling the museum.

I also needed to come down and adjust my attitude, as I was by this point irritated with people at major world monuments on cell phones, and general crowd behavior. "People," as Seinfeld says. "They're the worst." I've somehow managed to stay out of sync here; show up at Hadrian's Library and the Ancient Agora, only to be turned away because they close at 2:30. (Why?? Why 2:30??) No problem- hike to the temple of Olympic Zeuss- sorry, we closed at 3. Meanwhile, I was also working up to a pretty good architecture rant, some of which I'll re-create here, as it relates to the view in all directions for miles and miles from the Acropolis. Athens, apart from the ancient monuments and the really lovely pedestrian Plaka at its feet, is egregiously unlovely. My friend Jessica R, correct in this as in all other things, had told me that a day in Athens itself would be plenty. To be sure, some of the wonders of the ancient world are here- the Acropolis alone was reason enough to make this a non-negotiable stop. But outside the historic district- offensively bad 60's brutalism, concrete buildings ringed in shabby motel-style porches and walkways, or struggling to support crumbling faux-Corb bris-soleils. From the Acropolis to the Port of Piraeus, which I've traversed twice, is about a 10 mile avenue lined with strip clubs and car dealerships, interspersed with mottled concrete messes of multi-story something-or-other. To further put it in perspective, the fabric out past the old city is more or less on an architectural par with Jakarta. At first I registered all this as anger, but I realized today it's more architectural despair- because if ATHENS, birthplace of so much in terms of democracy and philosophy and culture that we hold dear, can let this happen, then what does that mean for the rest of us? If the primary avenue from the ancient Acropolis to your major maritime port of entry into the city, for crying out loud, has deteriorated into a XXX version of Raleigh's Capital Boulevard, what hope does, say, Cary have? or my beloved Raleigh, or really, Anytown, USA? Where were the designers when this happened, or the historians and preservationists, or even the neighbors? NOBODY looked at this atrocious concrete mess at the foot of the Acropolis and said, "We can do better?" This is all so depressing.

Rant complete, and it's not entirely a fair one, for sure, but this was my frame of mind as I grumbled off from all the closed monuments and approached the New Acropolis Museum. At which point my attitude underwent a radical reversal.

The Museum. It looks modern from the outside- and yet, not jarringly so. You come down a set of stairs from the street, only to look down and discover you're standing on glass floor panels. This whole museum is built atop ancient archeological digs, and built so you can peer down into them and watch people work. Parts of the excavations, sheltered by a large overhang, are wide open. The digs are about 20' below you, so it's a tiny bit dizzying- but the glass is printed with small black dots, for traction and visual orientation.

Upward into the museum- you pass through a ticket gate and onto a gentle, wide, sloping pathway, like the climb to the Acropolis itself. More archeological sites underfoot. As you climb you see a giant pediment come into focus on the floor above, orienting you to the hall of statues. Halls of statues, actually, usually make my eyes glaze over pretty quickly- other then a few standout masterpieces, I have a hard time breathing much life into them. These are really elegantly displayed, though. Many of them are fragments, so they're sometimes pieced together with plaster inserts, or held in proper alignment, with the negative space left to your imagination, with stainless steel supports. A fragment of a capital, for example, is displayed on a fan of stainless steel bars- implying, but not replicating, the missing fluted column on which it sat.

More loveliness- the east and west sides of the gallery are shaded with a gentle screen. The statues are deliberately displayed in daylight, as intended by their creators. The screen, though, cuts down on the glare, and- even better- abstracts the decidedly unlovely fabric of contemporary Athens into a dynamic silhouette. In this light, even the rows of satellilte dishes and bris-soleils look like a united, coherent urban fabric; a modern chapter of this continual city.

Top floor: flawless. You step off the escalator onto the Parthenon level, where freizes and sculptures are displayed around the perimeter. It is so subtle at first that it takes a minute to register- these sculptures are in their exact positions around the gallery, which itself abstracts the marble columns in slender stainless steel, but maintains the proportions of the Parthenon perfectly. As you walk around the gallery, you get frequent glimpses of the actual Parthenon, just out the window and about 200 yards uphill. You also realize that, at some point since your entry, the museum has made a subtle transition to align itself perfectly with the orientation of the original, so you can compare each piece visually with its location on the hill. Then, my favorite detail- you step out into the center of the top floor gallery, onto more glass panels. Here you look straight down, through the strolling visitors on the lower two floors, and back down into the archaeological digs, 80' or so below. Simple but unmistakeable metaphor: looking from your current spot, back through layers and layers of history. Nice? Very nice. Hope renewed. Faith restored.

Note to the British Museum: Athens wants its marbles back - and their place is much nicer than yours. Lord Elgin was wrong. Cough 'em up. It's time.

Day 20: Santorini. Woah.

Apparently I have a thing for volcanic islands. After Indonesia, an entire volcanic archipelago, I am in Santorini. Those of you who have been here will laugh at this, but I had read references to "the caldera" and "hiking the caldera" in guidebooks, so I had visions of driving to the volcano and maybe hiking around it a little. I didn't realize until I got to the top of the island and looked down: Woah. This whole island, and the smaller ones out in the bay, ARE the rim of the volcano. The caldera? The entire bay. This is a giant, giant thing- looking at a map, it's vaguely noticeable that these islands form kind of a circle. Standing here and looking down on it, though, the situation is really clear. These precipitous jagged hills I'm staring at are so obviously the rim of a volcano, and I'm looking 1000 feet down into it's crater. When this thing blew, 3,000 years ago, it shattered the rim and the Aegean Sea came flooding in. There are a couple of burned little islands at the center of this bay- still smoking. Technically these might be the cinder cone? Or, at the very least, the volcano's way of gradually rebuilding itself from the inside out? The volcanic sea floor here is unstable; over centuries, ephemeral islands have risen and sunk out there. And submerged near the core is supposed to be- wait for it, my friends- ATLANTIS. I think that is super freakin' cool. The last time one of these islets emerged, and slowly submerged again a couple of hundred years ago, they actually found evidence of Roman buildings on it. Again. Woah.

I have spent the day with my rental car, driving Santorini from end to end. It's not very far, maybe 15 miles, but with enough twists and turns and side roads and villages to keep you busy for a day or so. Santorini, unfortunately, is closed. And I mean, whole villages right now are ghost towns this time of year, except for the occasional construction site where guys are futzing about with wheelbarrows. Ia, at the north end of the island, is where I think 95% of Greece's postcards and tourist images originate. I invented a new game in Ia called, "Try to Take a Bad Picture." Seriously, I dare you, try it. Can't be done.

Architeture detour, those of you whose eyes glaze over at this kind of thing, feel free to skim. The architecture, aside from the caldera view, is why you come here. The steep side of the island has all these zig-zag stone walkways you'd typically negotiate with the help of a donkey- and seriously, I saw 3 today, and there are no tourists here, so it's real. The thick walls make sense against the summer heat, or the winter chill; the close-knit fabric and the high walls had something to do with defense against pirates, historically, among other things. It all seems pretty dicey in light of the seismic situation, though. Stone ceilings and walls are not what you'd want in the event of a tremor. A percentage of the island's buildings are still in ruins from the last major event, in 1956. Lots of people moved in lieu of rebuilding, and it's surprising that, given the value of this real estate, you can still pick your way through rubble in spots, 50 years later. The buildings are woven so closely together with lanes threaded through in all directions that it's difficult to tell what is public walkway, and what is someone's front porch. And, a detail I just love, there seems to have been a consensus early on about what colors everyone would use, everywhere. The whitewashing, I suppose, was a purely practical decision, especially to reflect the summer sun. What makes it splendid, though, is the blue. Mostly it's cobalt, on doors and gates and domes; a few have gone wild and used cerulean, or baby blue, or a splash of turquoise. Against the unbelievably blue water, and the bluer sky, it is stunning. There are a few freckles of green, on stray fence posts. Anything that's not white, in terms of the walls, is ochre; washed in shades from butter to almost canary yellow. Everything is a little sunbleached. Glorious.

And, glorious, but empty. Wandering Ia this afternoon, there was one shop open, a handful of construction workers, and two other tourists. Everything is padlocked, and the padlocks are bubble wrapped, then strapped with duct tape for good measure. Same with the street lights. Windows are papered over. This place is lonely and windswept, in a way I haven't seen since I visited the Bronte house on the moors of Yorkshire, years ago. And people, that was the setting that inspired Wuthering Heights, and there were still street festivals and people everywhere. This: quiet. I drove back to the main village, Fira, and found a cafe which housed about 4 people- quite the crowd. I had a sandwich out on the balcony, and the wind blew the tomatoes off my sandwich before I closed it and weighted it down. This is, unquestionably, a tough time of year here. The guy who rented me the car today told me that people here work 14 hours a day all summer, and sleep all day during the winter. "People? There are people here??" I wanted to ask. And there are a few. And they are all giving me funny looks. I feel like I have shown up very early, or very late, for a party. But when I did that last year at a dessert party my dear friends John and Andie threw, showing up an hour early by mistake, they were fabulous- they offered me dinner and let me play with their adorable baby and help arrange the cheese tray. Here: awkward.

So, to end on a happy note: I got here on the ferry last night, too late to go very far on foot before the daylight ran out, but far too early to call it a night at like 5 pm. I was feeling blue for the first time since I left home, mainly because I was not in Istanbul, and fresh off an 8 hour ferry ride, and it was the first time in weeks I'd gone for more than an hour or two without a conversation, and I had a scratchy throat and a cold. (I am not actually complaining about any of this- my cold and I, after all, are in Santorini. But it sets the scene.) I was finding nothing other than the stray convenience store open, and dreading the long dark walk back to my guest house, when- as it seems to happen these days- a cozy little corner cafe lit up out of nowhere. There were little blue chairs on the patio, and real live people inside, and a huge chalk sign written in English that proclaimed: CHICKEN SOUP. Oh, thank you thank you. Giant bowl of homemade soup with fresh herbs on top, mounds of chicken, and a good handfull of rice.

I keep looking for evidence, lately, that things will turn out as they should, and that the world is inherently safe and good and kind. This is mainly because I have to go home and job hunt during a recession, which is kind of terrifying, and it was a leap of faith to take this time to travel, not knowing how long I'll be unemployed when I get back. There are a couple of sayings rattling around in my mind these days. The first is something like, "Luck is where preparation meets opportunity," and I am trying to trust that we've all done the preparation part, and the hard work to get us where we need to go. The other saying is, "Leap, and the net will appear." I don't know about nets, really, or jobs; but I do know that chicken soup will, when you have a cold, or streets full of lamps, when you're lost in the dark, and beautiful things, at just the right moment, and fabulous friends, too. Things have been appearing lately, unbidden, exactly when I need them- anyone else finding little bits of serendipity everywhere?

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??