"There goes the boom."

It is not lost on me that I "escaped" New York's Hurricane Sandy only to arrive in time for Israel's Operation Pillar of Cloud. Though several Israelis note it when we speak just in case.

Still it's not until the siren goes off in Tel Aviv and Leeron comes rushing into the bedroom (where I happen to be watching "Homeland") that the reality of rockets flying back and forth across Israel's border with Gaza truly sinks in. We are at something of a war here and actual lives are at stake. Including, it seems, our own here in relatively far away Tel Aviv.

The sirens peel off in escalating wails indicating the alert. These are typical sounds for those living along or near Israel's North and South borders; not so for Tel Avivians who's "hands on" experience of the ongoing regional conflict last manifested most directly during the 1991 Gulf War (when 40 scud missiles fell on Tel Aviv) and the Second Antifada in the early 2000s (when suicide bombers were most rampant in cafes, markets and buses). Sirens are the regular occurrence of towns like Be'er Sheva and Kiryat Melachi in the south or Nahariya and Kiriat Shmona in the north. In Tel Aviv, people hear about them on the news and shake their heads in sympathy. Or worry about their fathers and sons who might be stationed somewhere near there.

There is a general code of conduct about what to do in the event of a siren and most Israelis - bordertown or no - learn it at young age. If your apartment has a bomb-proof room (as many do) go there, otherwise head straight for your building's basement or the community bomb shelter. The first siren caught us all by surprise early Thursday eve and was over before my sister, Yaron and I even knew what to make of it. Somewhere off in the distance we heard the muffled sound of a rocket making impact (with what we found out later was the sea). Moments later, I received a worried text from an Israeli friend telling me I should move away from any windows and into a stairwell if time was short. Duly noted.

The second siren happened this afternoon. This time I was out and about with a friend on Sheinkin, Tel Aviv's famed bohemian street lined with trees, juice stands and boutique shops. On a Friday afternoon people were busy enjoying the first day of their weekend before Shabbat rolls in and the cafes were packed. We had just walked into the Ronen Chen boutique to admire their Winter Season line when the wailing began.

Outside people were running for nearby cover. Inside the two salesladies ushered my friend and I into the fitting rooms in back. The four of us stood looking at each other slightly wide eyed. Although the situation felt more comical then scary my heart was beating fast. I was still calm but this second siren seemed more serious, more ominous somehow then the first. I wondered where my sister was, knowing she was on her way to visit a friend with Ariel and suddenly imagining her lone car on the highway with my blond baby nephew in back. My friend was unmoved by it all but patted my shoulder anyway and asked if I was okay. I told her I was.

Then the muffled sound of something somewhere making impact and the saleslady with the horn-rimmed glasses standing next to me matter-of-factly said, "There goes the boom."

And on cue the wailing stopped, followed by a brief silence then sounds of relief, exasperation, frustration, chatter, etc. At the bakery a little further up Sheinkin people were already making jokes, wanting to know about the special "rocket discount" on baked goods for Tel Avivians. A woman walking past was telling someone on the other end of her cell phone she had planned to go to Bank Leumi for cover. Yet another woman seemed entirely surprised to hear about the attack, having missed the siren altogether. "Really?? I had no idea!"

Tel Aviv life on a Friday afternoon quickly returns to normal and yet it is disconcerting to be caught in the midst of this latest unfortunate escalation. Later on, my friend tells me of running to his daughter's ballet class after the siren stopped to find a roomful of 9-year old girls crying in their pink tutus. Being shepherded into the school's bomb shelter by their otherwise stern Russian ballet teachers with neither parent in sight had perhaps been more then they could bear. Back home, I find my brother-in-law reading the Friday paper on the couch. He tells me hearing the sirens and knowing missiles are falling near or around Tel Aviv is not unlike holding his first gun as a soldier: more surreal then anything else.

The experience in the south is a little more concrete - not just in Israel but in Gaza too. My Israeli friends on Facebook issue warnings not to post information about where rockets are landing which could help Hamas figure out how to perfect their aim; and the Israeli Consulate sends emails about the millions of Israelis "under fire... with rockets landing as far as Tel Aviv and Jerusalem." On TV the ticker sign on Israel's Children's Channel informs us programs will run all night instead of stopping at 8:30 pm "given the situation." In many Israeli homes tonight some children will be too scared to sleep.

With that - despite that - it is impossible not to think about the children in Gaza too. Enough Israelis are as mystified as they are terrified by the war that seems to have suddenly once again started. Enough of them are acutely aware of the abysmal circumstances that make the Palestinians such easy pawns in the hand of their terrorist leaders to feel sympathy, not anger or hate. As the rockets fly back and forth down south I find myself adopting the quintessentially nonchalant "we will get through this too" attitude most Israelis have by now perfected - alongside the concern of some of my friends.

"Don't worry," I tell my parents when they call from New York, "Everything is fine."

Sure enough, in a matter of days or maybe even sooner the rockets will stop. It will be life as usual. The sad reality is things won't have gotten any better.


Postscript 11/17/12:

An Israeli friend sent me this comment in response to my post which I am including here because I think it's important for additional background and context:


Karen - I generally agree with what you say re: children of Gaza. I agree that most Israelis are concerned about them too, that as you stated, "the Palestinians such easy pawns in the hand of their terrorist leaders." The Israeli public unanimously support our actions (91pct public support according to latest survey), also knowing that we have the most Humanitarian military in the world (an observation shared by many military experts around the world). We take far more extreme precautions to protect civilians than US and European Militaries and we are compliant with International Law.

This generates two problems.

The first problem is that the terrorists are aware of this and thereofore use their own families as human shields.  For ex: the procedure have been that before we attack a target such as a missile arsenal hidden in basement of a terrorist's house, we would telephone the house and tell the terrorists and families that we're bombing and to leave now. We would then fire warning shots at the house and only then bomb it whereas the US/UK/NATO would just bomb it (um "Homeland" anyone?? - kk). We see in some cases, some documented in film, the terrorists take their children to the roof of their homes to wave up at the jets/reconnaissance planes. They know we won't bomb them this way and we don't. The arsenal and building are saved. Missiles from this arsenal later are fired and kill/injured Israelis.

The second problem is that unlike you, many in the West do not see the Gaza Palestinians as victims of the their terrorist leaders but of Israeli aggression, who is "bombing them". Not only in Europe and radical press.  This astonishing headline appears in yesterday's Washington Post:
http://www.nationalreview.com/sites/default/files/nfs/uploaded/u25930/2012/11/pic_corner_111512_wapo.jpg

Of all the faces of the Gaza war they chose to show a Palestinian baby killed. There have been "only" 15 deaths in Gaza at that time almost all terrorists (the handful non-terrorists included the son of the terrorist killed in the first attack). I'm not in any way, undermining the tragedy of this baby being killed. But to choose to lead with this is unadulterated "Israel-bashing" which helps create anti-Israel sentiment.

On the morning after BinLadin's killing, Did the Washington Post lead with the picture of Bin Ladin's dead child? (also an innocent bystander). Do they regularly show dead babies killed sadly and accidently by US forces in Afghanistan?

So I'm just saying all this to underscore your point.  We understand that we don't just have the Hamas on the other side but also those that indirectly back their effort (sorry, but the Washington Post is included).  And in doing so, are on the wrong side of both Israel and of the Palestinians.

(By the way, Hammas fired a missile last night into the West Bank. Landed near a Palestinian village. Luckily no one was hurt. It was intended to hit Jerusalem, to kill Jews, but they missed).

Friday in Florentine

The streets of Florentine are shiny and dark by the time I leave Studio Naim where I'd come to attend a Jivamukti workshop with the visiting Dechen Thurman (of Robert Thurman fame). I'd been mostly practicing yoga on my own since arriving in Israel and so looked forward to some yogi camaraderie as well as Dechen's guidance. The class is great and I leave 3 hours later in a relaxed yet invigorated stupor - the perfect state of mind for Shabbat.

Outside the rain has already begun. Though still balmy, this is Fall in Tel Aviv (add some more gusts of wind and shave off another 10 degrees and you have your winter - ha). I'd been meaning to get to Florentine for a while. A cross between the East Village and Williamsburg, the neighborhood is classic "old Tel Aviv" - dilapidated yet full of character, as well as some of the city's funkiest bars and clubs. Basically, Downtown to my sister's "fancy" Uptown in North Tel Aviv, where I've been mostly stationed.

On a rainy Shabbat evening, however, Florentine is nothing but empty.  The street lamps are measly, barely lighting my way up the long avenues of Derech Shlomo then Yaffo to Nachlat Binyamin where I turn unto Rothschild Street. There the rain returns, slamming into the back of my jeans and soaking my Old Navy canvas sneakers. In a rare moment of prescient clarity, I'd remembered to bring my pink polka dotted umbrella (digging it out from one of my four suitcases still sitting in my sister's living room) and I huddle beneath it in the wet dark.

Rain on Rothschild

In a well timed text message, my sister suggests I take a cab in this weather. But I like walking and I don't mind the rain and besides my wet dark lonely predicament suits my mood. I've been in one for the past few days because my moods always just come and go at whim and here it is. This time though I've been waiting, knowing its arrival would inevitably coincide with the buzz of my Big Life Transition slowly giving way to the "reality" of my new routine.

Life transitions are exciting. It's taken me some practice but I see that now that I've been through a few. Like setting off for some far off land, they provide a rare opportunity to break out of boundaries and predictable patterns to experience life more... experientially. Since leaving my last job for Central America, I'd had a few months of that and know they changed my life forever. It had been a time full of travel, yoga, adventures, self-assessment and growth. I'd gone to Nicaragua and Guatemala then to Colorado to hike and be with good friends. Stepping out of my routine in New York for a while is also what helped me realize I wanted to move to Israel.

Now that I'm finally officially here, it's time to settle in and make some important decisions about what I want the new "reality" of this next chapter to look like. The adrenalin buzz of being in limbo is gone and on a wet rainy night with so many unanswered questions still looming - and so many suitcases still unpacked - it's easy to feel overwhelmed.

I remember what Dechen repeated as he guided our breathing and alignment throughout the evening. He was talking to all of us in the room but I clung to his words, pretending he had chosen his workshop's theme about connecting with our intention just for me.

"Really think about what you want," he kept saying, offering additional encouragement as we hovered - mindfully, patiently, gracefully - in each pose. "Then think about how you're going to get it. One breath at a time."

One breath at a time. This seemed like good advice. 

My tiny Tel Aviv

Tel Aviv is tiny. Although the complexity of the streets and the dense congestion makes it seems bigger than it is, along with the heat. In the Tel Aviv heat, even the smallest of distances expands because every movement feels like it is happening in slow motion. Being a native New Yorker, I am used to walking but the brisk pace that came most naturally to me there is changing as if inadvertently seeking to accomodate my smaller new surroundings. These days, by New York standards, I am practically ambling. Instead of jaywalking I wait with the others at the crosswalks for the lights to change. In New York this passage of time - especially with no actual cars in sight - would feel like eternity. Here we are all just waiting for the lights to change. As notoriously impatient as Israelis are, nobody seems to really notice or mind.

It’s still less than a month since I arrived in Tel Aviv but I’m adjusting to my new home with surprising ease. It’s tininess had been one of my major “concerns” about moving here - along with the heat and poor customer service. What it feels like instead is incredibly accessible. My sister happens to live on one of the main avenues in Tel Aviv’s so called “Center” which helps. Seven minutes that way is the schoolroom where my two year old nephew goes to gan. Nine minutes in another is the Ministry of Absorption where I need to process my identification papers. The city’s biggest shopping mall, Dizengoff Center, is about ten minutes away. A whopping 25 minutes walk north is the Marina with its nice beaches and cafes. 

Here my expert ability to zigzag through crowded streets or leap up and down subway staircases is useless.

In the midst of this new Tel Aviv life I notice my New Yorker predilections and attachements fall away. I hated New York for most of the reasons I loved it: its perpetually pulsing vibrancy; its alternately glamorous and gritty backdrops; its self-congratulatory hyperacute ON-ness. New York is larger than life and in it I felt small. The plethora of listings and emails and whole magazines about shows and openings and parties somehow all canceled each other out so that in the end I did nothing or not enough - paralyzed by options. This also made me feel small. New York was a movie set but in it I was merely an extra in a movie that was being made about somebody else’s life (most likely a Woody Allen movie considering I lived on the Upper West Side right by Central Park). 

In Tel Aviv I walk down streets among strangers who feel like kindred spirits. I’m not in a Hollywood movie, I’m in an Off-Broadway play and there is an unpoken agreement between us about the script. My sense of connection feels less about Jewishness then togetherness or purposefulness. Here we all are despite the various historic, geopolitical or economic odds. Like pedestrians the world over we rarely make eye contact as we pass, we don’t know each other’s names and sometimes we have outbursts. But familiarity and comfort has replaced the discomfitting undercurrent of anonymity that came with being a mere extra in New York.

I’ve started making plans with greater meticulousness. Because the entertainment pickings are slimmer here making plans requires preparation. I collect the glossy event calendars at cafes and scan the colorful posters posted throughout the city about upcoming festivals with absorption. This “old school” mode of information delivery reminds me of college. Although lacking the vast abundance of options I’m used to, Tel Aviv is so far inspiring me to be carefully selective instead of randomly spontaneous with how I spend my time. I am rediscovering cultural tastes and interests that had somehow gotten lost in the international arts and entertainment ocean of New York. I find several things that I’d like to attend in the weeks and months ahead and note them.

Within tiny Tel Aviv I am finding an expanse that has nothing to do with space but parts of me that are opening up inside. It is like getting reaquainted with someone I used to know. Admittedly this might have less to do with Israel then with this process of creating something new, this rare opportunity to break the set pattern of an existing life in order to more closely examine who I am and what I want against a different backdrop.  A backdrop that, in this case, happens to be rich with quality family time, a heightened awareness of my surroundings, the gratification of conscientious choices and all the potential that comes with new discoveries.

I recently had coffee with an Israeli artist in his 60s who’s spent most of his life in New York. Like many Israelis I’ve spoken to he seemed baffled by my decision to forgo everything New York has to offer for... this. This land of highly charged politics where everything is a constant challenge if not struggle and many smart Israelis are only looking for ways to get out. He asked me pointedly, “Are you trying to reinvent yourself?”

Yes and no. I believe we are all works-in-progress, ever changing and ever evolving hopefully for the better and wiser. If we’re lucky. Right now I welcome the revelations being in Israel affords. The relative smallness of Tel Aviv appeals to me as does the proximity of my sister and baby nephew and also the sea. My Israeli artist friend reminisces about the crisp coolness of Fall in New York and I miss that too. It is almost Halloween and I am watching sunsets on the beach. But just the other day the muggy Tel Aviv heat finally gave way to a breeze that stirs the branches of the trees lining Sderot Chen, and I can even wear a light jacket in the evenings. It may not be Fall in New York but in the aftermath of all that heat, the Tel Aviv air feels just perfect on my skin. 

The smoothie lives on!

nyc-style smoothie

Granted it's not made with coconuts and bananas found in the "backyard" but it's still smooth and creamy nutritious good.  I think Natalie would be proud. 

Shower redux

Coming home from Nepal, 2010

I take my first shower back home at my dad's house in Queens because he and Esther pick me up at the airport the night before despite a delay in Miami that gets me in at 2 am.  Thank goodness for such parents.  I see him looking for me in the passenger pickup area at JFK before he sees me so that when he turns around I am standing right there and his face breaks into such a smile before he gives me the biggest hug. This part never gets old.

My shower the next morning is a classic perk of home, with water set at exactly the right temperature and a white porcelain tub with nary a remnant of crusty soap or its previous inhabitants.  I have two plush towels to dry off with and a fluffy mat to step on to as I exit. Lathering up on this first shower back home makes me recall the wide variety of other showers taken on this trip:

Biodegradable toiletries

• The first and much beloved "sun shower" of my bungalow casita at Equilibrio, set at the end of a narrow stone path outside my back bathroom door and tucked among the banana trees. The water was always one temperature - near scalding - because April was still dry season and the pipes always exposed to the sun. I sometimes wondered about openings in the bamboo fence surrounding my little backyard but that didn't prevent me from drying off just standing there under the hot sun afterwards. The slightly cooler night showers were also nice especially when the stars were out. 

• What can only be called the "volcano shower" at Inan Itah with its full frontal view of Volcan Conception. I tried to keep my eyes on it as much as possible while showering in order to make the most of the opportunity. The shower's only downside was the ledge crammed with long forgotten soaps and shampoos, and having to bring mine up from the hammock dorm instead of being able to store it there. Also sometimes my feet would get muddy again if I accidentally stepped off unto the unpaved path instead of one of the rocks.  Still, having a volcano to stare at more than made up for such things.

Showering at Inan Itah

• Dirty hostel showers like the one at Hostel Oasis in Granada - unless you were the first one in after the cleaning crew which rarely happened.  By the time I usually got into it, it was obvious about 20 other people had beaten me to it. 

• The weird shower in San Pedro. Although my room was cheap and included the luxury of a private bath, the shower totally sucked.  Getting wet enough to lather and rinse involved walking around under the nozzle to accumulate water. A mysterious appendage attached to the nozzle did nothing but spray the entire bathroom (as opposed to me) when I tried to figure it out, and dismantled it by mistake instead.  I'll take dirty shower over shower with shitty water pressure any day.

• GOOD hostel showers like my last at El Hostel in Antigua before coming home. Despite being communal (there was one for boys vs. girls though!) the shower stalls were clean, tiled and the water temperature and pressure perfect.  By now the nights and early mornings were quite chilly so having hot water was key. When I left Antigua to visit Laguna Atitlan for a few days, El Hostel's hot showers was a big factor in my decision to come back - along with the beautiful complimentary breakfast and amazing people that worked there, of course

Thinking about my various shower experiences over these past two months conjures up as well as anything the experiences themselves - where I was, who I was hanging out with, what the weather was like, how I was feeling. My wide variety of shower experiences is also a helpful reminder that the comforts of home - as clean and luxurious as they may be -  are just one of many potential other experiences just waiting to be had.

:)

Winding down in Antigua

The last day of this trip, a day to end all days.  Full of sun and crisp perfect weather and it doesn't rain even once. Instead the usual heavy afternoon clouds roll in around 2 pm full of wet portent but then move on. As if they know.

After much surveying of fellow travelers and internal deliberations, I decided to stay in Antigua instead of heading to Guatamala City for my final day, to see what I could see there. Yes, it would have been nice to get to know the capital a bit and some of the country's finest museums and the hostel where I would have stayed (included nice conveniences like a complimentary city tour and ride to the airport!) .... but returning to Antigua after my few days away at Laguna Atitlan felt surprisingly like coming home. I was just so happy to be back, on such pretty, familiar territory.

Once back, I also finally (!) got to experience a Guatamalan volcano. After two previously thwarted attempts due to rain or poor "registration," I found a group leaving Antigua for nearby Volcan Pacaya the very next morning (at 6 am to be precise about it). Antigua is surrounded by several volcanos, including Volcan Agua which at 3766 meters dominates the southern end of the city, serving as a constant, handy point of orientation. Also visible is Volcan de Fuego, which coincidentally erupted in full flowing lava swing just the other day. Acetanango is the "big Mama" at 3974 meters and plenty of local tour agencies offer overnight trips so you can watch the sun rise before making your way back down.

Pacaya moonscape

By these standards, Pacaya is puny though still impressive - and also quite active.  It last erupted almost exactly 2 years ago and plumes of hot smoke are everywhere. It's a popular volcano because it's so accessible -in just 1 1/2 hours we were on top, surrounded by surreal moonscape views of black volcanic ash and lava rock. It is like being on another planet. Only with marshmellows, which we gaily toasted over the earthy fire.

In addition to adding another Central American volcano to my list, I finally also made it Cafe No Se. Cafe No Se is really a bar, where Ilegal Mescal is served in its own special room with a sign warning "2 shot limit" as you enter. The other really amazing and special thing about Cafe No Se is its location directly across the street from El Hostel, my Antigua home away from home. I haven't had as much fun in a hole in the wall tequila bar and met as many fun, cool, open, gregarious and also inebriated people while listening to great live music, as I did during my 2 nights at Cafe No Se. Where, once again, I almost got talked into postponing my flight home.

Cafe No Se

Other highlights resulting from choosing to stay in Antigua: wandering its streets some more; revisiting el mirador; yoga at Hotel Panza Verda; talking mangos with the fruit stand lady; hearing Luis and Jancho play at the Rainbow Cafe; bonding with fellow El Hostel mate Jaime; discovering rellenitos de platanos; and absoring the charm and warmth of Antigua deeper into my psyche for future reference.                                  

I can see why so many expats come here then never leave. I am sure I would have found Guatamala City gratifying in its special own way. But Antigua was what I needed more. I leave Guatamala the right combination of happy and sad, for inspiring future visits.

Jaime y yo

Note: click here for more Antigua highlights captured

Getting a little bit sick of the rain

The rain keeps sabotaging everything.  Hellllloooow WET season!

Wet season lasts from May to about September/October here in Central America and I´m learning the hard way it´s not messing around. The rain was lovely when it started back in Nicaragua turning Ometepe vibrant green and the Antigua streets shiny for a few convenient hours, but now it´s done nothing but sabatoge my plans and make me really soggy.

Wet season means ¨low¨ season in Central America, therefore a difficult time to find groups for planned outdoor activities. With only 2 people signed up, Quetzeltrekkers canceled the 3 day hike I was so looking forward to from Xela to Atitlan.  Then after finally finding a guide willing to take just one person up Volcan San Pedro, I woke up this morning to the strongest downpour since arriving at Lago de Atitlan on Wednesday.

But I took the 7:30 am lancha from San Marcos where I´d been staying to San Pedro anyway, fully optimistic and hopeful the rain would stop by the time it arrived - even though San Pedro is just a 15 minutes boatride away. Nevermind that climbing a steep volcano when it´s wet nevermind raining is not a good idea by any rational standards, I just really wanted to HIKE. Unsurprisingly my guide wasn´t going anywhere.

So instead I have a day to kill in San Pedro La Laguna. Not a terrible place to while (wile?) some time away on a rainy day... getting to know this other pretty town on the laguna, eating lots of freshly made tamales, catching up on emails and some reading. Besides, I love tamales and my room at Hotel Tepepulkan has a good view of the lake, appropriate for my last day here.

Tomorrow I will forget about Volcan San Pedro and visit Chichicastenango´s famous Sunday market instead.  I will practice non-attachment, roll with the punches. I´ve been wanting to visit Chichicastenango anyway.

Oh look! The sun is coming out.

POSTSCRIPT(S)

That sun was a momentary hoax.  It peeked out then went away again. The rest of the afternoon continued to be heavy with clouds and the portent of more rain to come.  I did manage to sneak in two fresh tamales on a street stoop before it returned!

**

My grand accomplishment of the day: finding San Pedro´s used bookstore and getting a new book (did I blog about how my trusty Kindle died when I landed??).  Finally finished the copy of ¨The Lost City of Z¨ that Natalie gave me when I left Salinas about the early 20th century explorer Percy Fawcett and loved it very much. I will be returning to the U.S.A. reading - or perhaps having finished? - Margaret Atwood´s ¨The Blind Assassin.¨ 

**

I am happy for this stolen day roaming San Pedro´s winding streets. Just 15 minutes away but so different from San Marcos, more like an actual Guatamalan town than a gringo hippy commune kibbutz. Though San Marcos is where I met amazing artist and newest friend David Perez Sacach and I will remember it fondly thus along with our hike along the lake and through the hills all the way to Santa Cruz.

**

The girls.. sisters, cousins, friends?... are glued to the TV. The small gaggle of them is gathered there mesmerized by some Spanish variety show where adults are performing slapstick routines that keep sending them into fits of hysterical laughter. Even if I have come for tonight's chorizo taco special I am clearly sitting in what is also the family living room. No matter. I am the only one there, awaiting my taco special among the plastic tables and chairs and every once in a while I set my book down to see what's so funny. Whenever they burst into laughter the youngest one looks over, as if curious to see whether I find all this funny too. I make a point of demonstrating that I do. Outside dusk has become night and the rain falls in heavy sheets.

**

All afternoon people return my smiles. I will miss that about Central America, the exchange of pleasantries that seems to come so easily here with just about everyone. Old women with bundles on their heads. Kids playing on the streets or biking past. Men walking to the fields with their hoes and machetes. I usually start it saying, "buenos dias" or just "buenos," or "adios" and they all smile warmly briefly back and say something in kind. Today an older San Pedro gentleman wearing a cowboy hat stopped me on a narrow path we were crossing to introduce himself. He held out his hand and I hesitated just briefly before taking it. "Mucho gusto," I said meaning it before we both just carried on.

#
     

Miradors, puposas and coffee

Today was a good first full day in Antigua. Spend the morning leisurely enjoying my free hostel breakfast then follow the street up from El Hostal in search of Antigua's mirador, Cerro de la Cruz aka Hill of the Cross. I was told morning is the best time to go for both the sunnier views overlooking the city and optimal chances of not getting mugged. Although according to Lonely Planet, "no crimes against tourists have been reported since the tourist police squad started patroling the area."  Thank you, tourist police squad!

Cerro de la Cruz and Volcan Agua

The walk up is more strenuous then I anticipated because I pick the wrong fork in the road, therefore find myself huffing and puffing up an S trail meant for vehicles. Flashback to me doing something  similiar while searching for a castle in Portugal, only thankfully this time it only lasts about 20 minutes and there are no trucks. On top I mistake Plaza del Santiago for the mirador and wonder why the cross has been replaced with an equestrian statue. A nice park attendent tells me the actual mirador is just a little further up so I continue on and lo and behold there's the cross. And the views! And all the other tourists!

The walk down is much nicer, because I am on the right path this time consisting of pleasantly spaced apart steps. I meet a beautiful American bull terrier with a giant head named Yuma and stop to say hi before continuing on (I miss Shusha! And Kalema!).

Yup this is Yuma

I decide on lunch before my planned afternoon coffee farm tour and head to the restaurant La Cuervita de los Urquizos near Las Ruinas de Capuchinas where the bus comes to fetch all the coffee farm visitors at 1:20 pm. I have a good hour. For lunch I settle on puposo which I've been wanting to try and because it's impossible for me to decide whether I should get the queso, frijoles or cerdo puposo I get the mixta along with a side of broccoli (broccoli!!!!) and a scrumtious jugo de rosa de jicama. Then it's about time for the bus.

The coffee tour on the Filadefia "resort" lasts almost 2 hours and by the end I am overwhelmed by my newfound knowledge about what makes coffee coffee. For example, before it is a bean, coffee is a flower (smells like jasmine!) then a fruit (looks like a red berry!). Also after following in the footsteps of a coffee bean from seedling to plant to fermenting to drying to husking to roasting, etc, I have never wanted a cup of coffee more in my whole entire life. We head to the "coffee degustation room" and I finally get to sample the "complimentary" cup included in the $20 tour.  It's worth every %$#*&$? penny!



Best end of a tour ever!



Pretty Antigua



Antigua's Parque Central

Antigua is as pretty as they say, in that quintessential way old colonial towns with their old colonial ruins, rain slicked cobblestone streets and small boutique shops are just so ... pretty.

Despite hearing about how pretty Antigua is from so many people on this trip it still comes as a surprise. Antigua, Guatamala is nothing like what I've experienced of Central America so far during my seven weeks in Nicaragua, with its rugged rural beauty and also frequently overwhelming heat. Antigua’s appeal is more like candy, and I spend the afternoon walking to soak it all in and also to stretch out my legs from the 20 hours it took to get here on a bus from Managua late last night (never again). With the fresh baked smell of the panderias; the vibrant colors of its handicrafts and painted facades; the cool ~1500m Highland Valley air, Antigua is an all encompassing sensory experience. Gillian and Tanya told me Guatamala was "magical" and already on my first day here I see their point.


Rainy Antigua streets


Already I can also see how hard it will be to “squeeze” Guatamala in. Coming here was a last minute decision, inspired by another traveler in Granada, NR a day before my designated flight home. The problem with having the so-called freedom to travel is that it easily becomes addicting - especially the longer you go. Exposure to other travelers only makes it worse, fueling the desire for further exploration with tales of their own.

And so I have come with only 9 days to experience one more country, and emotionally bracing myself for the fact that I will leave here wanting more. I have planned and re-planned my remaining days in my head multiple times and each potential itinerary is different. Is it worth taking a whole day to go see Chichicastenango? Better to spend more time in Antigua and/or Lake Atitlan instead? Should I visit a working coffee farm, that jade jewelry maker Robin and Aubrey told me about, or go see the lava flowing in active Volcan Pacaya? What is the best possible way to minimize the impact of a 5 hour bus to Xela then back to Guatamala City in time for my flight?

Guatamala is a big country full of wonders in all corners, including the famous ruins of Tikal and natural beauty of Semuc Champey. So I will focus my measly 9 days on just scratching the surface of its northwestern Highlands region instead, starting with the World Heritage Site that is Antigua then heading westward to Lago Atitlan. The crux and grand finale will be a 3 day trek from Xela to Atitlan with the volunteer-based tour organization QuetzelTrekkers over Memorial Day Weekend. Then Guatamala City. Then home by June 1st. Then turning 39 (!!!!!).

Phew. Yes this is the current plan.

Harry is back!

Harry made this in 15 minutes

And this time I get a gift, a giant palm heart he whips up before my eyes. My crush is official. 



We meet again almost exactly where we met the last time, while I'm dining at one of the outdoor eateries in front of the Cathedral in Granada. Yes I have returned - no, not for Harry! - but for the closer, more familiar ground of Granada over Leon, which would have required a longer bus ride through and north of Managua. The main draw would have been checking out one more town and also "sand surfing" down Cerro Negro. Instead I will return to swim in the giant crater lake that I loved so much the first time and maybe take a day trip to the crafts market at Masaya. I will see how I feel tomorrow morning. I might not.

Yes seven weeks later I am getting a bit lazy. Or rather, just ready to stop traveling and start crackin'. I left NYC thinking to see Central America and return having  visited only a handful of places in Nicaragua. I had kept things loose to see where the wind would take me when I arrived, who I might meet, and what stories they might have to share for inspiration... 



Demonstrating one of Harry's giant origami grasshoppers

As it turns out the wind and the people I met compelled me to stay put, embarking on journeys to be had exactly where I was. And so I have.

Saturday I fly home excited to see where the wind  takes me next.  

On rain and dogs and coming home

Everything is wet now. The wet season has begun and almost overnight everything’s changed - from hot sweaty sun to overcast days with only occasional glimmers of sunlight. Yesterday it rained 6 times and our sunset kayake trip fell short of a sunset - obscured as it was by a dramatic blanket of clouds. (We had fun anyway.)

I am glad to be here to witness this huge shift from Nicaragua’s dusty dry season to its shiny green wet one before I go. Glad also for the opportunity to experience it still here on tropical Ometepe, where I am spending a few extra days away from the Inan Itah “commune” amidst the gardens of El Porvenir, alone again in a private room with a bed that has sheets and a bathroom with white towels (never mind flush toilet). On Chuck’s recommendation, I’ve asked for Habitacion 11 at the very end with windows facing the garden. There is a hammock outside my front door where I can still take a short nap if I want - though I think for a while anyway I am done sleeping in one.

I have worked out an arrangement to teach yoga for a few days at nearby El Zopilote, just 15 minutes up the road. Free morning classes in exchange for meals, including the woodfire stove pizza they serve for dinner 3 nights a week including this one - which will be my last. The yoga “studio” is nothing more than a brightly painted outdoor platform with a mesh screen above for protection against the sun - though not so much the rain. It’s rained twice during each class I’ve taught so far, and always during savasana which felt like perfect timing. The morning rain comes down as a light to moderate drizzle so not too distracting for relaxing the body and finding inner peace. On the contrary.

Kalena

Kalena came with me to class today. She followed me home from Inan Itah last night, after I had returned from kayaking with Tarin and Chris. It’s a hike on to Porvenir from there and they’d (so) graciously offered to accompany me with headlamps on the dark rainy ½ hour walk through the fields and down the hill. Kalena and her sister Lanka, 2 of the Inan Itah dogs, decided to come along. Then Kalena decided to stay. I tried to send her home this morning, pointing uphill through the gate in Inan Itah‘s direction, but she wouldn’t leave. So instead we shared some toast and eggs for breakfast and went to yoga.

It is nice to have sweet gentle protective Kalena‘s company on my last day on Ometepe. She is a loyal one, waiting patiently through the night on the patio outside my bedroom door (tempted though I was to bring her in!) then by my yoga mat in the rain during class. She’s been a welcome reminder how much I miss having a dog, that maybe it will be time for one again when I return home.

After lunch I will walk Kalena back to Inan Itah in case she’s forgotten where she belongs. I’m worried about her running after my taxi (yes I’m taking one this time!) and something bad happening if she’s around when I leave tomorrow or her just not finding her way back on her own. I know sometimes how tricky that can be.

Kalena on the mat

(More final Ometepe days photos here!)

Retreating at Inan Itah, Ometepe

I've decided to stay at InanItah. This was not an easy decision and I woke up in the hammock this morning (!) despite a surprisingly nice night's sleep still thinking I might move on to Fincan El Porvenir further down the hill. Perhaps this spiritual communal life just wasn't for me?



View of the temple from my hammock bed

I've come here because Gabriela had recommended it. After a month of dusty dry season on the farm, I liked the idea of going back to the lush green foothills of volcano island Ometepe to cap off my visit in Nicaragua. I was also intruiged about the 5 day silent meditation retreat I'd discovered InanItah would be hosting round around that time. Most silent meditations I've considered in the past have been at least 10 days. Being silent for a mere 5 - with views of Volcan Conception jutting out of a lake as my backdrop no less! - didn't sound so bad. 

But InanItah is first and foremost a spirital eco-community. Its residents and volunteers (who need to stay here at least one month to count) have come because they are either curious about or committed to the path of "transformational living." Add tantric-minded to the mix and you will discover that in addition to the sweat lodge located beyond the tent area there is also a love shack for anyone inclined towards free spiritual love. Nothing is imposed or enforced but it is not shunned either so as long as you are mindful and respectful and abiding by the principles of the community as a whole, you can be as you are. Down to hanging in the communal hottub or kitchen topless.

Which is totally fine with me, even if I am just a "visitor." Not only did I have some hint of what I might be getting myself into but the communal aspect of this experience was also what drew me here. I was curious to see what this was all about, how exactly it worked and also how I fared in it -after so much solo NYC living and independent traveling. I wondered if, like the Israeli kibbutz, I would find it as intruiging as I did appalling. Or, now that I was older, maybe just more intruiging?

Well Day Two and so far I know InanItah takes some getting used to. After last night I really did feel ready to leave. I felt like I had walked into a high school cafeteria and not yet cool enough to sit with the cool kids (ahh yes that age old feeling that never goes away). And there were so many chores! So many shared responsibilities! Caring for the garden, preparing meals, feeding the composte, roasting the coffee, making the mulch, oh my...

But maybe this bit that is so disconcerting is precisely why I need to ride it out. And most of the people, individually - when you get  around to talking to them not just in group formation- are quite nice. At first I thought I might even forgo the retreat as well, instead go find a nice farm elsewhere , practice on my own and be silent with myself, on a hike or kayaking in the lake. But Gaia, the woman with dreadlocks down to her knees when they are not piled high on her head and one of InanItah's co-founders, has structured a great program, full of workshops and teachings as well as silence, so I will learn about things like Osho and ecstatic dance and other ways to experience a deeper meditation, which I am also pretty curious about.

So this is me signing off for the next few days, hopefully with good news to report upon my return. At the moment anyway I am looking forward to some silence :)

I have a small traveling meltdown

Back of the bus views from Moyagolpa to AltaGracia

Leave Salinas on 6:30 am bus to Rivas. Natalie and Paul come too to get their big grocery shopping done (nuts! coffee! cheese!) so my final trip is an excursion.  We are hoping to beat the heat and maybe also the crowds but the bus comes and this is the worst it's ever been.  Playing twister on the bus. Not squeezing in not an option as the next bus is at least another hour depending on when it shows up. 

So people squeeze in. The lucky ones sitting, usually women, usually 3 to a seat with their babies and small children piled on top. Did the Canadian Blue Bird Compay ever think its yellow school buses would work quite this hard? Be filled quite so high to the gills? Even the space over the seats is occupied because people dangle there, leaning so far forward from the aisle as more people crowd on or past to get off. Personal space is meaningless here, so abstract and irrelevent a concept as to be laughable when I think of the eyerolls and heavy sighs at rush hour on the NYC subways back home. 

Here even the babies just deal with it, their little foreheads shiny with beads of sweat, their faces practically serene with non-crying as if savvy to the question what would be the point?  There is nothing to be done. I would only be contributing to the chaos if I cried.

At one point I am so awkwardly straddling Paul's leg in front of me, hanging by the handlebars above into a seated woman's lap that she offers me a spot on the seat beside her, only a few inches or so since they are already two but I gratefully accept the offer and make it work, just glad to be out of the morass above and around me, as conscious of my sitting being a relief for those still standing as it is a relief for me to be away from them.

Same thing again once I arrive later that morning via ferry to Isla de Ometepe, where I've returned to spend the week this time for a retreat. Same thing as the first only this bus is smaller, more mini van than bus. I get on from the back this time, the trouble with traveling with a 70 liter mochilla attached like an appendage sprouting from my back so big I'm afraid to take it off for fear of having to put it back on.  Once situated on the bus I do, resting it among the crates and the sacks of rice and wheat and coffee and sitting on it as more people pile on and on and on...

And this is where I have my meltdown, sitting on my mochilla and staring at legs all around not even windows with a view, as the question "why why why why why am I here?" rises up and my face suddenly scrunches up and rivulets of tears join the sweat already there so that noone even has any idea I'm crying. It's one thing to be touting all the suffering you've put with for the sake of climbing a volcano.  However do I explain this?

But then more people pile onto the back of the bus along with their crates and sitting on my backpack on the floor is no longer a luxurious option so I stand. One of them happens to be a wisp of an old lady, so little she barely reaches my shoulder. She is wearing slacks, a flowery blouse and wire rimmed glasses, her straight grey hair pulled back and tucked behind her ears. We are standing there among the mostly men and teenagers and there are no handebars for her to grab, no window or door she can lean on because she is in the middle. So I think fast and make a handlebar for her with my arm by pressing it against the window and she grabs it.  Eventually we decide my shoulder is a more sturdy option so she holds on to that instead until we reach our destination in AltaGracia.

I am still not sure about directions to InanItah, the permaculture spiritual farm community where I'll be staying. The website says one thing, the guy James who I meet says another, then Paul on the phone from the farm says something different. I opt for Paul's version and take another bus and get off where I think he's told me to get off at Santa Cruz.  It is now about 2:30 and I am lost. There are no signs and I have no idea where I'm going.  The mochilla is back on my back and I am carrying my knapsack in front as I start to just walk, stopping people I see to ask.

Inan Itah signage

Fortunately, some of them have heard of this place and soon I am climbing a hill, then left and up another hill. Jorge with the bicycle has become my unofficial escort and I am sad to part ways when he says good bye, gives me a toothy sympathetic smile and points me in the direction of a handpainted sign that reads: Sendero para la laguna: 6 km. 

Another climb, several fields and 40 minutes later I pull into InanItah. So to speak. I've arrived via the back dirtroad it seems, happening upon Jared who is calmly watering the garden plugged into his iPod.  He confirms that I am at the right place and I follow him into the kitchen. 

He hands me a glass of water and then asks if I am ok.

I am now.

Things I will miss about Equilibrio

Welcome to Equilibrio

Has it already been 5 weeks? Well the time sure has flown and I never expected to be here as long as I have…but the allure was too strong… Gabriela and James’ hospitality too great…to justify leaving any sooner.

Equilibrio has been everything I needed though it only became obvious once I got here and slowly began to fall in love with the farm: the gentle rhythm of time passing from dawn to dusk; the balance of days filled equally with nature, good work, yoga and laughs; experiencing moments of beauty throughout in the birds, the breezes, the rippling of the river. I feel fulfilled and happy and sorry to leave. But tomorrow I continue on with a good excuse that I‘ve externally manufactured out of a retreat back on Ometepe island that starts on Monday. Deadlines are everything.

Every once in a while I will refer back to this list of things I miss about Equilibrio to help me always remember:
 

Roomates


Living on a beautiful farm by the river with an ocean just around the bend

My sun shower

Roosters dutifully letting me know dawn break is just two hours away

My two tiny frog roommates

Walking to the local pulparia for milk and their occasional bread cake

One last breakfast smoothie

Nightly gatherings for dinner, banana mango smoothies and dubstep in the “kitchen dungeon” with Natalie and Paul

Kayaking malasana-style with Natalie


Counting cordobas with Paul



Natalie and Paul

Keeping track of the tide

Wading (and sometimes sinking) in mangroves

Yoga with Gabriela

Practicing at her studio to the perpetual sound of ocean waves then taking a swim in them

The hangatorium

Carlos and Juan

Hammocks always at my disposal

The gentle belligerence of the nightly guard dogs, Buga and Vinci



The shouts, smiles and smirks of the kids of Las Salinas

Their patience with my Spanish

Watching the gardens evolve under Paul’s watchful eye (and sunburned back)

Falling asleep to the chit chatty sounds geckos make

Composting

Waking up to birds, trees and breezes in a giant, green fishbowl

Guardabarrangos at dusk


Gracias para todos. Ustedes lo agcradezco siempra.

Forever grateful,
Karen

And of course some last photos

Oops, I did it again



Well worth the walk over

 I went surfing again today. I’ve been spending the past day or so at the nearby Salinas surfing lodge Magnific Rock, having arrived mostly to experience its famous magnific views. The lodge sits perched on a cliff 20 meters above the sea and is easy to spot from Popoyo beach. The “happy hour” sunsets are supposed to be incredible.

Or course most everyone that is here has come here to surf and soon I find myself discussing swells, wave heights, and tide situations. Or rather, listening attentively. My new physically perfectly blond surfer friend/roommate Alynne from Vancouver Island is generous with her knowledge and before I know it, I am actually considering joining her in the water down below. In the morning, we review surfing do’s and don’ts and a few other surfers at the lodge chime in with more helpful advice.

A big part of me doesn’t want to do this, but I decide I should listen to the (very) small part of me that does. Anyway, the waves really don’t look too bad from the lodge.

When we reach the beach below, however, I change my mind. The waves seem exponentially bigger from this vantage point, the white wash ominously ponderous, and the undertow way stronger than me. Alynne has paddled out some 20 minutes ago to join the experienced surfers on the horizon and I stand, then sit, frozen on shore. But then a woman I recognize from Gabriela’s yoga class and her friend wave me over. They are beginners too. In their company I find the courage to go in.

And even though I know I will never ever be good at this, this is why I feel so exhilarated when I come out:

• Because there is nothing like looking heart palpatating fear in the face and realizing that’s all it is, just fear. 
• Because finding and exploring your edge may reveal the juiciest parts of life
• Because experiencing something new is a way to collect chapters for the book that is your life
• Because taking a long shower after having been pummeled by salty, powerful waves is one way to experience bliss
• Because what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger



Enjoying the views with Muhammed

Hard to talk about this stuff without collapsing into clichés. Interestingly, all the things I love about my attempts to surf so far are all the reasons I also love to travel. I love how it scares, tests, exhilarates and ultimately, hopefully makes me stronger, better, wiser. The way it enables me to access and honor parts of myself I rarely get to see when I am safe at home, in an altogether different mode of being. Not better or worse, just different.

Fer sure, surfing is not my calling in life - I am still trying to figure out what that is. But I do think the moments of fear, hilarity and saltiness that it affords will make great fodder for my book.  

Gone surfing (no, really)

I can now with a clear conscience leave Nicaragua: I’ve finally surfed.

Surfing, like volcanoes, is synonymous with Nicaragua among the well traveled. That I’ve been living near one of its most famous beaches these past few weeks and not yet touched a surfboard might be what some people (= surfers) call blasphemous.

The last time I surfed was in Sayulita, Mexico for my 35th birthday. I remember loving the thrill of paddling fast enough to “catch a wave” and lo and behold popping up to ride it in an upright position. This last part happened for me very rarely - ok, twice - despite having my own personal, world-class surfing coach with me there in the water giving me exact directions. I hardly call what I did surfing but I had a great time anyway.

Still, giving it another shot seemed like the right thing to do or at least simulating the experience of having tried. So when Natalie and her friend Sorab decided to go surfing today I decided I would tag along. They are experienced, hard core surfers and Sorab knew of a pointbreak in the nearby fishing village of Astillero he thought she might like. I myself was primarily happy for the chance to see another part of the Tola coastline and the possibly of fresh fish for lunch.

The biggest catch was the ½ hour walk from the beach to the pointbreak and Sorab was right to warn me I would have to carry my board. This, in fact, might be my biggest accomplishment of the day. The thing about surfing is the more inexperienced you are, the bigger the board. Basically, the surfboard transmogrifies into a raft. Which makes good decent sense. Still, when we went to retrieve the surfboards from the back of Sorab’s truck I innocently (conveniently?) forgot this fact and asked Natalie if the smallest one was mine. “No,” she said. Right.

The walk was really not so long and the board really not so heavy but I did straggle behind Natalie and Sorab most of the way feeling like I was in a comedy show of my own making, and kind of laughing out loud to myself about it as the sun beat down upon us. When we arrived, they went off surfing and caught about 500 waves and I mostly boogey boarded in knee deep whitewash off to the side, trying to avoid stingrays. Then I did some yoga on the beach. By the time, Natalie and Sorab came back about an hour later we were all sun-fried, salty and ready for a big lunch.



Natalie and Tona

Lunch was the biggest, freshest, deepest fried, garlic covered red snapper I have ever had. And two Tona’s, the Nicaraguan beer.

I love the ocean.

--------------------


P.S. Here are some pictures of my great day, complete with red snapper.

The yoga mural is underway!

After much planning and talk about it, we finally started the mural at La Biblioteca de los 3 Ernestos today. The wall in the small room adjacent to the library of donated books has been primed for days and the kids have been itching to begin.

I’ve been teaching them yoga + art classes twice a week since I arrived in Salinas through Gabriela and James’ grassroots community foundation, Fundacion Aprender. Aprender was the initiative they started when they moved to Salinas and noticed the lack of educational and recreational opportunities for the kids. Las Salinas is a tiny, remote village about a two hour rickety bus ride away to the nearest relative metropolis of Rivas (where it is possible to find an ATM or a pharmacy). Chickens, roosters, turkeys and pigs walk the dusty, dirt roads and most of the families are poor. Education is a nice-to-have and only if families can afford to buy the uniforms school kids are required to wear here in Nicaragua.

So Aprender got on that, offering family outreach, counseling and support to increase school registration and attendance. They helped get the kids uniforms. Then they built Salinas’ first library full of books and magazines in Spanish and English. It’s become a place where the kids can go to get help with their homework, use one of the five donated computers, or take really interesting classes - like mine! (Or Natalie’s - who teaches hula hooping to the older kids on Tuesday afternoons.)

It amazes me every day that I am here what Gabriela and James have done and continue to do, between building their permaculture farm and running Aprender. Thanks to a new grant they just received, Salinas will soon have a sports field. Thanks to a group of surfers passing through who wanted to help with money for supplies, the library will soon have a latrine. But - with the exception of the two full-time librarians Aprender can afford - Gabriela and James handle most of the fundraising, outreach and logistical coordination of all the projects themselves. Being around them is an inspiration, not to mention amazing lesson in getting shit done.

And so soon, too, the yoga mural will be done. The kids spent today rendering their yoga poses of choice on the white wall in pencil then painting them in with bright tempura colors. The poses line up pretty nicely on a windy road that leads from La Bibioteca all the way to Salinas’ hot springs, just like it does in real life. Some of the poses are levitating among the clouds and the butterflies, some are miniscule and some towering. After all my preparation and planning the mural nothing like what I'd imagined. It's beautiful.

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You can click here to see pictures of the kids and our yoga mural in progress!

To learn more about Aprender or find out what you can do to help please visit the site - or just let me know :)