When I was a kid, I liked to wash dishes. It was a time to play in a seemingly endless flow of water. Living in NY, rain is abundant and something I took very much for granted.

It was not until I was older and visiting a friend abroad, that I gained an entirely different perspective. I arrived just after her lunch. She had a small plastic tub, that fit in her sink, and filled it with a few inches of water. She soaped the plates and utensils, then rinsed. The water consumption was negligible.

I have since been on lands where water is treated as the precious commodity it is and the cleansing of plates is done with sand.

By watching someone do the dishes, we might guess, rather accurately, the geography in which he/she was raised. At the very least, it reminds me of those who never took water for granted.

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Why is it that people feel so comfortable categorizing people by saying,”The______are______.”?

Inductive reasoning can serve us well. Burning ourselves after sipping a boiling cup of tea need only occur once. But when it comes to people, this logic fails us. We love to form opinions and view the world through a lens of presumptions, but we do others, and ourselves, a disservice by thinking of people as if formed by some nationally designed cookie cutter.

Writing, the other day, of my time cycling through France reminded me of the endless kindnesses shown by the locals. Directions, hospitality, food, drink, and lending helping hands to our motley group was common. The gestures were generous and genuine.

But entering the chateaus of the Loire Valley, a tourist area, a few employees were curt and unrecognizable from the dozens of people I had previously met. Overhearing some visitors it was clear that they were embracing this skewed impression of the French to be the norm.

When people discover I am an American, they are quick to make assumptions, and perhaps some of them are true but each of us is far more complex than a simplified, singular label.

It might take a little more effort to view each person as an individual, but the rewards of truth vs prejudice clearly outweigh the means.

Thank you for taking the time to read my post! Welcome to the tales of a woman solo traveler and thoughts to make today the start of something new. I hope you find information and inspiration in the text and images, and join me in my quest for growth, wonderment and self-improvement. Please subscribe or follow me on facebook using the button below.
Here’s to new discoveries near and far!

Enjoy the days.

Many years ago, for quite some time, I had a dream to ride my bicycle through France. It was a major step for me and frankly, despite my intense desire, I was scared to head out on my own. I owe a great deal to my mom who mollified my trepidations with unwavering encouragement.

My panniers were packed with all the tools I thought would be needed, not all of which I actually knew how to use, the basic necessities, and placed my bike into a storage carton for my flight to Paris. I had serendipitously made a friend a few months prior who lived in Paris and she welcomed me to stay with her upon my arrival.

My first destination was Chartres,  renown for its Gothic Cathedral;  it was my first day on the road alone. But it didn’t take long to spot a troupe of cyclists in this tiny medieval town. They had begun in London, were on their way to an ancient music festival in La Châtre, about 150 miles south, and they invited me along. One day rolled into another, literally, and for a week or so we slept in fields, buying the local products and picnicking with the splendor of the Loire Valley and countryside around us. We began our days sipping cafe au laits from large bowls in cafes, despite our scruffy appearance, the owners welcomed us and took no offense in our asking to arrange our spread of bread, butter and jam for our petit déjeuner.

The tiny town  of La Châtre, was transformed into an ongoing music festival. People would partake in the impromptu concerts  in cafes , corners and squares of the village. Dancing was the entertainment of the evening and we would each pull out our one, clean presentable attire for the occasion. We learned the traditional steps and watched the locals do them as they had been done for ages.

After the fete, my new found friends and I continued our travels to Brittany, discovering the joys of eating crepes and drinking cidre.

Then we went our separate ways, joining up again the following year to repeat the joys of this magical event.

I rode on. The beauty of France continued to dazzle me and whet my appetite for future travels.

Leaving Rhodes,Greece by a small vessel, I arrived in Kas, Turkey. It was a beautiful, small town where I visited sunken antiquities and marveled again at the crystalline sea. But the inland rests foremost in my memories.

I made my way to the surreal landscapes of Cappadocia and walked along the Ihlara Valley. Most tourists visited just a portion of the Valley but I was able to negotiate a ride to the beginning and a pick-up hours later at the end. The terrain was sublime. The path was well marked and the only people I encountered were locals on foot or donkey. At one point, a woman walking the same way attempted to communicate with a word in German, “milch.”  I was pleased I understood the word for milk and that she was on her way to get some. I hadn’t brought much with me and I was content to buy a few things at the store too. After some time, crossing streams and following an increasingly narrow path we arrived at a large field of goats; she turned toward me, smiled, repeated “milch” and went with a pail in hand to acquire what she had set out to obtain. Noting my silly assumptions, I continued on my way.

The Turkish language was extremely difficult to pick up and it took a good part of my stay to say “Thank you” before I had any hope of being understood, but the words for water, bread and yogurt were fortunately, more manageable. There were a few areas, where I spent at least a week, getting by with pointing and no one to converse with at all. But when I finally found English speaking tourists, I recall thinking their discussions were excessive and mundane.

I took a few night buses to avoid the heat and arrived in one town, very late. With nothing open nearby. I followed a young boy who had approached me at the bus station, through the twisty, dark lanes, promising a place to stay. We finally arrived at a small but welcoming hotel. There was never any sense of discomfort or fear.

My presence in these small towns prompted curiosity and was often asked where I came from. The response was always one of delight but the attention could be tiring. The only incident with a negative aspect was when, because of my fatigue,I attempted to ignore one of these inquiries. The man, who spoke some English, was deeply insulted by my behavior and let me know it with harsh words and an angry tone. His message, if not his means, was appropriate. I had been rude and made a point to address, even if very briefly, any future inquiries. I follow this rule of etiquette today; it has served me well.

While in Turkey, I was often invited into the ubiquitous carpet shops and sometimes accepted the constant offers of tea. Chatting with the sellers, in the coolness of the shade, was a pleasant way to pass the time. I did eventually purchase and carry home two small kilim rugs and carpet.

Making my way by ferry to Istanbul, seeing the Grand Bazaar, Hagia Sophia, Basilica Cistern and the Topkapi Palace was the culmination of a magnificent voyage before heading home.

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Many years ago, I flew into Athens and six weeks later flew out of Istanbul, traveling by land and sea along the way. The trip began on an awkward note. I was given the name of a friend’s friend who lived in Athens. My flight from NY was scheduled to arrive around 3am and somehow I failed to make any specific arrangements with my host beforehand. I waited in the airport, until a “reasonable” 7am before calling him, but my courtesy was ill-conceived. Unbeknownst to me, he had been out clubbing until 5, finally got to sleep at 6, and was then abruptly awakened by my call and informed of my imminent visit. He was surprisingly gracious, despite my bumble.

After some wonderful days touring Athens(besides the antiquities, the proliferation of homeless cats made a particular impression on me)and Delphi, I made my way to the islands. The public ferries I traveled on were large, not luxurious but a great means of travel. Passing time on deck was a simple and divine pleasure. There, I reveled in the perfect balance between the warmth of the sun and coolness of the breeze. The sea extended into the horizon, broken only by the islands sprouting from its waters. Sleeping in the bunks was, as I recall, comfortable and the showers had terrific water pressure (something I remember after all these years).

I opted to visit Mykonos (I’m probably the only person who did not partake in the nightlife), Delos (tiny but fascinating), Naxos( quiet and lovely), Paros(ditto), Santorini (breathtaking), Crete (hiking the Samaria Gorge and Knossos were two of the many highlights) and Rhodes (very touristy on the main strip but two blocks over I found local ambiance and tranquility). Each destination displayed the ancient past inextricably entwined with the present.

At most ports I was met with locals, touting their inexpensive and often lovely accommodations. After I settled in I would rent a scooter, discover unoccupied roads and beaches and spend the good part of a glorious day by the shore.(I should note that prior to this trip, I frowned upon the idea of passing a day on the beach “doing nothing” . I very quickly corrected the error of my ways and luxuriated by the sea in the absence of any activity, besides taking in the beauty around me.)

There are too many days to summarize here, but I recall exquisite sea, sky, iconic blue and white, fine cuisine, and the pleasure of tasting yogurt and honey together for the first time; it was divine.

Some people had warned me about traveling alone, as a woman, with these “hot-blooded Mediterranean men”, but I never had an issue. The people I encountered were helpful and friendly and my past experience waitressing at Greek diners gave me a head start on the basic pleasantries.

After three weeks, I was sorry to go, but Turkey still lie ahead.

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While my thoughts are on Alaska, I am reminded of an American couple I met on one of the public ferries that transports goods and passengers from town to town.

They were engaged in a serious game of cribbage and I couldn’t resist taking part in a pastime of my youth. I presented no challenge with my skills or lack thereof but they didn’t seem to mind the company.

They had met a few years before, both appeared in their forties, and after a date or two the man suggested that they sell their homes and embark on a trip throughout the country. Understandably the woman was hesitant to engage in such a drastic change of lifestyle with someone she barely knew.

But here it was a few years hence. Each had children from their previous marriages who were living independently. And they could continue their careers while on the road. Inevitably there were still many things to consider, but now they were both ready. So they sold virtually everything they owned and bought two motorcycles, taking all they might need, with savings to spare. The couple took great pleasure, with no callousness intended or inferred, in calling themselves “homeless.”

I do not recall if they had a route in mind or were just letting each day unfold, but I do remember they were just beginning their journey and I wished them well.

It was a glimpse into the choices one may make and the many ways there are to live one’s life.

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Alaska, rightly known for its expansive and breathtaking wilderness, still conjures images of stampeding prospectors during the rush for gold. The hordes have eased but people seeking the land of opportunity continue to arrive. Many nationals and foreigners find employment during the tourist season and will then move on. Unlike most migrant workers, their skills are not agricultural and their lifestyle is largely one of choice.

It has been many four years since I visited Alaska, but I remain intrigued by these scores of people who called no place “home.” Most were young; perhaps now they have settled somewhere or continue to seek surroundings with the seasons, like the nomads they are.

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During college, I had the good fortune to spend a semester in Urbino, Italy; the spring break afforded me time to travel. Hitchhiking or “autostop” was the only viable option and traveling alone was still a few months ahead of me. A classmate expressed a similar interest in Sicily and we decided to travel there together, pooling our limited funds.

Elizabeth came from upstate NY and her appearance defied that of her sister’s, the winner of a national beauty pageant. Her face was pretty but marred by bad teeth, a result of neglect and a regimen of cola, cookies, and cigarettes. She owned a comb but there was little evidence of her using it. She possessed a beautiful figure but kept it shielded with men’s oversized shirts and trousers. She had an abrasive personality, contradicting her kind nature, but a great sense of humor. She was a lesbian, but rarely spoke of her love life. Elizabeth was extremely intelligent but generally appeared disinterested in what you were saying, unless you were her friend, and while we traveled for a month around Italy, we became friends and she was great company.

One of the advantages of hitchhiking in Sicily was the generosity of the drivers, who without exception were men. They would ask us if we would like something to drink or eat and Elizabeth would invariably use this occasion to stock up on her cigarettes, cookies and cola, while I would sheepishly accept a cold drink. Her enthusiastic and unabashed acceptance of their munificence initially made me feel awkward and somewhat ashamed but as the days progressed my principles began to dissipate. Our coordinated efforts to hitch around meal times with the brazen expectation of a free lunch or dinner was evidence of our moral decline; we were rarely disappointed and never suffered from regret. Once, when we must have seemed too assured, the driver demanded that we pay our share. The men apparently enjoyed spending time with two young Americans who could offer them a glimpse of travels they never knew.

Sometimes we were invited to sleep in the homes of people we met. This often meant waking up to an entire family gazing at us with boundless curiosity and starting our day with a tiny shot of espresso prepared with the traditional three teaspoons of sugar. The bitter coffee blending with the excessive sweetness was not an unpleasant jolt to the morning.

Sicily was magical and ancient. The memory of Ragusa and Siracusa ripe with a myriad of untold stories, withstanding millennia of a blazing sun’s rays, remains. It was a land of donkey-driven carts heaping with apricots, coastlines and landscapes rivaling the most poetic descriptions and an experience that left me ravenous for unexplored terrain.

Elizabeth and I managed to cover each end of this island and considerable miles in between. With browned skin and the sublime satisfaction of unparalleled freedom, we made our way back to the familiar roads of the university town.

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The Catskills are displaying various colors. Leaves are still green, others are gold, red, and orange, and a few trees are almost bare. The shadows lengthen more quickly now.
Pumpkins are ubiquitous; hot soups are offered fare. Firewood is stacked high.

It is my last attempt, for now, to sleep beneath the stars. The campfire is no longer just a dazzling array of flames. I huddle close to keep warm.

It is autumn, the season of change.

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In the course of my travels I have had many meaningful encounters even if they are short-lived. The brevity of time does not lessen the quality nor the profundity of the meeting.

What begins with a simple hello evolves into an immediate rapport and feeling of trust. We may share more details of our lives, thoughts and dreams than with those we have known for years. Perhaps knowing that the time is fleeting precipitates this accord.

On a few occasions these moments have established the beginning of a lasting friendship, but usually all that remains is the memory of our walk, talk, meal, or few days of traveling together as we bid adieu and continue on our way.

Thank you for taking the time to read my post! Welcome to the tales of a woman solo traveler and thoughts to make today the start of something new. I hope you find information and inspiration in the text and images and join me in my quest for growth, wonderment and self-improvement