Pipas, small paper kites with narrow wooden frames, were skillfully guided by boys and men along the beaches of Rio de Janeiro. The colorful pentagons dotted the sky.

Were the kites used to compete? Which one was highest or traveled the farthest? Or was partaking in the kites’ flight enough to please their guardians?

I hear that there are those who attach razor blades to their kites, as they fight in the sky.  No blood is shed.  An alternative to war.

Later that day, having ridden in a trolley car up the steep hills to Santa Teresa, I purchased a pipa in a small hardware store to bring home and hang on my wall. I felt some regret that my kite was not destined to fly.

On my trip to India and Nepal years ago, I opted for a book that would likely last me the six weeks. Thus I opted for an ample book and one I was sure to enjoy. I brought Anna Karenina with me.

The characters quickly came to life and the notions I had of a gray, drab Soviet Era were replaced with Tolstoy’s descriptions of delicacies, festive balls, and French lace. I was transported through his words.

I was transported in tuk-tuks and trains, admiring the graceful swaying of women in Saris as they carried heavy packages upon their heads. I was discovering remote lush countrysides and cacophanous cities. I was encountering an onslaught of sounds, odors, tastes, sights, and humanity in Southern Asia.

The disparity of my experiences and that of Anna’s became too great. I put the book away and bought another on the life of a Maharajah.

My two months of traveling through Russia and Mongolia, ended with a short stay in Beijing, before making my way back home.

I stayed in a hostel situated in the hutongs, alleys formed by lines of siheyuan, traditional courtyard residences, relatively undisturbed by the incessant modernization. There, I was greeted by a friendly young man who worked at the hostel. He introduced himself as Lucky. During my short stay our paths crossed often and we would exchange a warm hello.

One day, not unlike the others, I said, “Hey Lucky.” He smiled and returned the greeting, but this time another employee said, “His name is not Lucky.” Suprised, I asked,” It’s not? What is it?” “Lucky” he said. “Lucky?” I responded somewhat confused. “No, Lucky, you know Sylvester Stallone, Lucky,” he said emphatically. “Rocky?” I asked.”Yes, Lucky,” I heard him say again.

The plane flying to Zanzibar had a capacity for six passengers. I walked on the tarmac with the others taking the same flight.

No seats were assigned. Our tickets indicated only the date, time of departure, and the destination. In the customary first-come, first-served world I am famiiar with, I assumed, being at the front of the line assured me a first choice of seating. Not that it mattered too much, given the size of the plane, we all had the luxury of both a window and an aisle seat.

But then the pilot arrived, a large man with ample belly. Without much of an introduction he asked us each what we weighed. Surprised by the question I nonetheless dutifully answered, as did the other awaiting passengers. After hearing our responses he pointed and added, “You, there.” “You, here.” “You, back there.”  ” You, in the front.” until we were all seated. I was placed in the back row, not the seat I would have chosen, but my preference was clearly of little priority.

We were soon skimming over the Indian Ocean. Our altitude was never high. The flight was short, but memorable, amid the African sky.

In my travels, problems arise: the strap of my only pair of sandals has broken, my backpack’s strap has detached from the bag, I’ve put a big rip in a borrowed shirt, and the list goes on.

The initial pantomimes to describe my needs can be challenging, but showing the item in need of repair always transcends any language barriers. Following the directions of the locals to find the artisan’s shop is often the most challenging aspect of my quest.

In Turkey, Morocco, Vietnam, and elsewhere, the shops are often very small–sometimes just enough room for a table and chair– but they possess all the necessary equipment.

I’ve usually opted to stay and watch my possessions being transformed, often by hand, to a pristine state. The expertise is undoubtedly passed down from the generations before. 

My pleasure with the workmanship is seemingly equal to the doer’s pride.

A friend of mine just returned from Greece. She had some concerns going during the financial crisis, but as a regular visitor to the same island for years, she was assured by her longtime friend, the hotel owner, that all would be well.

The island, usually bustling in July with tourists and boats was eerily quiet. Tourists stayed away and boat owners feared running out of gas. She was the only guest at the hotel. The locals were going about their days as best they could.

She was aware that a sixty euro daily limit had been imposed at the ATMs and was wondering why that amount had been set.

“It costs fifty euros to go to a brothel.”  a local replied. “And the extra ten euros?” she asked. “That’s for the taxi to get there.” he added. She laughed along with the others.

During her stay, there was talk of the daily withdrawal decreasing to fifty euros.  “And now?” she asked a few days later. “Now they’ll have to walk.” was the reply.

The mood was increasingly somber.

This time she was the only one who laughed.

“I’d been to New York City once and started talking to two women at a bar. They got kinda nasty with me. Frankly all I was doing was starting a conversation.” Tom said.

I hadn’t been sitting long when a man who introduced himself as Tom began speaking with me. It was the kind of place that everyone was speaking to somebody. Many of the patrons greeted each other by name, but even an outsider, like me, was quickly swept up in the congeniality.

I was taking a road trip throughout Maine many years back and had spent the day traveling beautiful waterways by boat, enjoying the scenery and numerous seabirds. I had found an idyllic cabin to stay a few nights on a lake’s edge and, walking down the road, this local eating place. I sat at the bar to have some dinner.

“I’m sorry to hear the women were not friendly, most New Yorkers are. Maybe they thought you were trying to pick them up?” I said. “No, just looking to talk is all. It was my first time in New York City and I was excited to be there.” He continued, “I talk to everybody here and no one gets upset.” I replied, “Yeah, it’s a bit tougher talking to people in New York. That’s probably why so many people use personal ads to meet each other.” “What are personal ads?” he asked.

Booking a hotel room at the Puerta del Sol in Madrid had not been the wisest choice. The main plaza was undoubtedly central to all, but the incessant noise from the traffic and bustle below made sleeping impossible. I noted a pharmacy downstairs. Not wishing to take sleeping pills, I explained my situation and asked for some advice. The woman kindly suggested earplugs. I had never used them before.

I bought a pair and went back upstairs. I put them in my ears. The cacophony immediately diminished. I could see the traffic and bustle below but the incessant noise was no longer jarring. I took a siesta while the sun was still high.

Since that moment, many years ago, I have depended on a set of earplugs for buffering untold annoying distractions. They have rarely let me down.

Nothing could prepare me for the heat and humidity of Hanoi that summer. I stepped out of the air conditioned taxi and my body was instantly drenched by sweat. My shirt and shorts clung to me as if I were a participant in a wet t-shirt contest. Coming from New York, known for its brutal summers, did not compare to this.

The residents seemed unfazed as they went about their day. Women wore the conical straw hats, Western style long sleeves and pants –the long beautiful flowing traditional attire of Vietnam was far less prevalent. I decided to follow suit.

Purchasing the hat took only a few moments. A grey haired woman was selling them on the street. Despite no common language, the transaction was quick and the price was reasonable. I put the hat on my head. She helped me adjust the soft velveteen ribbon, attached on each side, to fit snuggly and comfortably under my chin. Instantly I felt cooler. I had my own source of shade and the interior space created by the cone allowed the air to circulate.  From that moment I wore my hat everyday and noticed the amused looks of the locals.

When the torrential rains came, as they often did, the water fell atop my hat then dispersed. The rains were warm and the clothes I also purchased were thin and dried surprisingly quickly.

My hat is now poised on a chair.  I rarely wear it or the clothes I bought that summer, although they served me well.