Now you can picture it too

It turns out that uploading photos to blogspot is a bit of a pain. But here are a few of my favorites for now, and I promise to upload the entire album upon return.


A garden for art in Villa de Leyva


Pal, the wonder dog and expert hiking guide


Stephanie, Ariel and Jordan, and our guide Pal


Andres and Venga, tour guides in Villa de Leyva


At the market: trust me, he was more excited about getting this dollar then he looks.


A Colombian wedding in Plaza Mayor, Villa de Leyva


A gorgeous send-off


Flying kites in Plaza Mayor


Beautiful San Gil

A lazy weekend in Villa de Leyva

On Saturday afternoon, I stepped out of the lovely little La Roca hotel, and was greeted by Andres, a local guy hanging around the plaza doing nothing in particular. He and his rescued dog Venga escorted me to the weekend market, where I proceeded to go nuts over all the luscious fruits and veggies. Fresh produce: my idea of heaven. Andres introduced me to a variety of fruits I had never before tasted... including a sweet-potato thing best eaten drenched in honey and salt, with a tiny round of coconut fruit in the middle. Yum! Unlike I would do back home, I never once considered washing off the fruit before eating it. Maybe I am naive, but I couldn't imagine these fresh crops being drenched in pesticides.

Later, I sat with Andres and Venga, munching on crisp string beans while he gave me a good long lecture on the state of Colombian politics and the strength of the nations's export-based economy. He reiterated that the country, with its vast supply of primary resources, is not at all dependent on tourism or on imports, and this explains its relative success. "Si no tenemos, hacemos", he told me. If we don't have it, we make it. A pretty good DIY philosophy, if you ask me.

Later that day and still laden with bags full of fresh mangoes and mini plums, I ducked into a gold-plated church and happened upon a full-scale Colombian wedding. It was stunning; everyone was dressed to the nines, dark suits and elegant dresses. Of course I hovered in the back of the church and waited to take some photos of the splendid celebration as the wedding party exited the church. And I was not the only gringo to do so!

So now we come to Sunday. Having just returned from a bouncy, one-hour cabalgata through the surrounding hills on the back of a lazy little horse named El Principe, I am now happily stoned on Motrin, and will probably spend the rest of the day exploring the little town, snacking on local treats, and people-watching in the plaza. Maybe I will go see the indie movie playing tonight at the Salon de Eventos in Casa Quintero, not even caring what language the film is in.

Yeah, it's a tough life. But someone has to do it.

PS: I will upload some photos just as soon as I find the patience to do so. Stay tuned!

Hiking with Pal

I woke early this morning to the sound of church bells clanging and roosters crowing. Glancing around the room, I sighed with relief and went back to sleep. Ahhhh.... I though, no roommates.

For the sheer kick of paying only $7 per night for a place to stay, I spent Friday night in a shared dorm room at a backpacker hostel, the ecolodge Renacer Guesthouse. One night was more than enough. Especially since my roommate for the evening was Alistair from the UK. A lovely man, friendly enough, but it just felt really uncomfortable, especially when I came into the cramped little room wrapped in nothing more than a towel, and there he was. Awkward indeed. But maybe the first time always feels that way.

Needless to say, I like my privacy, and by the next morning I had reserved a private room at Hospederia La Roca, a charming little hotel that feeds directly into Plaza Mayor. A big comfy bed, private bathroom, endless hot water and a TV with cable. Plus, the location can't be beat, and the architecture and layout are stunning: like an old Colonial mansion set in an English garden, with 2 large, open air, hydrangea-filled courtyards in the center. All this for only $10 more per night. Is there any question?

My stay at Renacer wasn't all for naught. The lodge is very nice, immaculately clean (as actually all the hostels and hotels have been so far), and tranquily set up in the hills a good 10 minutes from town. Although a bit too removed for my tastes, the area is great for hiking, and the trails behind the lodge lead to trickling waterfalls and a birds-eye view of the town below. For this hike I joined up with a family of three from Canada: single-mom Stephanie, the adventurous Jordan (9) and the well-mannered Ariel (12). We were led the entire way by Pal, a local dog who clearly had taken this path many times before. Anytime we were lost or unsure in which way to head, the kids would insist we follow Pal. And every time, the kids - and the dog - were right. He was the most reliable guide I have ever known, and we couldn't beat the price for his services!

Now let me take a moment to speak about this family. Stephanie works in education in Canada, and through some clever program has been paying into a fund for the past four years that allows her to take the 5th year off of work - fully paid. So what does she do? She sets off on a 10-month backpacking tour of Central and South America with her two kids, who keep up with school via emails from their teachers. Her kids are smart, well-adjusted, adaptable and open-minded. Not yet teenagers, they have already been exposed to more of the world than most adults ever will be. And they seem to love it; the travel bug is permanently a part of who they are.

I have heard about people traveling with kids like this, but have never actually seen it with my own eyes. I have so much respect for Stephanie, and feel relieved to know that a nomad like me can continue being a nomad, even once children become part of the equation. I wonder though why this type of lifestyle has to be the exception? Why can't backpacking through developing countries with kids be considered normal? Why must our adventurous traveling lives end if we have children? Don't we owe it to them, to the next generation, to expose them to everything we possibly can? Aren't we doing them a huge favor? Stephanie certainly is. I would love to catch up with these two in 15 years and see where life has taken them. Jordan, he'll probabably be a world-class surgeon working for Doctors Without Borders in Ghana or Guatemala. Ariel, well she of course will be Canada's Foreign Affairs Secretary, or the Secretary General of the UN. All because their mom was smart enough to make the right kind of sacrifices and give them this amazing opportunity. Something I will certainly keep in mind as my own future unfolds.

So now, back to Villa de Leyva, the setting for this tale. I am in love with this little town. I am already thinking English teacher by day, yoga instructor by evening/weekend. I could open up a little yoga studio and cater to locals as well as backpackers looking for some exercise during their travels.... Hmmm.... Maybe get myself a horse to get around on...

And why not? Villa de Leyva is something like paradise, without a beach. This perfectly preserved colonial town is so picturesque, straight out of a movie setting. All the low-lying buildings are white-washed with dark orange roofs, and they line narrow streets paved with massive cobblestone (over which I am constantly tripping). The weather is perfect; breezy and cool but never cold. A good percentage of the 10,000 person population is children, who spend much of their days flying kites in the gigantic main square, Plaza Mayor, bigger than any plaza I have ever seen. The people are warm and friendly, and everyone seems to own and adore a healthy, happy dog (I haven't seen one icky cat anywhere!).

This town is so safe and peaceful, I would eat my shoe if I got mugged here. It's just not possible.

And so I continue to wonder... where is this scary, dangerous Colombia I keep hearing about?

Happiness is Colombia

I recently read that in 2008, Colombia ranked the third happiest country in the world. From what I have seen so far, I have absolutely no reason to believe otherwise. And I am not referring to a "they have nothing but they are happy anyway" kind of situation. Quite the contrary: Colombians seem to enjoy a very high quality of life, and appear to have everything they need. There are no obvious displays of materialism or extravagance, and I also haven't seen much blatant or desperate poverty, as I did in India, or even in parts of the U.S. Services are plentiful and efficiently run, roads are paved, streets are clean. Everyone has shoes on their feet. It is a country that seems to be well-kept and cared for, and its citizens rightly take great pride in this. Colombians are doing well, and they genuinely seem to be happy.

I imagine things were very different not so long ago, when La Violencia held most of the nation hostage. And from what I understand, the violence still rages in vast parts of the countryside, leaving many civilians displaced and living in fear. But thanks in large part to the antiguerilla efforts of Presidente Uribe, this now seems to be the exception rather than the norm. And from where I sit at the moment - at a quaint outdoor cafe on the edge of Villa de Leyva´s impressive Plaza Mayor, enjoying a fresh-squeezed limonada and watching a number of children fly kites in the town square - Colombia seems to be a remarkably peaceful place.

This just goes to show how ridiculous our media can be, and how easily rhetoric can sway us into believing things that aren't true. I bought into it; before coming here I was downright scared. Now, I feel silly for feeling this way. One would think we could have learned a lesson about the media's fear-mongering skills during the buildup to the invasion of Iraq. But we don't learn, and as a result, we miss out. Take Cuba as an example: a lovely island nation floating in the Carribbean Sea, depicted as a communist torture chamber, its leaders demonized as hideous and evil dictators. I was there. It was hardly a horrible place to be. The only thing this nonsense has accomplished, is that the rest of the world has enjoyed the benefits of tourism and investment in this wonderful country, while we Americans have missed out. With all the media hype and ceaseless rhetoric, Colombia might fall into the same category. But I won't mind if the secret doesn't get out just yet. Traveling through a country unmarred by tourism and not yet blanketed by Starbucks and McDonalds is a welcome change of scenery. And maybe, just maybe, this is why the Colombian people are so darn happy.

Maniacs in little yellow cars

My first taxi ride in Bogota involved a lot of fearing for my personal safety. Can you blame me? After all, I had just stepped off the flight, during which I had carefully read LP`s in-depth warnings to women (and related horror stories) about taking a taxi alone after dark. But my flight was delayed, and I was to arrive after 9pm. What choice did I have?

So the entire ride from the airport I am clutching nervously at my bag, steadily holding down the broken lock on the door, and staying more alert than I have ever been in my life. At every stoplight, I hold my breath, just waiting for someone to reach in and hold me up at knifepoint.

Well, I arrived to the hostel just fine, and in less than two days of taxi-ing around Bogota, I pretty much have gotten over all that silly anxiety. But now, instead of fearing for my personal safety, I just fear for my life. Not much better, I know. But the taxi drivers here are maniacs! Certifiably insane. I wouldn´t be surprised to learn that the first road-racing video game was invented by a Colombian cab driver. In their tiny yellow cars, they weave in and out of traffic, changing lanes with an inch to spare, screeching around turns and slamming on the brakes. The words speed and limit are likely not used in the same sentence, ever. I lurch forward more than a few times, and wish at least one or two of these cabbies would install functioning seatbelts in the back seats.

But once again, as so far every time, I arrive to my destination in one piece: this time, the bus station. I have decided to save Bogota for later, and this afternoon I will make the 4 hour journey north to a town called Villa de Leyva. As a female traveling alone, I can`t help but be drawn to guidebook phrases like "the area is completely safe". Words like these, and the description of this quaint colonial town are exactly what I am after: a small pueblo best explored on foot, bike or horse (sans money belt); tons of safe hiking trails; waterfalls, canyoning, rappeling, rafting, and more. Even better, this town - whose name which, if slightly intoxicated, could look just like my own last name - is located in the direct path of Cartagena, my eventual destination. After a hectic couple of days in Bogota, the fresh air and vast, open skies in Villa de Leyva might just be paradise in the foothills. Stay tuned and I will report back soon.

Poker face in Bogota

When traveling, there are only two reasons a backpacker doesn`t go out to party at night in a city like Bogota: 1. He has no money. 2. He doesn`t want to get mugged. For me, the latter is most definitely true. Such is the reason I find myself deep in a game of poker with 7 guys at the youth hostel Destino Nomada, enjoying the relative comfort and security of being off the street, without a money belt digging into my pelvis bone. I can pretty much guarantee that these 7 guys are staying in tonight because they have no cash. But I don´t mind at all; their company is welcomed. And in the process I discover something very important about myself: I pretty much suck at poker. So much for beginner´s luck.

As for Bogota, I just have to say that all of you people at the State Department who write those scary travel advisories really need to step back and gain some perspective. Or at least, come here for awhile and see for yourself what´s going on. Because scary, dangerous, crime-ridden Colombia seems to be anything but. In fact, it feels no more scary or dangerous than say, the Bronx after dark. Even that might be a stretch. In fact, I would rather be here in Bogota than in downtown Los Angeles. Or in Yellowstone National Park, hiking alone. Which makes me wonder, if the State Department had to write a travel advisory about visiting the U.S., and foreigners actually read it, would anyone EVER come visit my country?

Now don´t get me wrong, street crime is most definitely a problem in Bogota, particulary at night. (But isn´t that the case in almost any hectic city, especially one that is relatively poor by international standards?) And the narrow, cobblestone streets do get pretty jammed with people, almost to a claustrophobic degree. But most of these people are students, I notice. In fact there are students everywhere! Apparently the Colombians take their education very seriously, and the system is top-notch here. Maybe Bogota is like Boston.... with Salsa dancing.

And there are tons of kids here. Happy little kids who laugh and play in parks, like kids do everywhere. In my so-far-failing effort to get a visa for Brazil, I had to stop by the American Embassy today to get more pages added to my passport. "Please come back at 3:00pm", the nice lady tells me with a big, hospitable, American smile. Three hours? For real? I don´t have to wait a week? I can`t help but wonder if this surprising lack of bureaucratic paper-pushing nonsense is Obama´s influence. Just let me think it is.

So anyway, to kill some time I taxi north to Parque Simon Bolivar. Supposedly, this park is bigger than Central Park in Manhattan. It is pretty fabulous, although I remain partial to its New York cousin. The park is a beautiful and peaceful place, a perfect respite from the smelly traffic and diesel fumes of Bogota´s main roads. And on this sunny weekday, it is jam-packed with adorable school children who are quite literally "frolicking", if I can use that word. Scary, dangerous Colombia???



But as a bible thumper reveres his own great book, I believe everything I read in my Lonely Planet guidebook. And I am warned by the LP authors to avoid walking on the streets at night in the center of town, exactly where I am staying. So I do. Instead - the book wisely tells me - get up early, sightsee and enjoy the city, and consider staying safely indoors at night. For an old gal like me who loves her sleep, this is so not a problem.

Speaking of age, whenever I do the youth hostel thing, if anyone asks, I am 28 years old. End of story. But have you ever noticed how innocently expressing love for a song can instantly give you away? Once again my cards stink. I fold. The radio starts blaring that soul-wrenching ballad "I need you now.... more than words can say I need you now....." by Alias, circa 1990. "Oh my god I LOVE this song" I exclaim without thinking. The game stops. 14 young man eyes are on me. They are confused. Dumb-founded. "How old ARE you?" they ask, practically in unison.

I just smile, and keep singing along.

Nothing but a hiccup

Hiccup number 1: I arrive at the airport with plenty of time to spare, and learn that my flight into Miami is delayed and I will miss my connection to Bogota. Sorry party people, but overnighting in Miami is not my idea of a good time.

I must look really sad and pathetic, because Brooke at the AA desk taps away at her keyboard and in no time has rebooked me on a Delta flight. (There is a lot to be said for keeping calm and not freaking out at the counter folks.)

If this is the worst that happens on this journey, I will be in pretty great shape.

Although it would be kind of funny if I become so enthralled with these final hours of using my BlackBerry that I end up missing my flight. Because yes, this is something I would do.

What was I thinking?

I often wonder why my brain works the way it does.

Just one month ago, I altogether gave up coffee. Cold turkey. And I haven’t touched the stuff since. Tomorrow, I am flying into Colombia... a country that boasts one of the best coffee roasts in the world. In fact, my hostel in chilly Bogota offers free hot coffee service All. Day. Long.

What was I thinking?

Two weeks ago, I purchased a shiny new pair of Newton running shoes (which by the way are awesome). "If I wear these out the door now, can you donate my old pair for me?" I asked the salesman. Old Asics trainers, well-worn, comfortable, and absolutely perfect for trekking around South America, were thus left behind.

What was I thinking?

While hastily packing up my old apartment in New York, I was all too happy to minimize my possessions by donating or selling as much as possible. One casualty of the move: my trusty green Eagle Creek traveler’s backpack – the perfect size bag, the one that had molded to my frame and fit me perfectly, the same bag that had traveled to all corners of the globe with me during the last 14 years – was tossed into the "donate" pile without a second thought other than: I am too old to be backpacking!

What was I thinking?

In this gap between New York City and Location-To-Be-Determined, I hoped to go somewhere peaceful and calm where I could practice yoga – maybe take a teacher training course – do some writing, pitch some article ideas, prepare for the State Department exam, apply for a Fulbright... Instead, I find myself getting shot in the ass with a Yellow Fever vax, packing up a new wheeling duffel bag (it has backpack straps!) with every medicine known to man, leaving behind both my yoga mat and my laptop, and embarking on a one-month tour of South America.

When I booked this trip, I don’t know what I was thinking. But I am pretty sure that when all is said and done, I won’t have any regrets.

Tears in Havana

(This is an old story, never before told.)

A small trickle of blood collected on my neck as I tried desperately to recall the Spanish for “stop humping my leg, you stupid dog!”

In all my confusion, the words failed to come, and that mangy mutt just kept doing its thing against my bare, sweaty leg. Its owner seemed to neither notice nor care, and she brushed me off despite my pleas for help. Where on earth were the police when I needed them?

Probably not the wisest idea, but in my desire to escape the deceptively pretty confines of Havana’s tourist district, I had decided earlier today to set off on my own and explore the streets of the old city. On this side of the invisible fence between foreigner and local, daily life beat to the rhythms of the raggaeton music that poured out of dilapidated, broken-down entryways. Groups of kids, shirtless and barefoot, kicked soccer balls around over the cracked earth beneath them. In these narrow alleyways, the air hung thick with smells of frying pork, beans and rice. This was Havana, I thought, real and raw.

I leaned into the shade of an old building, taking momentary refuge from the afternoon sun, and was struck by the sight of a splendid, elderly woman perched high on a balcony above. Her large frame rested heavily against the rusty bars of the balcony, and I feared the crumbling platform might give way underneath the weight of her soft, round body. Gazing out at nothing in particular, she cooled herself with a fan in the steadiest of rhythms. Her dark skin and bright red dress, long and flowing, were a striking contrast against the colorless, gloomy backdrop. With the greatest of stealth I reached for my camera, aiming to capture this breathtaking sight.

Seconds later, a young man came up from behind. I froze, stunned, as he locked his gaze with mine. In one swift move, my sturdy bag broke into two. The heavy yarn cut deep into my skin as the strap gave way, and the kid was off and running. Without thinking, I ran after him, screaming out in Spanish any expletive I could think of. People stared and laughed, shaking heads and tsk tsk-ing the silly white girl running wildly through their streets.

I tried in vain to catch up to my assailant, but my running shoes were no match for his bare feet. Exhausted and defeated, I slowed to a crawl and approached a woman standing nearby, hoping she could help. Her nasty dog had other ideas. Fighting back tears, I walked away, leaving the humiliation behind.

Sure enough, there were two police officers just blocks away near the touristy Malecon – the extended boardwalk that separates city and sea. I recounted my plight, and next thing I knew I was thrown into the back of a police car, bars on all windows blocking my view of the world outside. My mind started to reel with thoughts of Cuban prison cells and torture chambers...

To my great relief, the officers dropped me off in the waiting room of a crowded police station. There I sat for a good hour before a station officer took notice and approached me. Towering above me in his freshly pressed uniform, he glared down with blatant distrust in his eyes.

“Identificacion!” he demanded.

“Que?” What? I asked.

“IDENTIFICACION!” He now shouted, his booming voice ringing in my ears. “Show me your identification!”

But, but... I don’t have it! I blubbered in Spanish. My identification was stolen! I was robbed!

Not seeming to understand nor care, he pulled out his wallet, flashed an ID card at me, and in rapid Spanish yelled, “I have ID with me, why don’t you?”

I was wounded, filthy and scared. I was in no mood to be bullied. Looking up into his glowering eyes, I tried to speak, but instead broke down into a torrent of tears. As though a switch had been flipped, this monster of a police officer melted before my eyes, his guilt for making a woman cry etched so clearly on his face.

I was in that station for a few hours longer, filling out paperwork, waiting, and even translating for a French couple who had been scammed. All the while, this officer was putty in my hands. He eventually ensured my safe return to my guesthouse, where I was greeted with a hug and a mug of hot tea by the house mother.

Lesson learned? Havana, like everywhere, has its angels and its demons.

And, if I ever do get into a spot of trouble with the authorities, tears just might help.

Crisis of confidence

Yesterday, while driving my sister’s minivan to the nearest Target store, I got smashed into by a car that had spun out of control on the freeway. Four cars total were involved, but thankfully that minivan is sturdy and everyone was fine. For over an hour, I was one of those people standing by the roadside being gawked at by slow-moving, donut-munching drive-bys, as though they had never seen an accident before.



I was annoyed, and in that moment, I wished I was in New York City taking subways and not having to deal with these incidents. And I realized this irony: I feel safer and more comfortable in big, hectic cities than I do in a suburban, strip-mall, drive everywhere because there is no other option, type of environment.

The irritation I felt helped me to overcome the nagging fear that has been haunting me for the past few days. In regards to my upcoming trip, I have been told by nearly everyone I know to be careful, be safe, bad things happen in South American cities, watch my back, pack mace, don't get kidnapped, etc. I get that this comes from a place of love, but it is really starting to get to me, and I have begun to drive myself crazy with doubts about my decision to travel alone.

But why? I lived in New York City for 5 years. Before that, Barcelona. Before that, San Francisco. I have traveled in Johannesburg, New Delhi, Istanbul, Havana, Beijing. In all these places, I was fine – in fact, I loved every moment of it all.

Cities, I get. Travel, I get. Hanging out in Suburbia... not so much.

Rio might be dangerous. Caracas might be complicated. Bogota might be challenging. The threat of malaria and yellow fever may be high throughout the region. But I think I would rather deal with all that madness then stand on the edge of a freeway during rush hour, somewhere in the middle of here and nowhere.

***
PS: for those still in doubt, Richard McColl writes an excellent and concise article for Matador Travel - with gorgeous photos attached - Why Colombia is Not as Dangerous as You Think

Spin the globe

“Hey Evan, how about this” I said. “Next time you go to your dad’s house, spin the globe. Wherever your finger stops, that’s where I’ll go.”

He looked up at me with those big brown eyes, and a knowing smile lit up his face. He seemed to understand: my life is wide open at the moment. The possibilities are infinite. That blank page before me is, to steal a line from a song, unwritten.

Two weeks later, a telephone call and a sweet 10-year-old voice reveal my potential destination: “Auntie, I spun the globe! You are going to… (hey Adam, what was that place called? Oh yeah)…. Ecuador!”

Ecuador. Hmmmm..... this sounds rather appealing. Can I do it? A quick perusal of my near-empty calendar reveals that the next 5 weeks of my life involve obligations amounting to zero. I am technically without a home (although my sister in Mass has been awesome). For the next 2 weeks, she and the kids will be in California visiting the family. I will be alone in Suburbia, in a big house with a pool, a minivan and cable TV. All this for a gal fresh off the boat from Manhattan. If I don’t make some plans soon, it frightens me to think what might become of me.

Maybe Evan is onto something? Apart from two short trips to Buenos Aires, South America remains one of those continents I have managed to miss for the past 13 years of traveling. And I speak Spanish. No, since you might ask, I have no solid income and very little savings. But I have the time. So if not now, when?

And so it is. Decision finally made. Based purely on economic practicalities, i.e. the cheapest flights available, I now have a semblance of plan. In 5 days time, I will fly into Bogota. One month later, I will return from Rio. Everything in between remains a mystery.

Ecuador itself may or may not happen this time around, but at least the kid got me pointed in the right direction.

Hot

Tell me this: what on earth is the point of bathing during the month of August in New York City? Seriously, what a waste of time. I shower, I get dressed, I put on some makeup and do my hair... I am clean and primped and ready to go. Moments later, I step outside into the afternoon heat, and all that effort has pretty much gone to hell. Sweat happens, and a whole lot of it.

Hot in Manhattan is a hot like no other. Billows of thick steam rise up out of the ground and become trapped among the skyscrapers. Thousands of sweaty bodies rush past one another, trying in vain to find space where there is none. Not a single breeze dares blow through. The muggy air stops, unmoving. Walking down the streets on an August day in New York is like wading through a bowl of chunky beef stew: it's murky, stifling. It's impossible.

Descend into the subway and you might as well walk straight into hell. "Hot" can't even begin to describe the smelly dead air that hovers underground. Waiting desperately for the train, I am quite sure my face has melted down the front of my chest. To no avail, I think of January, of blizzards, of popsicles. I somehow survive the longest 8 minutes of my life, and the train whooshes into the station. My heart begins to race at the mere thought of the painfully freezing A/C blowing on board.

But wait: why is everyone inside the subway car fanning themselves? Why are they sweating? Oh god, the A/C is broken? At the height of rush hour? Hundreds of sticky people pressed up against one another, trapped inside this death box?

Without a thought, I turn around and race back up the stairs, out into the blazing hot sun. Screw public transportation. Forget saving money. To hell with efficiency. Get me a damn cab, and get it now.

Cheers

No plans on a Saturday night? Feeling bored? Why not go to a place where everyone knows your name? Or at least, where everyone knows your face? That place for me is Cafe Fiorello, my own personal Cheers right here in New York City.

Along with my friend Mitsuko, I discovered this fantastic Italian-style eatery as recently as June, following the first in a stunning series of American Ballet Theater performances at Lincoln Center. Giselle left us hungry, and this enticing antipasti bar located just across Broadway called to us. Who knew it would become a second home in just a matter of months? Mits and I have faithfully returned on a regular basis since June, and each time we are greeted by the staff with hellos, smiles, glasses of Prosecco... and sometimes even a hug.



On first glance, I assumed Fiorello was a tourist trap, grabbing theater and concert-goers. But the more I have spoken with the people seated around me, the more I realize that nearly everyone here is a regular, a local New Yorker who has discovered their own sense of comfort here in this friendly place. Seated at the bar, I have met an endless array of fascinating and sophisticated people from all over the world. The location, the crowds, the food, the scene... it's all so very "New York".

So last night, with no place to go and no one to see, I took myself to Fiorello. Cozying up to my favorite spot at the bar, I spent the next 5 hours reveling in how totally comfortable I felt here, enjoying good food, bottomless cocktails, and great conversation with friendly strangers and the now familiar restaurant staff.

For as long as I am in New York, and anytime I come back, Fiorello will be a must-visit.

And if I am lucky enough - and if the manager's promises come through - my presence will soon be forever memorialized by a small plaque secured to the edge of the bar:

"This Seat Reserved For..."

Unrequited love

I am in love with a city. I realized this yesterday as the big ol’ Peter Pan bus lumbered its way into the Port Authority Bus Terminal and delivered me smack dab into the smelly, noisy, dusty madness of midtown Manhattan. For all its disgustingness, I can’t help but love New York. If only I could be so forgiving with the men I have dated over the years.

Why do I love it here? For one, I love that anything can be had or done within seconds. I can walk one block through Hell’s Kitchen, take cash out at the ATM, pop into an optometrist’s office to get my eyeglasses adjusted, grab a Slurpee at 7-11, buy tickets for West Side Story, then duck underground to the subway and be whisked across and uptown... all in under 38 minutes. People, ideas and feet move as fast as the taxis racing up Park Avenue. New York moves, and I get such a rush moving along with it.

I am pretty sure, however, that my love is unrequited. The city is hard on its inhabitants and visitors. She never lets up. She plays games, teasing us with a stunning moment, or a breathtaking evening, or a spectacular experience, then in a flash turns against us and stirs up a storm. This city wants to know how much we can take, how badly we want to be here. She tests us and takes us to the brink.

For a long time, I wanted it. I was willing to put up with just about anything - rats, roaches, blizzards, sweaty summers, ceaseless noise, endless crowds - to stay. A few months ago, I thought I had finally reached my breaking point. I thought I was done. Yet now that I am back after only a week away, I am quite certain I could take a whole lot more of whatever New York wanted to dish out. The question is, do I want to?

I have returned to the city after a short reprieve in Bridgewater, Mass, a Desperate Housewives-esque suburban town somewhere south of Boston. The homes in Bridgewater are large and spacious, neatly arranged side by side but not too close to one another; lawns are expertly manicured. Summer evenings bring the entire town out to the soccer fields, where overbearing parents shout at their 4-year-olds to play harder. Everyone in Bridgewater – really, everyone – is white. It's borderline creepy. My sister and her family live here, and I am actually enjoying the weirdness of this sleepy little town, the large open spaces, the trees, the fresh air. I am grateful my family has taken me in and welcomed me so easily into their home. I am loving the huge swimming pool in their backyard. And most of all, I am utterly relieved any time the very demanding 2-year-old takes a nap.

New York and Bridgewater. The two cities could not be more different. Yet strangely, I look forward to going back to Bridgewater next week. It is not my home, any more so than the apartments I am surfing this week in New York. But the thing about family is that with no one else, even with our closest of friends, or even sometimes when we are alone, can we be so totally ourselves. Despite the wonderful network of friends I have here in the city, and despite missing them when I am away, I often feel disconnected and lonely when I am in New York, as I do now. The city has a way of separating people and shrouding them with a degree of anonymity that can feel downright depressing. When I am around my family, especially my sister and her three crazy kids, I never feel alone.

So although I know I can handle just about anything that New York throws my way, I wonder... can I continue to put up with the loneliness?

Home

Shivers run down my spine and tiny hairs stand on end as I watch the long-awaited homecoming of Laura Ling and Euna Lee. What an incredibly moving moment, a reminder that diplomacy isn’t just a bunch of cranky old men sitting around, talking in circles, drinking cocktails and wasting our tax dollars. Diplomacy actually works. Conflicts can be resolved. Happy endings are indeed possible, even when dealing with what appears to be an impossible situation.

Or maybe it’s just the sweeping star power of Mr. Bill Clinton... in some parts of the world, this former president still reigns supreme.

Whatever the case, it was an absolutely amazing thing to watch these two previously condemned women return home, freed from their nightmare, and fall gratefully into the awaiting, loving arms of their families. I have no doubt that all of us following this case breathed a collective sigh of relief when we heard the news, and when we witnessed such an unbelievable homecoming earlier today.

As I watched, I began to think more about the concept of home, particularly at this time when I find myself without one. The idea of "home" certainly means something different to everyone – for some it’s a physical place, for others a spiritual connection to self and spirit – but I think the common thread for all is that home is a place that feels safe. Home is a place in which one can feel secure, comfortable, at ease and utterly themselves. Home is where one can be exactly who they are and who they want to be, with no pretense or falsification. Home is family, roots, connection.

For Laura Ling and Euna Lee, I imagine that today, home represents all of the above... and also freedom.

I am reminded by the plight of these two amazing women how completely free I am, and how very precious that is. No, I don’t have a physical home, but I have never had more freedom than I do right now, in this moment. Freedom to decide where I go, what I do, how I live my life, the path that I carve out for myself. I answer to no one, I am bound by no chains, and I am responsible for not a single soul other than myself. This is an incredibly overwhelming yet powerful realization, and a truth that I am reminded of on days such as today.

Thus, although the decisions I have made recently leave me feeling frightened and unsure, I am also grateful. Grateful to be free, and grateful to feel safe and secure in myself, even though I lack a physical sense of home.

At least, I am trying really hard to feel that way...

Shutting off the lights

I will admit, there were tears this morning. I arise before the sun, and in the pouring rain go for a walk around my neighborhood. Taking in the familiar sights and smells, and seeing many familiar faces out on the streets and in the cafes, I can't help but wonder if I have gone mad. Why am I doing this? Why am I leaving all this, everything I know so well, behind? Why am I rendering myself without a home?

A tearful phone call to a cherished friend reminds me: I am making things happen. I am inviting change and experience into my life. I am beginning a new chapter, and it is an exciting, pivotal moment. I should feel proud of having made this decision, proud of what I am now doing.

I try to believe her.

There is life beyond New York! she assures me. A life of quality, fun times, interesting people, exciting experiences... and without all the financial stress that comes with living in this very expensive city.

A fulfilling life with much lower expenses... that sounds pretty great. I guess I have some rather smart friends.

And, I apparently have some amazing people in my life. A selfless brother-in-law and a generous neighbor (again, someone I barely knew before today... why is it always the strangers that come through for us?) take to the stairs, up and down, over and over again, soaked to the bone from both sweat and rain water, and expertly load all my furniture and essential belongings into the van. Miraculously, everything fits, even the gigantic couch.

Exhausted and finally ready to head out, I shut off the lights, glance around my now empty apartment, and say a quiet farewell to that which was home and abode for nearly 5 years. With one last load of possessions in hand, and maybe for the last time, I descend those rickety old stairs. And wouldn't you know, the tears come again.

Help comes in surprising ways

Yesterday began Round 2 of the now famous 3rd Avenue Stoop Sale. A garage sale without a garage. A yard sale without a yard. Crazy the things we come up with here in Manhattan.

With some Upper East Siders strolling past and looking down their noses in disgust, and all the other un-snobby people stopping to chat and take a look, last week myself and two neighbors spread our unwanted belongings all over the sidewalk in front of our building. The first round was fun, hectic and incredibly successful. We met neighbors, made friends and brought in some hard-earned cash. Without the company of my neighbors this past weekend, Round 2 was much less exciting, but worthwhile nonetheless. Because the more I sell, the less I have to pack.

It's ironic, really. I began to realize yesterday that as much as New York can pull friends apart, it certainly brings strangers together. (I think there have been many examples of this, both in big and small ways.) Handling this move-out as a single gal has been quite an intense and exhausting experience, yet help has come from the most surprising places. Barry, the guy I share a wall with yet never spoke to until yesterday, quietly spent the morning by my side, keeping me company and selflessly watching over the sale so I could occasionally step away. He even offered to help me move some furniture down the stairs. Two neighbors who were utter strangers before last week came by repeatedly throughout the day to check on me, asking if they could bring me a cold drink or a coffee, or just to hang around, chat with me and keep the day light. Even my yoga teacher and fitness trainer offered to help move whatever was needed!

I am truly touched by this display of support, and it comes as all the more surprising because some of my oldest, dearest friends have pretty much gone MIA on me and haven't shown much interest in this experience. I suppose I can't blame them, everyone is busy in their own lives.... And yet, total strangers have banded together to show support, and have ultimately made me feel less alone throughout a lonely process.

My emotions are mixed and I don't really know what to make of any of it, but I am eternally grateful for the angels that have come my way recently. I couldn't have done all this without them. Thank you, New Yorkers. You never fail to astound me.