A Christmas Eve to Remember

Yes, the holidays are upon us and another year is coming to an end. The time to think of past holidays, the year in review, and reminisce is here. So, let me share with you a “Christmas Eve to Remember” some ten years ago in Izmir, Turkey.

I was traveling with three seasoned travelers over the winter holiday break. One was a classmate going to school with me in Madrid, but from Indiana. Her name was Chandra. And the other two were Chandra’s friends from Indiana; however, both were Russian born, Katia and Natalia.

We all met in Istanbul and after a few days of imbibing our weight in apple tea, touring many rug shops, taking our first Turkish bath, and sightseeing in Cappadocia, we planned a visit to the port town of Izmir just prior to departing Turkey and continuing our holiday travels in Italy.

With our handy travel bible in hand, Let’s Go Turkey, we found our reasonable accommodations in what seemed to be a respectable area in a hostel called Hostel Duvon. We split up into two rooms, left our bags, and hit the town. After a full day of sightseeing, tea drinking, and culinary experimentation whether a Turkish version of Baklava or Musakka, which resembles Lasagna, we all returned to our hostel to find that the once empty lobby now had many men sitting on the couches smoking and drinking tea. We continued to our rooms and noticed that strangely some of the other hostel guests seemed to be rather moved into their rooms. In particular, we caught a sneak peek of a room with a radio, ample décor, no suitcases, and full closets. It surely did not look like our rooms with two twin beds, stark décor, two large traveling backpacks, and recently washed clothes hanging to dry.

For dinner that evening, we left the hostel walking through the smoke filled room of men. And in discussing some of the Red Flags we had witnessed, we all stumbled upon a place to eat. In Turkey, or at least ten years ago, it was uncommon for a group of young women to go out to dinner together let alone ask for a drink as alcohol was rather limited. However, it was Christmas Eve and we wanted to celebrate. While enjoying the meal, we pulled the waiter aside and asked him about the area that we were staying and specifically Hostel Duvon. He left the table to get the manager who spoke some English who explained that we were staying in a brothel. Yes, you read it correctly, Christmas Eve in a Turkish Brothel. Now, nothing says Christmas more than that.

Ok, so now the tricky decision comes. What do we do? Should we stay out all night in Izmir where is it uncommon to see women out at that hour or be able to find a place that would be safe to catch some cocktails? Could we go back to the Brothel and hope that strength in numbers works and that moving the furniture in front of the door would keep us safe? Or do we do none of the above? Yep, you got it we decided upon another option.

The manager a very nice man, Ahmet, offered for us to stay with him. Ok, four young women, one complete stranger, Christmas Eve, and in a foreign country. We evaluated the plan. No option seemed safe and we just needed to choose the lesser of all of the bad plans.

Ahmet and his friend that luckily owned a car took us back to the hostel where we took our bags and checked out. I remember that the owner was quite upset at us for cancelling our reservation, but who could blame us for not wanting to be subject to such a place. With all of our bags, we could not fit in one car; so, we needed to get a cab to fit four savvy travelers escaping a hostel turned brothel and our bags. After what seemed like one of the most uncomfortable “sardine can” car rides out to the suburbs of Izmir, we arrived at Ahmet’s apartment. It was a rather unkept, cement high rise. There was an elevator, but I don’t remember that it worked.

After walking up various flights of stairs rather unknowingly trusting our new host, we arrived. It was a bare apartment with a Turkish bathroom (yet another story), a small kitchen, and two rooms, neither of which were very equipped. One was his bedroom and the other a living room now turned into our bedroom for the night. As hospitable hosts, Ahmet and his friend with an English/Turkish dictionary in hand began the “conversations” of the evening. And, in the spirit of the holidays, they brought us snacks. Now, there were not chestnuts or egg nog, but walnuts to be cracked and fresh sardines. Yes, whole sardines freshly caught and then fried. They were presented to the four of us as well as the walnuts on a blanket of newspaper covering the center of the living room floor. I guess that is as “family style” as you can get. Surprisingly enough, this was the first time that I had eaten a whole fish with bones and all. What I do remember is that they were absolutely delicious. This is a tremendous compliment as I am not a fish person.

The night was long with stories in a language never spoken before English/Turkish/sign language. However, the night did have to come to an end and Ahmet was gracious enough to give us various blankets. I remember that it was cold in the apartment and that he did not have a heater so the blankets were needed; however, there was something about them that was just foul. Yes, they stunk. The closest thing I can describe it as would be barnyard.

Regardless of the stinky blankets and being in a stranger’s house, it still seemed like a better place than being prey in the Hostel Duvon. By the way, you start to become immune to the spell by morning and yes, we smelled like barnyard too.

The next day, Christmas, was a new day with new friends. We all safely awoke in not such a strange apartment. In the spirit of Christmas, Ahmet and his friend both helped us find another hotel, this time respectable, clean, and well, not a brothel. We were in Izmir for only a day or two more and saw Ahmet on one other occasion where he took us to a tearoom. We all exchanged addresses and many years later I was still receiving “when come back to Turkey” postcards.

So the lesson to be learned…trust your gut instinct about your surroundings and the people you meet. And, if you go to Izmir, skip the Hostel Duvon.

An Adventure close to home…. I have been “Basel-ed”

For those of you unfamiliar with Art Basel, it is a modern and contemporary art exhibition that is held annually in Switzerland and for the last 7 years has traveled to Miami. Yesterday was my first time experiencing the event in South Florida despite hearing of the fame and celebrity draw. Only now, can I truly attest that Art Basel is a whirlwind of people watching, perplexing art, and lots of shock value. I spent a half day there and left no better than how I felt after running the 2004 Boston Marathon in 80+ degree weather. It was exhausting.

The majority of the pieces involved not only your visual sense to be engaged, but also the inner being…..how do I feel about this piece?. It was clear to me that shock value has much to do with this chapter in Art. You must walk by and then revisit many of the gallery exhibits for you to truly understand…..what did I just see? And, what in the hell was the message behind this?

The PJ champagne was flowing from carts zigzagging the halls and many Ferraris and supped up cars were lining the street; however, the overarching message despite the glitz and glam was that Art is to provoke emotion. Whether you enjoy traditional pieces like a portrait photo or canvas work, those positive emotions are not all that can be addressed. Through daily life, emotions such as fear, disgust, sexual freedom, anger, and prejudice are silenced, but not at Art Basel.

It was inspiring. I left feeling that my senses had taken the test. And now, I feel that I have another creative juice running through my veins. It is evident that if you put yourself in an environment so unlimited that you too become unlimited.

It is with theme of no limits that I leave you with….

Art and Travel have so much in common; they allow deep exploration by crossing boundaries whether physical, mental or emotional.

I have been Basel-ed....

Where Ms. Traveling Pants Grew Up?

Now returned from my journey over the pond to England, I now smell an apple pie cooking in the oven for one of my favorite traditions, Thanksgiving. I am not traveling this year, but staying where I “hang my hat”, Fort Lauderdale, Florida. As I tell most people, I didn’t want to wait until retirement to escape the cold winters of the Mid-West, New England or Spain. So four years ago, my then fiancé, now husband, and I packed up a not yet mature household near Boston and moved to sunny South Florida.

Many of you have heard that you can take the girl out of the country, but you can never take the country out of the girl. Well, I consider that to be true. A component of where you come from and each place you live stays with you to make the rich, mixture of personality and tradition that makes us all unique. I must say that my verbage and slight accent can show that I haven’t forgotten my Mid-Western roots (Wis-CON-sin), but I must say that I attribute much of how I view the world to the place where I really grew up, Spain.

At the age of twenty, I moved to Madrid and stayed for two years. I typically equate this time of my life to being an infant or toddler. I was a sponge just as kids are. Everything was different. The sounds and language were strange as well as the holidays, music, food, when you eat it, when shops are open, and even scents. It was a sensory overload and probably the two years of my life that I learned the most. Who would think that I could attribute a valuable lesson to going out to a local bar to have “tapas” (small snacks), meet up with friends for the “marcha” (nightlife), and end the event with a cup of thick, hot chocolate and fried donuts at no earlier than 3 or 4 am?

Yes, those years gave me the appreciation for things other than traditional classes, memorizing information and formulas, and staying cooped up with my college books to be a straight “A” student. I began to understand that a day in the Prado or hopping a bus to Sevilla or Granada to see local festivals to be the true learnings of life. I might add that there is something to be said about a culture that has what seems to be hundreds of three day weekends somehow based on religion. I saw these festivities as three days of eating, dancing, drinking, and sometimes dressing up in costume. I have now come to realize that they were a way to meet hundreds of new people, who were my teachers or what I refer to as encyclopedias of life.

I arrived in Spain intending to stay a year and return to the Mid-West to start medical school. I did not leave after a year, but stayed to get another dose of Spanish lifestyle. Who would have thought that I would trade in my peanut butter snack for olives and ever say that there is a cheese better than cheddar…..by the way, it is called manchego. During those two years, I traveled throughout not only Spain but almost all of Europe and some parts of Africa…many of which I will write about in future posts to tell my stories of Christmas Eve in a Turkish brothel, New Year’s in Napoli, camel rides in Morocco, traditional Roman baths, and like adventures.

As you know, I did eventually leave Spain only to return occasionally to visit familiar traditions, food, and small tapas bars. The time had come to return to the U.S. and take that country girl mixed with cosmopolitan Spanish flare back to the States.

With that, I leave you to take out my pie and enjoy a Thanksgiving feast with my husband, Admilson, and my dad, Jim. By the way, I still like my apple pie with cheddar cheese…..you can’t use manchego! (It is a Wisconsin tradition.)

Once upon a time in a land far away…..is where everything started?

How fitting that I introduce my MsTravelingPants blog and myself as I sit on my way to London with laptop on the tray table with hopes of a bearable in-flight movie on yet another journey in my adventures of both near and far. So that you have further insight into who I am and why I write the way I do, please let me tell you a little story about my beginning…….where everything started?

Believe it or not, I am from a small, unincorporated town in Wisconsin called Centerville. Located on the Mississippi side of Wisconsin, I grew up in very rural setting on a hobby farm. You may say, what is a hobby farm? Well, amongst various neighbors that made their living by raising cattle or milking dairy cows, my family had a farm as a hobby. When I think of it, I don’t think that would rank high on my chosen pastimes, but my parents did. My father a college professor and my mother at that time an antique dealer and inspired Shepherd, decided that a 20 acre hobby farm with sheep, a couple of dogs, and cats nestled in a quaint valley surrounded by apple orchards, corn fields, and wild pastures would be an ideal place to raise a child. That is where I come in. I might say that it was a great place, safe place, and my place to grow up OR at least until I grew out of that stage.

My parents did not know whether I would be a boy or a girl so they thought Heath Claude if I were to be a boy or Heidi after the novel if I were I girl. Knowing how kids and teenagers can be ruthless with names, I am very happy that luck was with me that day, as I am Heidi. How fitting that my parents would have a herd of sheep and a little girl named Heidi.

As an only child, you tend to explore your world with imaginary friends, pets, and well the world of fantasy. The stories and playtimes always were in Neverneverland and far of places. It only seems fit that I too would be going places far far away to explore other cultures, music, food, fun, and most importantly people.

Around the age of 9 or 10, I took my first trip to Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. It was for my father’s Spring break vacation from the university, but this was just one of many seasonal getaways that have shaped me into who I am today and who I will become. Just think about it……a kid from Wisconsin to see the powerful ocean, warm weather in the middle of winter, and an environment so strange and unfamiliar AND in another language! However, I loved it and I was sold. It was there that I began my thirst of language with simple flashcards in Spanish and later expanded through school with pen pals, soap operas, and further exploration of Mexico…that is until I went to college and was encouraged to study abroad…Ok no one needed to encourage this young traveling bug to explore her horizons.

At the age of 20, I packed two large duffle bags with peanut butter, enough tampons for a year, and all the things I thought I could not live without as I shipped out for Madrid, Spain. It is crazy to think I packed such things….there are many better things to eat than peanut butter in Spain AND they did and continue to sell tampons there.

So sorry to interrupt, but the laptop battery is saying save or lose everything; plus, I am beginning to smell the oh so familiar chicken or beef lasagna dinner cart coming my way…..mmmmmmmmmmm buen provecho Heidi!