Yellowstone

It must leave a Jurassic-size carbon footprint connecting flights from airport to airport to get to where you're going. That’s the reality of traveling from the little commuter airport where I live! Yet I do it because as the late great Freddie Mercury once said, Keep Yourself Alive. After doing time at my little airport, and then the Atlanta Airport, followed by the Salt Lake City Airport, I got myself to the Jackson Hole Airport during a torrential rainstorm. I dragged my luggage through all that rain because planes there let you off outside and there is no choice. (I’m skipping over the part about flying through a thunderstorm because I was so glad to finally get to where I was going that I didn’t mind that part.)

My rental car ended up getting super-sized, but why stop now? After driving through Jackson Hole in the dark and more rain, I eventually found the condo I’d rented and hurled myself into bed and slept. 

My first few days around Jackson Hole were spent exploring The Grand Tetons. 

Although I took countless photos, they don’t do any of the sights justice. The Grand Tetons are outside of Yellowstone. Yellowstone National Park is so enormous it's in both Wyoming and Montana. First I visited the Teton area. Then I moved into the Yellowstone National Park enormity. 

My photos just don’t capture the massiveness of these places, you can't smell the fresh air, or the way you can drive only a couple miles and go from gigantic mountains, to forests, to plains, lakes, geysers, canyons, and hot springs of every imaginable color. Even words can't grasp this place. Not to mention all of the wildlife. There are bison everywhere (think buffalo). Moose. Bear. Coyotes. Foxes. Wolves. The hassle of getting to this place is well worth the effort. 

After my days exploring the Jackson Hole area, I stayed in various places within Yellowstone National Park. I booked whatever availability there was in the villages within the park. In Grant Village I had a room, but also stayed in cabins at both Mammoth and Old Faithful. You do need to book about a year ahead, and that includes booking meals at the various restaurants. 

Hiking was my favorite activity during this trip. There are geysers and hot springs dotted over the park. They even ring Yellowstone Lake, which is incredibly huge. The pathways are mostly made up of decking material and you're safe to walk around as long as you stay on the paths. You can purchase these honking huge cans of bear spray for going off the grid hiking too. 

I'd seen the videos of tourists doing foolish things, but what took me by surprise is that it's going on in real time every moment you're there. I saw people stick their fingers into bubbling hot springs, people darting off the clearly marked paths, to run across thin earthen crusts full of oozing bubbling smoking geysers and variations of other volcanic activity, just to get a better picture. Every snap of your camera takes another fantastic picture. There's no need to risk your life. People raced toward wild animals to pet them. Where I live in the shire is full of wildlife. I've been battling a mangy little black bear all summer trying to keep him out of my trash. I know you don't fool with WILD ANIMALS. THEY DO NOT FOLLOW YOUR RULES. THEY DO NOT LIKE YOU. THEY LIKE FOOD. Including your trash. 

Obviously, too many of us don't live near wild animals on a daily basis. We have forgotten what they will do to your house for a half cup of birdseed at 2:00 a.m. We have forgotten how strong a four-hundred plus pound animal is. But, DUDE, don't you see the horns and TEETH? Don't make them remind you. 

Although, look at those sweet baby eyes! It's a trap!

I cannot wait to go back. 

Ten Years of Greece, How do I Love Thee?

 

For the past ten years I've been going to Greece every summer. Except that year when no one was allowed to travel, I spend weeks to months packing, planning, and plotting my journey. Then a few days travel there, followed by a few weeks being there, and wrap it up with a few days traveling back home. 

The odd thing is that every year I go to the exact same place. Most years I go to write with Women Reading Aloud. Though I arrive early and stay long after. I've never been to Santorini, or any of the popular islands. Often I'll check out places or sights on the mainland during my journey: Athens, Kalamata, Meteora. My favorite museum—The Acropolis Museum—my favorite hotel in Athens—the Airport Sofitel—my favorite Greek Salad.

Usually the only islands I see are Skiathos and Skopelos in the Northern Sporades and only those because I need to pass them on my way to Alonissos, my favorite island. Maybe it's indicative that I don't need to see all of the islands in Greece to pick a favorite. I've been married to the same man for forty years. I didn't have to meet them all to know he was the one for me. I know when something works for me. This man. This island. Dark chocolate. I'm happy. Sure, I like to try different trips, different places at times. This place, however, doesn't change. As long as I can get myself through the long and arduous journey, that's where I'm going. 

Know what I do there? Other than write with WRA, I mean? Nothing. I go to my favorite beaches, drift in the sea, lay under an umbrella or write on top of the stones while laying on the beaches. Sometimes I sit by the sea in a taverna with a cup of cappuccino, fresh watermelon juice, or water and I don't even think. I'm just there. Once, a particularly annoying person kept saying, "Oh, you go there to meet a man." Please, girlfriend, I have a man. I'm not in love with another man. I'm in love with an entire ISLAND, with an entire PLACE, COUNTRY, SEA. Some people do not understand love at all. Greece is very easy to love. 

     

My Legs vs. A Long Haul Flight

 

As much as I plot and plan to pack light, somehow it doesn't quite work out like that. I saw a woman on a ferry in Greece carrying only her backpack and thought, she is my spirit animal. I'm going to learn to pack like that, someday. Fact is, I've never HAD to pack like that. I'm strong, with legs that can carry a suitcase, a big crazy dog pulling on his leash, and a couple of kids up a steep hill. Or so I always thought.

Thing is, bodies aren't always cooperative. If they start acting up, you'll get no notice. It's been months since my body decided enough is enough and I'm still surprised by it. WE HAD A DEAL. My entire life I've had two functional legs that I could count on to hike me anywhere but that look terrible in dresses. I never let that bother me because they worked and that's what counts. At least that's what I told myself as I covered them in jeans and long dresses. 

My hubby wears a brace on one of his legs—has since high school. He’s had many surgeries on them. His legs are the uncooperative kind that you can't count on. It was all good, I always thought, I’ve got you there, sweet hubby. These hunk o chunk legs can carry two, and our luggage if need be. 

Until last summer on my annual long haul flight New York to Athens when something happened. I stood to get off the flight and my legs felt wooden. Painful. Uncooperative. Weird, I thought, but it had been a long haul. It had taken twenty-four hours as I traipsed from home to an airport, flew to a second airport, then a third. Then Athens. Even weirder. after I forced my legs off the airplane and through customs and then to baggage claim and into a taxi, when I tried to get out of the taxi at my hotel, I barely could. I had to use my hands to lift my legs and put them out of the car and then kind of jump onto them. 

Getting up the stairs to my room was tough, especially with luggage. I called a friend who’s a doctor. “Did you wear compression stockings?” She asked. “That’s a thing?” I said. I could practically hear the eye roll. “Elevate your legs. Ice them. And walk. Even if it hurts, walk. It’s not likely to be Deep Vein Thrombosis in both legs, but you HAVE to wear compression stockings on long haul flights.”

I froze water bottles in my mini-fridge. I old-lady without a walker walked the mile to the cold sea. When I got there, I rolled up my pants and trotted into the icy water. It felt wonderful. I step-together, step-together-ed my legs the mile back to my room and iced my knees. They throbbed. When I coughed they screamed. It wasn't just the knees, it was hip to toe, both legs, sobbing. They felt loose here and there, and tight there and here, and stiff, and they howled with every step. 

Yes, I debated going to the hospital in Athens. I debated getting on a flight and going back home instead of continuing another two days of travel to my summer destination. Memories of going to the ER surfaced. They're not fond memories and I was considering going to the ER in Greece which seemed worse. My Greek has not advanced to a hospital vocabulary. Even though I'm sure we could have spoken in English too, I’d long ago decided not to go to the ER unless the problem was obvious and there was a bone sticking out. I decided to stick by that decision and that I couldn’t fly home until I found some sort of chunko compression socks anyway. I didn't want to double my problem by flying home without them too.

For the next two days I traveled deeper into Greece. Another plane. Ferry. Walking miles. Taxis. Moving slow, slower, slowest, hauling my luggage. Possibly cussing under my breath. Anytime I passed the sea and could get there I walked straight into it. Cold. Salt. Thank. God.

My final destination was covered in stairs. I went up and down them, stumped my way to the grocery store, pharmacy, cafes. Every day I stood in the cold sea. May. June. July. By then I’d acquired compression socks and I reverse traveled my way back home. Ow ow ow. 

At home I went to the doctor, and again, and again, and again. It’s post Covid. You don’t just up and go to the doctor. You can get in in three weeks, four, next month. July. August. September. October. November. Schlump schlump, baby steps. Singing my ow ow ow refrain. December and January were blood tests and physical therapy. X-rays. By February I rated other testing. An MRI. Come March I had graduated to an Orthopedic surgeon. 

Right now I'm taking meds that are definitely helping. It's very exciting. I was so happy that I did everything I couldn't do the past nine months and threw my back out. I guess I shouldn't have done everything in a twenty-four timeframe. Now I'm taking those leg meds and icing my back and eyeing flights to Greece because it's time to plan that trip again. Right? Right? 

 

Artemida, Greece

​

This morning I arrived in Greece after a long day and night of flying. Lately long flights give me what I’ve come to call Flyers Knee, because that’s when I get it. A painful stiffness from sitting in one spot for so long—though I did get up and walk around as much as possible. I wasn’t the only one stretching my knees out.

This year I stayed at a family run hotel in Artimeda, about a mile walk to the sea. I decided to walk it despite the knee. I got a chance to try out my sad Greek when I wasn’t sure which fork in the road to take. One of the teenagers chuckled and answered me in perfect English (as most Greeks seem to do), pointing the way.

It was a perfect evening for a walk. The sky a bit hazy. The sea busy. I sat on the Rocky shore, I think it was marble. 

Kritamo grows wild along the shore!

It’s delicious with lemon and olive oil! 

The perfect start to my adventure—despite my flyers knee!

FOMO Has No Power Here—Happy in My Now

Once a newly graduated student admitted to me in a near-whisper, I have no interest in travel. Is that weird? It's amazing I said. Being content is highly underrated in the marketing world.

A cup of tea right where you are is perfection. 

Yesterday I fell into a hole on YouTube. I'm a solo traveler and I watched video after video of the adventures of other solo travelers. One that really got me was a young woman who planned an empowering and romantic trip to Paris all by herself. By day three she missed her cat and teared up when she talked. Trying to talk herself into the beauty of the city wasn't working. It made her sad. The old mom in me wanted to hug her, wanted to whisper, you're still seeing the fantasy you've been sold. You're seeing what you're missing and not what you have. 

I left no comment. There are things we all have to figure out for ourselves.

My solo travel is a choice. I have a perfectly good husband who has no interest in seeing the places I like to go to. After our centuries of marriage I began traveling solo so I could see the places that always called to me. I've no desire to see the whole world. Every year I go to the same islands in Greece. I write with the same group of women. I lay on the same beaches and float in the same sea as last year. 

Once I stayed longer in Rome, forfeiting Venice—which I've yet to see. I've never seen Santorini, Sifnos, Paros, or Crete. Over the accumulating years I've willfully missed much. To again lay on hot stones at Leftos Gialos or the Port Beach on my favorite island. Again, this year, I didn't take the ferry to Skopelos, preferring to stay afloat in the Aegean off Alonissos longer. Didn't make the snorkel trip. Didn't hit other beaches I've yet to see.

Instead to be quiet where I am.

Making quiet choices to sit or float in moments—lingering longer and longer—letting go of more and knowing enough. 

Why? I don't contemplate as I slide into now. Living in my moments. Not needing or truly wanting more. Filling myself with now's. Todays. Enough. Shhh, don't ask me why. It's something we figure out for ourselves.

Into the Wild by Jon Krakauer—The story of Christopher Johnson McCandless

 

There's a 2007 movie about this story. Like in most every case of book versus movie, the book is more in-depth and factual. After a long trek through Alaska, a friend sent me a copy of the book telling me to read it to know the true story. 

Wilderness Adventure

While I'd found the movie beautiful (Alaska) and inspiring, I found the book sobering for many reasons. First, a hush of reverence hit me. The book contains quotes by Thoreau, Muir, and lesser known naturalists. What sobered me was the unimaginable courage of anyone who can walk into the wilderness alone and with no backup. I've sampled enough motha nature to know I couldn't expect to walk out if I did that. 

The book contains stories besides McCandless's, stories about climbing icy peaks and dangerous wild wilderness adventures—some with better endings than others. What struck me was the draw of taking such risks for the reward of communing with a more ancient side of our nature. These stories happened before Instagram and are about adventures taken for quiet, personal reasons. Secondly, that motive is something I miss in stories coming out of the world today. The only glory found in these stories is internal and private. I admire that in a human being.

Personal Reasons

Any quest taken for purely personal reasons, without happening to have a camera crew on hand, impresses me. For that alone I appreciate Christopher (Alex Supertramp) McCandless's striving, optimism, and determination. I also appreciate the author, Jon Krakauer, and his effort to uncover this story including what happened to Chris McCandless in the end. 

It's not likely the truth would have ever been known if not for Krakauer's efforts. 

It's definitely worth a read. It's a very centering book. It made me think about what my inner hero needs and it's not Instagram. 

Pyramids of Giza: Ancient Egyptian Art & Archaeology—Harvard edX—an incredible online learning opportunity in the time of a pandemic

Feeling restless? Wanderlust? Me too. I found a great way to scratch that itch during this pandemic and next time, someday, when I can go back to Egypt, I'll know a heck of a lot more about what I'm looking at thanks to edX.org. I took a HarvardX online course called Pyramids of Giza: Ancient Egyptian Art and Archaeology. 

There's even a free version, so you have no excuse if Ancient Egypt is your thing. I've never had so much fun taking a class before in my life. It wasn't just the subject matter either—hieroglyphs, Old Kingdom tombs, and pharaohs. The professor was brilliant, engaging and articulate. I enjoyed it so much I tore through an eight week course in half the time. Mind you, I put way more time into it than if I'd moved at the leisurely 2-4 hours a week suggested. 

The Great Pyramids of Egypt on the Giza Plateau are surrounded by tombs. They're underground and unlike the Great Pyramids (Khufu, Khafre, and Menkaure), many are decorated with art. The pyramids themselves are named after the kings who built them, from an older kingdom, and are from a more basic plainer time. When I went inside the Great Pyramid I was surprised at the utter lack of decoration, not realizing it was from a time before Ancient Egyptians decorated tombs so extensively.

The underground tombs in the Giza complex were excavated in part by Harvard's own Archaeologist George Reisner. The class goes over the countries and archaeologists involved in the heyday of Egyptology in a truly engaging and informative way. It's easy to follow and retain, and I daresay, it was interesting and fun. 

This is a photo I took with my phone in February of 2018 when I was in Egypt. The pyramids are in Cairo, Egypt but located on what's called the Giza Plateau. From this photo you can see some of a mastaba field (mastabas are above ground tomb portions). I did have the opportunity to go down into a couple of the tombs near the pyramids and it was amazing. The underground tombs are from newer kingdoms and rich with painted walls, hieroglyphs, statuary, and are beautifully artistic. Although I wish I'd taken this class first, it still helped me understand more in retrospect. It was my first trip to Egypt and the sheer magnitude of it overwhelmed me. 

Being the fiction writer in a group of Egyptologists, I focused on taking in as much as I could and simply experiencing it. I climbed inside Khufu (the biggest pyramid), rode a camel around Giza to the Sphinx, and took endless photos of everything. They tried to educate me on the different kingdoms, dynasties, and hieroglyphs, but I really wanted to prowl through the dusty bookshops, sail in a felucca on the Nile, and score a purse with a camel painted on it. Fortunately Harvard edX showed me what I missed. Now, like the rest of the world's stilled travelers, I wait for the someday when I can resume my hands-on learning with renewed appreciation, thanks to this incredible class. 

Keening Under the Strawberry Moon—Life in the Time of COVID-19

Nina's Pansion Alonissos, Greece

Today I won't be leaving The Shire here in New York to fly to Detroit to then fly to a different airport in New York and on to Athens, Greece. 

Tomorrow I won't be sleeping at the Sofitel Hotel that's only a quick walk from baggage claim. I won't be grabbing a taxi into downtown Athens to walk up to the Acropolis. I won't be darting into the Acropolis Museum to see the Caryatids or to pick up a notebook from the gift shop.

Tomorrow night I won't have a Greek Salad for dinner in my favorite taverna in Plaka. I won't have a glass of retsina and see the Strawberry Moon—the full moon in June—rising over the Acropolis. I won't meander back to the Sofitel across from the Athens Airport and sleep the deep untroubled, pre-COVID 19, sleep of a woman heading for her favorite writing retreat.

The day after tomorrow I won't wake up early and hurry back to the Athens Airport. I won't greet the barista behind the counter of Starbucks with Kalimera and enjoy a chai latte and banana before boarding my flight on Olympic Air to the island of Skiathos. 

The day after tomorrow I won't crowd into a taxi with four strangers and race to the port to catch my ferry to Alonissos. I won't sit outside on the deck in the sun and wind and watch the ice blue ferry wake, hoping to see dolphins in it.

The day after tomorrow I won't arrive in Patitiri, the Port of Alonissos, that quiet magical island that I dream of all year long. I won't drag my suitcase down the ramp dodging trucks and cars and hurrying to hug some of my favorite people in the world. I won't be greeted by Chrisoula. I won't see Julie's white hat. I won't haul my suitcase up four or five flights of stairs to my favorite room in the pansion overlooking the port. 

I won't walk up the steep hill to the shops for vegetables, olive oil, olives, and feta. I won't buy a pot of fresh lavender to put on my balcony where I won't write every night. I won't sit with the women writers I call my kula every day and write, or listen to them read their writing out loud. 

There will be no carrying bottles of water up all those flights of stairs every day. There will be no greeting familiar faces with Yassos. There will be no hiring a taxi to take me to Leftos Gialos, my favorite beach on the island, no welcome dinner at Elenas with tables scattered inside an olive grove while the Aegean touches the shore. I won't greet Yaya who makes the spinach pies and sits beneath a giant olive tree in her scarf and wishes a friendly kalisperra to every guest.

There will be no donkeys, no hikes up the donkey trail to Kali Thea, no massages or yoga with Bibi and Lee. There will be no sunsets in Old Town. No writing tucked in chairs beneath cascades of bougainvillea. No losing track of time and staying so late I have to call my favorite taxi driver and ask please, parakalo, don't make me walk the donkey trail in the dark.

Billy the Seal may very well slide up onto the port beach and steal someone's lounge chair but it won't be mine. There will be no thundering music at The Drunk Seal, no gathering with friends at Carolis for olives and sparkling water, no midnight gelatto. 

Yet, I've had that, because despite COVID-19, I am the luckiest writer you never heard of. Next year maybe I'll go back and I will once more wallow in my perfect paradise. Only not this year and for today, tomorrow, and maybe the day after tomorrow, I'm going to allow myself to miss that. 

That One Time I Got Stranded on the Island of Skiathos in Greece

Without naming names I can tell you that once I got stuck behind the Disney Electric Light Parade in Disneyland California. As Aladdin flew by on his magic carpet and Cinderella waved from her carriage, the preschoolers I was with fell to the ground and sobbed out the injustices of their lives. Their heartless mother laughed and laughed with zero pity in her heart. 

Don't you wish you could be stuck in Disneyland right now?

Every summer I go to a writing workshop on a tiny island in the Aegean Sea. The workshop is hard work. Getting there is hard work. To get there this year I'll be flying from a small airport in New York to Detroit. Then I'll fly from Detroit to Chicago. After that it's an overnight flight from Chicago to Athens, Greece. Mind you before I leave Chicago I'll have been traveling for twelve hours already.

When I get to Athens I'll stay at the Airport Sofitel. After twenty-four hours of travel it's time to sleep. The next day I fly from Athens to the island of Skiathos. It's a popular tourist destination for parts of Europe. I meet people from England, Germany, and Italy there. 

Depending on my flight from Athens and the ferry schedule, sometimes I spend a night in Skiathos. I like to stay around the port area. I walk along Papadiamanti Street and the sea. It's very touristy with yogurt shops and tavernas. There are kababs of chicken souvlaki, blindingly strong cups of Greek coffee, and places to buy a wide brimmed hat to wear on the ferry. 

Like many towns in Europe the streets are filled with pedestrians but SURPRISE it is a road too so watch out for scooters and vehicles while you shop or use the ATM. 

Usually I stay at the Aretousa, Filoxenia, Hotel Kostis, or Meltemi. Sometimes the stars align just so and after a few hours of wandering the port I can catch a ferry to Alonissos the same day. 

There are slow ferries and fast ferries/hydrofoils. The slow ones are huge and filled with cars and trucks ferrying between islands. I like to slather myself in sunscreen, plop on a hat and sit outside on the slow ferry and watch the sea as we stop by Skopelos (of Mama Mia island fame). Sometimes dolphins swim the ferry wake. 

No matter how long it takes me to get to this point I always know that it's all been worth the effort as the stress of a long journey drowns behind me in ferry wake the color of wintergreen breath mints. 

Eventually we arrive in the port of Alonissos. Gathering luggage and disembarking is chaotic, but this place feels like home. 

The return journey is the same thing in reverse. It's not nearly as refreshing though—leaving is always hard. I get nostalgic, farewell monk seals, farewell to my balcony over the port, farewell writers, farewell Aegean blues, dolphins, tomatoes, and lavender.

Skiathos seems loud and abrasive now, something to be endured after my weeks of floating and writing. But I make my way to the Skiathos airport and drift to my seat at the gate and wait, wait, wait. 

Once after several delays my flight never arrived. Cancelled. My vacation float vanished that quickly. I had a hotel in Athens that night and an early morning flight in the morning. That flight would be airborne before I could get tomorrow's flight out of Skiathos.

I was STRANDED in Greece, TRAPPED on Skiathos. I took it better than those preschoolers at Disney. On the outside.

My hotel in Athens was non-refundable. I'd chosen the cheaper fare. My Greek travel agent took my call at nearly midnight, apologizing though he'd done nothing wrong and booking me a hotel for tomorrow. I tried to call my international airline's 800 number to change that flight home. Those numbers don't work internationally. They're for the USA only.

Around me airline employees began the slow process of re-booking people. There was no quick computer processing. There was literal paperwork going on. People rudely fussed when instructions were given first in Greek, "WHY AREN'T THEY SPEAKING ENGLISH?" This amused me since we were in Greece! Don't blame that comment on Ugly American Syndrome either. I was the only one and I'd lost all hope of going anywhere fast. 

Eventually I was the last person there, still trying to contact my international airline to re-book. I got caught in a loop. I couldn't dial an 800 number from Greece, but I couldn't dial the international number from my American cell phone either. One of the Skiathos employees let me use their phone. I got a new flight to the US leaving in a few days. 

Now I was officially STUCK in GREECE. tee-hee. Let's be real, this is kind of my goal in life. 

Now I had plenty of time, except the lights were being dimmed in the Skiathos airport and employees were leaving. Someone opened their wallet and handed me cash—not vouchers—for dinner. They put me in a lone taxi back to the port area and gave me a hotel to

stay at. That's how I discovered the Meltemi hotel. 

Despite the late hour the port area was in full swing. I picked up bottles of water, dragged my luggage up three flights of stairs to the FIRST floor and dropped into bed. TRAPPED in Greece. I fell asleep watching feet walk up and down the old stone steps outside my window. It was the best night. Ever.

Nothing against Detroit or Philadelphia, but they've got NOTHING on getting stuck somewhere when your flight gets cancelled. Do you feel my joy? Or was that time you got stuck somewhere not wonderful? Dish.

My Balcony on Alonissos is Magic but The Floor of My Closet Kinda Rocks Too—What Matters Most

At the end of the book Me Before You by JoJo Moyes the main character goes to Paris to sit at a table in an outdoor cafe and experience something profound. I'd tell you what it was, but aside from her acquiring the resources to do it I didn't get it. 

It's not that sitting in an outdoor cafe in a foreign country can't be great, it's a lot of fun. It's not that you can't experience personal growth there, because I think travel is great that way. You see another culture, you get a bigger perspective of the world, you endure the humiliation of air travel. Travel is a great growth experience.

Until 2015 the bulk of my travel was engineering or writing conferences. There was the rare trip across the border into Mexico, and many times I got dragged to Canada to watch my family fish. I usually sat in a cabin under a mosquito net and wrote. But in 2015 I started exploring places I'd read about and always wanted to go see.

It is super cool to sleep on a houseboat in Amsterdam, take a train in Germany, climb inside the Great Pyramid of Giza, or visit Stonehenge. But the ugly truth is sometimes travel is boxed and shallow like a mega mall or amusement park. The same trinkets made in China are sold to tourists in many places. The same photos show up on Instagram—with fast food places, ugly buildings, and tons of tourists carefully cropped out of the shot. The same McDonald's and Kentucky Fried Chicken are nearly everywhere. 

As Mr. Brady so profoundly put it, "Wherever you go there you are." It's not about the place. It's about you. From my point of view a great many tourists don't even care what they're looking at. I've found that if I wait patiently, like an entire ten minutes, that the latest ferry-load or bus-load or ship-load of tourists will clear out of a site, heading for snacks or the next big thing and I can take some epic photos without zillions of people milling about.

That's not always the case. Sometimes those ship-loads of tourists are timed exactly ten minutes apart.

The point is if you're not at a place in your life when you CAN travel, I'm going to go against the crowd here and tell you that you might not be missing as much as rumored. In this day and age you can research a place in-depth and learn about it. I did that old school for places like the Colosseum, The Forum, The Pyramids, and the Acropolis long before the opportunity to go there came along.

Wait for it. Make sure you want it. 

Sure June isn't summer without the Strawberry Moon and sitting beneath a starry sky writing on my balcony in Alonissos, but I think it's fifty years of longing that make Greece so magical for me. 

When I started writing with true intention to get my work published, I did it sitting on a bench with a pencil and paper in my bedroom with the door shut. When I want absolute quiet I like to find a spot on the rim of the Grand Canyon and sit there, somewhere away from the crowds. Sometimes I find that quiet walking in the woods at night. Often it's simply when I'm writing in my messy office.

On busy days before I wrote full-time, my breaks came about when I slid to the floor of my closet. I'd hide there and listen to my own breath as long as I could get away from it.

For me, a person who is interested in most everything, it's the quiet that I cherish.

Many times people in Greece have asked me what the heck I do on the quiet island of Alonissos for a month. I could see Santorini, Crete, or Mykonos! they say.

They don't get it. I know what I long for and I wonder, do they? Do you? Therein lies your magic. 

Hello Real World—Alonissos is Better

It's nearly time to head to Alonissos again. I've already begun my packing. During winter I dream of that island. My days in Greece are magical and I write constantly, submitting to whatever the muse thinks needs written. The workshop has always been fantastic. The women writers are gifted and kindred spirits. 

Last year I dragged my laptop on the three day journey each way, on and off planes, up and down stairs and ramps deep in the bowels of ferries. I climb so many stairs that they seem as much a part of Greece as the blinding white light and colorful villages built into hillsides. 

It's like traveling with a Stairmaster

But never again, I promised myself, will I take my laptop to Greece. Turns out I'm always much too busy writing to work on my laptop. A pile of sharp pencils and a notebook are all I need to write. Writing by hand is how the Women Reading Aloud workshops work. 

Writing by hand is magical if I've never told you before. I think our brain and deep writer voice work about that speed.

Last year I nearly lost a couple feet boarding a rocking ferry in bad weather while dragging my luggage and laptop. Waves shoved the ship up and I stepped forward clutching all my luggage to show my passport, so absorbed in what I was doing that I didn't realize my toes were under the rocking ramp. Fortunately the guy behind me noticed and pulled me back before the ship came down again. 

That only serves to strengthen my resolve to leave my electronics with all excess baggage at home. 

After the workshop had ended last September, I stayed longer to write more, to do some research for a book, and to be still. One of the things I enjoy about the island I go to in the Northern Sporades is the quiet. I recognize people after all these years. The first couple days I meet up with friends and hike or go swimming at night. 

This past trip I finally saw a monk seal for the first time in all the years I've gone to my workshop. Alonissos is a marine park. It's a preserve for the seals, but there's one seal who the locals call Billy who likes to sun himself on some of the same beaches tourists enjoy. 

Billy was deep into his bliss as I watched him from a distance. Rumor has it that Billy bites. I could just imagine me trying to explain a seal bite to my husband when I got home. While I stood near Billy he never moved until I muttered to myself, is he alive? He lifted his head as though he'd heard me and gave me a look before quickly ducking back into bliss position just as I made a move for my camera. I like him.

He doesn't pander.

In the evenings on Alonissos I sit on my balcony and write by candlelight. Greece is so hot during the day that people tend to stay in for siesta and come out late for dinner. It's not unusual for children to play in the park at midnight or for music from the tavernas to drift up to my room until four in the morning. 

Sitting at my small table overlooking the Aegean Sea I write, enjoying the cooler night air while curtains dance in the breeze and I sip cup after cup of sagey mountain tea sweetened with local honey.

On my last night I paid tribute to the port that unfolded below my balcony; to the tiny Scops owls I only ever hear (but someday hope to see just like the monk seal); to the moon that lit the dark sky before waning away as my days turned into weeks and then a month; to the loud ferries; and the limes growing from trees over the stairwell that bumped my head when I went past. 

Now I'm home and prepping for this year's journey. Over the winter I sorted through piles and miles of books. It desperately needed to be done. It made me smile to discover that I have a small pile of Goodnight Moon books. I have the cardboard one from when my kids were babies, versions for older kids, and some in other languages (I used to try to sneak learning in while they were too small to notice). I even recently bought a copy of Goodnight Lab—a clever knock off for the newest baby in the family. No wonder I had to write my own version from my balcony overlooking the Port of Alonissos, Patitiri. 

Goodnight port, goodnight Scops owls whispering whom.

Goodnight light and the waxing moon.

Goodnight ferries, goodnight limes, goodnight lavender,  goodnight rhymes.

Goodnight Alonissos and these magical times.

If you want to chat about the book world and writing, sign up for my monthly newsletter. Drop me your email at TheGlitterGlobe@gmail.com. Wonderful things have been happening around here.

Some of this year's writerly travels will be found here on my blog. Though I plan to do more floating than fooling with WiFi this year. I'll be working at writing speed, one foot in front of the other speed, pencil on paper speed. That's the speed of magic, did you know? Slow magic is my thing. 

Holding onto my Vacation Joy in the Real World

S.R. Karfelt/The Glitter Globe

HOME SWEET HOME 

That should read Home Sweet Chaos. You know what it's like to leave your real life to travel a few months out of the year? It's like you're now hopelessly behind in everything. 

You will never catch up. Not unless reincarnation is a thing. Accept that you need to downsize your life in order to travel. Take a deep breath. Dig up some patience that connecting flights and the TSA hasn't already stolen from you. There you go. Now start going through everything and getting rid of all the stuff you don't need and while you're at it clean off and organize your computers too.

Have some nice family gatherings and take the time to cook real food at least once a year. Also, order a magic wand off Amazon. Check reviews because you're gonna need a real one this time.


GREECE HIGHLIGHTS AND LOW-LIGHTS

Highlights. A monk seal on the public beach. Why is seeing a wild animal up close and personal out in the world so amazing? Maybe it's because their eyes are not sad and they look right into yours. A night swim under the dark moon. The Aegean was so cold I froze. The locals ran into the sea and immediately back out. It was perfection just the same. Nights I sat on my balcony and wrote by candlelight. My nose nearly touched the page I leaned so close to see my scribbled words. But I loved sitting there in the warm night breeze and listening to the sounds in the port.

Even low-lights were highlights. While taking a meandering walk in Skiathos I wound up at the edge of an airport runway when a jet was taking off. I learned all about jet blasts. I'm happy to report I didn't die. I'm sure it will be useful in a novel someday. AGAIN getting tagged by the TSA as a person of interest. Now I know what it feels like to be profiled, AGAIN. Searched. Slowed-down. Felt-up. It's annoying, but once more it's good novel fodder. Let's pretend I mean that last bit. 



GLUTEN-FREE

Sofitel Hotel Restaurants make their own freshly baked gluten-free bread. In a month of traveling I only stayed at one. I easily ate my month's allotment of bread there. It was so good.

Eating gluten-free is a pain. It turns you into a difficult customer as soon as you walk into a restaurant. 

I'm pretty sure I've heard the wait-staff's eyes rolling when I say I have to eat gluten-free. I sympathize. But since they're not the ones who have to pee blood if I get gluten, I'm wildly and annoyingly cautious.

Eating out isn't appealing to me anymore. In Greece I cooked my own meals as much as possible. I even skipped my free breakfasts most of the time. Mostly I ate salad without dressing, yogurt, fresh fruit, or vegetables and grilled fish. Also gelato, because balance. 

If you contact airlines ahead of time they offer gluten-free meals via their websites. Trying to find a simple banana between planes became a quest. Rome's Fiumicino Airport is one of those airports crossed with a high-end mega-mall. Who the hell decided to splice the stress of airport travel with the labyrinth torment of a galleria? Ugh.

I never did find any fresh fruit but I only had FOUR HOURS to look. They definitely didn't have any in the Gucci, Prada, or Billionaire stores. Nor in the gluten-packed pasta shops. Can you hear the creak of my eyeballs rolling? To be fair I did purchase an excellent Leonardo da Vinci Vitruvian Man notebook there and a seven euro bottle of what I think was water. It tasted a lot like it, so there's that. 


BOOKS I READ

At the last minute I had to toss my hardcover copy of The Book of Joy by Dalai Lama and Desmond Tutu out of my suitcase. I should have also tossed out my laptop because not only did I not use it in Greece, but it almost cost me all of my toes as I dragged two roller-bags onto a wildly rocking ferry. 


Instead I read The Alice Network by Kate Quinn. Thanks to a kind stranger I even had all my toes intact while I did it. At the advice of my editor I'd put it on my kindle app, and I read it in stolen moments here and there. Mostly while eating breakfast yogurt and drinking Greek Mountain Tea. It's about female spies in WWI and WWII, but it's also about not fitting in and being yourself. I'd rate it four stars and recommend it. It's a good read. 

A friend on Alonissos loaned me a copy of Neil Gaiman's The Ocean at the End of the Lane, and I finally at long last became a Gaiman fan. It's about a man revisiting his family home while on his way to a funeral and discovering long-forgotten secrets and well-hidden memories. For me this book held the kind of magic I found years ago in Madeline L'Engle's A Wrinkle in Time and Many Waters. I loved it. If you've ever enjoyed any Fantasy book, read it.

On my flight home I couldn't settle on a single movie and shelled out for in-flight WiFi, but even that didn't do it. So I looked through my Kindle App books and ignoring all my high-brow selections like Dostoyevsky and Tolstoy I went with a little Urban Fantasy book called Protecting His Witch by Zoe Forward. I can be a real snoot about editing and was in a persnickety and tired traveler mood and nearly shut it down early on, but then the story grabbed me. It's about a veterinarian dimension-hopping witch who turns out to be one of the seven Pleiades and her hot druid-sentry born to tend to her needs. I kinda need one of those myself. If he knows Excel and can also sort my Outlook email mess that is. I liked it.


WRITERLY STATUS

Back to reality. I'm writing my vampire book and talking to a story

editor. I'm also in need of a Personal Assistant a few hours a week and think I may have found someone. The help would be welcome. Writing is my dream job, but it is a lot of work, especially with research and traveling.

My attic is mostly cleaned up. The mice who have secretly been living there have been evicted. I've sorted through decades of stuff and sworn off buying things. It was a tough job for me. Giving away so many books felt like saying goodbye to old friends. Cleaning out stuff from when my kids were little or papers I wrote ages ago hurt. But I did it. I lost at least a dump-truck sized pile of excess. I feel lighter already. Hanging onto your happiness takes real work, have you noticed that? It's so worth it. 

Greece to Egypt and Back—Traveling Safely and Staying Alive in this Great Big Beautiful World

S.R. Karfelt/The Glitter Globe

"I'd like to visit America," said my driver, the guy the restaurant employs to run customers—free of charge—from the popular port area of Skiathos, up to the restaurant with a stunning view of the sea (Olive Thea), "but it's too dangerous."

"No, it's not," I said.

"Yes," he said, "it is."

My European friends in the backseat are cracking up. 

It's not the first time I've heard this. In fact it's the most common refrain I've gotten from people when they realize I'm American.

"America's not safe," said the young Englishman with alcohol-glazed eyes, so intoxicated he can barely stand. So intoxicated he's stumbled out of a pub near the London Eye to join the crowd of evacuated hotel guests at 3:00 a.m. The fire alarm had gone off because someone lit a cigarette in an adjoining hotel. "I'd go there, but I don't want to get shot."

"We love Americans," said a souvenir vendor at the pyramids in Egypt. "Tell your friends to come here. It's safe here, no one shoots you like in America."

"Tell me," said a Greek taxi driver, "Does America want to take over the world? Do they want to shoot everyone?"

It's ironic, isn't it? Because the first thing people in America say to me when they hear about my travels is, "Is it safe?"

While I was in Egypt this past March I read Rick Steve's book Travel as a Political Act. It's a fascinating and informative read. I loved the statistics, the cold hard facts about travel. How twelve million people a year go to Europe. How we're twice as likely to be killed by a toddler playing with a gun than by a terrorist when traveling.

It shocked me that a 747's worth of people die on American highways each WEEK. 33,000 die on our roads each year. Reducing highway speed by 20 MPH would save thousands of lives, but are we willing to do that? You know we aren't. We take our chances.

Then why are so many of us who wish to visit places we've dreamed of not doing it?

It's because we're afraid. The question is are our fears legitimate? I don't think they are.

What has happened to us? Are we mixing up movies with reality? Do we hear the same horrifying news story again and again, embellishing it with each retelling? Do we stop and think how each and every horrid story we hear hashed and rehashed over and over on the news really only happened once. 

Terrible things happen everywhere. Do you really want to hunker down and live safe and sound and terrified all of your days?

Egypt is the first place I've visited that's very different than where I come from. I loved it. I loved the people. I loved the slower pace. I loved the pyramids and tombs and food. But was I afraid?

Admittedly there were times I was nervous. The first week I had culture shock. The traffic, especially in Cairo, scared the hell out of me. (But so did Boston when I lived there.) 

I'd never been in a predominantly Muslim country before. There I was in cargo trousers and my Agatha Christie linen shirt with all my blond hair riding a camel. Several times a day Adhan sounded the Muslim call to prayer. Do you know how many people harassed me for not being Muslim? None. Nobody cared. I can't wait to go back!

A friend I hung around with during some of my time in Egypt likes to announce she's Jewish. She travels often and likes to see how people react. The majority of her family died in the holocaust. Even though she's a secular person she makes a point of sharing her heritage. In order, she says, to defy stereotypes. 

Not a single person cared who was Christian or Jew. 

In Egypt there's a greater police presence than I'm used to. I was often with a group of Egyptologists, some of who've been traveling there for well over thirty years. It's always like this, they told me. It's safe, they insisted. This is how they employ so many young men. 

After a few days I noticed the friendly smiles of those police and of people greeting me on the streets. I felt the Adhan deep in my bones. It reminds me of the chants I've heard in so many monasteries. Kids and adults hurried to greet me in English. "Hello, beautiful." "Welcome to Egypt." "Welcome, this is your home now." 

But was I afraid? No. Sometimes I was nervous. 

What woman doesn't know that feeling? It's been years since I've been approached by young men on the street. Especially men young enough to be my son. "You look worried," said one who would not go. "Don't be worried."

"Where I come from," I said, "Strange men don't approach women they don't know on the street for any good reason."

"Where I come from," he said, "Women don't walk alone on the street. I'm offering to be your escort so you don't have to walk alone."

The reply startled me, but of course it's the truth. Although I saw plenty of young women walking alone. Most had their hair covered. That's simply how women dress there. Some wore the exact same types of clothes young women wear in the west. Some wore burkas. 

But the fact is I was the stranger who didn't know or follow the rules. I still felt as safe, if not safer, than I feel when traipsing the streets of large cities in America. Maybe it's due to the police presence or maybe it's due to the always polite populace, but I didn't worry about being robbed or pick-pocketed as much. 

In Greece I'm more comfortable traveling solo than I am in the United States.

Not that I'm afraid here, just smartly cautious especially in cities. Greece feels like home to me. Especially in the smaller islands where everyone seems to know everyone else. 

That driver who told me of the dangers of America also teased me for not being Greek, while kindly helping me with my limited and sad attempts at speaking his language. 

"Do not take this wrong," he said, "I do not mean to be rude, but I can tell by the way you sit in that seat that you are a closed and cold-hearted person. You are dead inside."

By now my European friends in the backseat are really enjoying this.

"We Greeks," he said, "We do not talk just with the words. We speak with our hands, with our bodies, with all of us! You come here, every year, and you go to that little boring island where nothing ever happens. Why you go there?"

"Well. It's the perfect place to go when you're dead inside," I said.

"Oh! OH! You cut me! You cut me!" He's using his hands and entire body to show me just how deeply. But we're both laughing and this is the kind of communication I strive for when I travel. I will remind him next year that I'm the cold-hearted writer again. 

S.R. Karfelt

Maybe by then my Greek will be good enough to tell him I've written an entire series of books about heart, or maybe, just maybe I'll keep it all at the bitch witch level. I mean that book did come straight from my cold heart too.

When I travel I find it's important to carry my inner Kahtar warrior, my open-hearted Covenant Keeper, and always, always, Sarah Archer—that witch genetically predisposed to manipulate dark matter in her favor. Above all, I take my pragmatic writer self and remember every day is a story and life isn't about being safe. Life is about living, or did I miss another memo?