Trading Blue for Yellow

Posted on August 12, 2013 by mindfulmagpie

A couple of Sundays ago I woke up feeling a little blue. My problems were the usual stuff of those who have no real problems. I had now been living with my belongings dispersed through the house as if by a maniac for many weeks. Since my bedroom floor was now rough concrete, I was stepping in little grains of cement every time I went in my bathroom. Between the workmen tramping in and out and having our extant bedroom furniture placed willy nilly in other rooms, trying to clean or organize was out of the question. I felt cheated because I had slept late and now my husband thought it was too late to ride bikes. Also, I had determined that only about five people were reading my blog. That was the real rub.

I contemplated this last opinion while I sat outside with my coffee. There was no doubt that I was feeling sorry for myself, and it was up to me to change the situation. Had I written what I wanted? Yes. Had I been satisfied with it? Yes. If a blogger writes a post in the forest, and the animals can’t read, is it a real blog post? I didn’t know, but I did know this mood was not going to fly. What could I do, I mused, to take care of myself right now and avoid the steaming morass of self pity that was lurking just over my left shoulder?

I knew! I knew! I was going to take my own self on an adventure! Quickly, before my brain could give me instructions otherwise, I threw on some bicycling clothes and smeared sunscreen on my face. “You’re going all by yourself to Shelby Farms?” inquired my husband as he checked my bicycle tires. “Yep,” I replied, sliding my cell phone into my sports bra. “Maybe it would be easier to leave the phone at home,” he suggested. “Nope,” I replied.

I knew why he’d said that. A few years ago while we were riding together I had tried to fish my phone out of my bra while riding. I wasn’t having any trouble until he came up behind me offering suggestions while I tried to answer the phone and stop the bike at the same time. Thanks to his “help” I pulled on only one brake, causing me to be thrown over the handlebars and onto the pavement, watching my cell phone clatter down the street.

Today I wasn’t going to get caught up into his fears that I would again answer the phone while biking. His fears were going to have to be his own problem. This bike ride was going to be all about me, Baby.

In five minutes I was pedaling down my driveway, free as I had felt on a Saturday morning in second grade after I had dusted the piano and been allowed outside to play. As a child I regularly biked for hours around our neighborhood. It was the same now except I had a helmet and could go as far as I wanted. How could it be that I rode my bike so seldom? Well, for one thing it is often hotter than Hades where I live, I reminded myself, making it necessary that bike riders, along with walkers, runners, and gardeners , start their activities at dawn or not at all. Today, however, the temperature was tolerable and the humidity low.

My general destination was Shelby Farms, a 4500 urban park close to our home. In recent years a conservancy has made major improvements in the park including turning an unused railroad track into a Greenline to help connect citizens to the pleasures within. The part that will extend to my neighborhood is not yet built, so, alone with my thoughts , I took backroads for about 6 miles until I crossed into the park.

The park is split by a major thoroughfare. I rode into the south side which contains, among other things, a farmer’s market and an RV park. I rode beside the RV park, wondering what it would be like to have one, and to pull up to a campsite in the middle of the city to spend the night. After reading a mystery series in which the heroine drove an RV, I mentioned it would be fun for me to tool around in one. This idea was just too much for the man who is afraid for me to take my phone on a bike ride. He sputtered about how hard it would be for me to maneuver, how I lack depth perception ( which is true) and the costs of gas. Mostly I think he was afraid he would come home and find an RV in our driveway. What does he think I am, I asked myself as I cleared the RV area. Impulsive?

Beyond the Rv area I rode on some narrow and some wide trails past the solar farm area and an enormous mulch making facility before cutting up closer to the road. I was close to my specific destination: the sunflowers.

Every year the park plants a large field of tall sunflowers which can be seen from the major thoroughfare. Countless children are taken there by their parents to pose for pictures among the flowers. Engagement photos are taken there as well. Maybe some people even cut some flowers to take home. I had always wanted to visit the sunflowers during their brief season, but until today I never had.

I dismounted and took out my camera. Rows and rows of sunflowers stood before me, just like a corn maze. I found an opening and tromped in, taking care not to get too close to some families nearby who were photographing their children. As I admired all the yellow and gold loveliness, I overheard parents admonishing their children to stop crying and smile for the camera. A Labrador Retriever was being urged to stand beside a recalcitrant child.

Nevertheless, it was a peaceful place. I could hear but not really see the traffic. And within the rows was a a magical feast of golds, yellows and greens. The sky was somewhat overcast, but the colors shimmered for me. Deep within the rows, unseen by any human eye, I stood perfectly still. All around me the bees buzzed and lit on flowers, while butterflies chased one another from bloom to bloom. Everywhere I looked a sea of sunflowers faced the sun. Even the backs of their necks were beautiful to me.

How long did I stay? I stayed until I decided to leave. Somehow the warmth and simplicity of the sunflowers restored my equilibrium. As I eventually pedaled away, I heard myself say to me, “You may have just five readers, but they’re QUALITY readers!” That made me laugh out loud. Yes, I was out on an adventure that day, and I wasn’t going by the specifications of others. I would follow the sun in my own way.

Ineffability and Responsibility, or To Hell and Back with My Sister

Posted on July 23, 2013 by mindfulmagpie

A Note from the Magpie:

Dear Readers,

You are about to be treated to the Mindful Magpie’s very first guest post, penned by none other than Ellen, my marvelously talented sister. Those who have not met her on this blog might like to visit this previous post and this one , oh, and also this one to familiarize themselves with her coolness, or just jump right in! I’ll get out of the way now before she accuses me of being bossy.

I was rocking out to the radio as I pulled up to the little ticket dispenser at the Greensboro International Airport. Yes, you guessed it! I was on my way to visit my sister in Memphis, my hometown. The dispenser buzzed and stuck out its tongue at me. Still impressing all who might be listening with my vocal talent, I blithely yanked on the tongue to dislodge the long term parking ticket from its jaws. Let the games begin! I pulled forward into the lot without rolling up my window, so when I placed the little ticket on my dashboard as I always do, I saw it flutter gracefully out of my line of sight. No bother. I would place the little runaway in its proper spot before moving onto the terminal. Luck, I thought, was surely with me today. No sooner than I had whipped Zula, my little VW Jetta, into a strategic parking spot than the shuttle magically appeared right behind me. I’ll find that pesky parking ticket on the way home, I told myself. Meanwhile, adventure awaited me in the form of my daughter’s purple roll-on suitcase and the shuttle with its patiently purring engine. With no regrets, I nimbly hopped onto the shuttle and into my wild rumpus.

On my last night in Memphis with my sister I penned a list of activities which had filled our all-too-short time together. Yes, the list was longish (As my sister has pointed out previously, I am methodical). Yes, I really did engage in all the activities happily and willingly (As my sister has pointed out previously, I am motivated). Yes, we had used our time wisely (As my sister has pointed out previously, I am organized). Yes, yes, yes; a thousand times yes! This list, which has been displayed in my sister’s earlier post, is simply a litany of activities. It can in no way encompass what we did together in Memphis. What I achieved was the goal of spending as much time with my sister as humanly possible in the short amount of time we had together. Mini-goals included, but were not limited to, laughing uproariously and in a most unladylike manner (sorry, Mother!) on any and all pretexts; discussing issues large and small in no particular order or chronological sequence; eating some foods which either aren’t available at home or which no one else at my house likes but me-or both; and reading and discussing what we’ve read.

Here’s where ineffability comes into play. The time I spend with Mary Beth is akin to how a sunflower tracks the sun as it moves through the sky. It is how Monarch butterflies journey down to Mexico and back each year. It is how the Earth orbits the sun, and the Moon orbits the Earth in its turn. They do it because they must. And I spend time with my sister because I must. Words will not suffice to make my meaning clear, but I will try (As my sister has pointed out previously, I am determined). I have had Mary Beth in my life as long as I can remember. We share the same sense of humor and the same love of reading and other intellectual pursuits. I rarely have to explain myself to her, and I never have to pretend to act or feel any certain way to gain her approval. I extend her this same leeway. Told ya words wouldn’t really get the job done. (As my sister has pointed out previously, I am task-oriented).

Responsibility touched down on my shoulders the minute I re-entered that long term parking lot after getting off the plane from Memphis via Atlanta. Remember that little parking ticket which had fluttered down off the dashboard in the breeze from my open car window? Turns out it is awfully hard to leave the long term parking lot without it. Having never misplaced one before, I was unaware of this fact. I dumped the purple roll-on in the back seat and commenced to search for the little ticket. I looked high and low, but that little ticket just did not want to be found. No bother. I proceeded to the exit gate. There I learned for the first time what hubbub could ensue when the little ticket went AWOL. No, the man could not just take my word for how long Zula had been parked in the lot. No, I did not have my boarding pass from the outbound trip. No, I did not have my itinerary (but you can be sure I will next time! As my sister has pointed out previously, I am a quick learner). Nothing for it but to trudge back to the terminal in the hopes that the desk employees could find some non-incriminating information for me. That bumpy landing in Greensboro had played havoc with other flights, so I had a long wait for my turn at the desk. Papers clutched firmly in my hand, I approached the exit booth for a second time. The fat raindrops dimpling Zula’s black hood convinced the little man that, as I had averred from the beginning, I did not park inside the deck but rather in the vast parking lot surrounding the exclusive parking deck.

When I was a young adult, Mary Beth tried upon many an occasion to share her worldly wisdom with me, often in an unsolicited manner. Unappreciative, I demanded that she quit telling me what to do. Mainly she has complied with this request. I explained to my friends that Mary Beth could call me in the middle of the night, to tell me to do something, and I would do it. Following her lead had been ingrained behavior, even if I did protest every now and then. Some things never change. If Mary Beth said, “Come on, Ellen. We’re going to hell,” I would get my knitting, my book, and my big girl drink and jump into the car. After all, if that’s where Mary Beth is headed, then I want to go there too.* Uh, we did get round trip tickets, right?

*Disclaimer: The author of the post is in no way implying that her sister is going to hell in a hand basket or in any other type of conveyance. Nor should any reader of this post so infer.

She Who Restores Me To Myself

Posted on June 18, 2013 by mindfulmagpie

Magpies, in their love of shininess, have an especial need to experience scintillating moments with glittery people. By glittery I do not mean shallow, brittle, self absorbed, or vain. I am talking about an honest shine that comes from the inside all the way out, an unconditional shine that radiates warmth over others, a brightly colored shine that pulsates with willingness to pursue novel endeavors. I am of course describing my sister Ellen.

I promised in my last post to write about our latest adventures. But first a little background. Last summer I wrote a post about my sister in which I referred to her as L.G., or Little General. Ellen did not appreciate that appellation, so I have withdrawn that name from our lexicon. Last week, in a blaze of dervish like activity prior to boarding a plane, I referred to my sister as a hurricane, knowing that should she read the post I would be in big trouble, my kind intentions notwithstanding.

I am now on record to say that Ellen gets things done, but she is NOT a general. She is a force of nature, but she is NOT a hurricane. What then, can I call her? She is a person of great intellect, wit, and charm. Her droll humor and clever imagination cannot be matched. Her no nonsense work ethic and organizational skills are an inspiration to others. Her zest for life is unparalleled, her enjoyment of it a sight to behold. Her authenticity is a beacon to my soul. AND she loves me!

I had not seen my sister since December 2012, when I spent one night with her en route to a friend’s cabin. Little did we know that six long months would pass before we could see one another again. Somehow, with our various travel and work schedules along with family commitments, the weeks elapsed with no firm visiting plans.

We don’t talk on the phone much. We write letters by hand, on paper, to one another, and have for years. But this past semester many weeks separated our letters. I was beginning to feel like an American colonist awaiting word from the continent. Had my letter been lost at sea, dashed on a rocky promontory after a shipwreck? Would I hear that she and her family had perished in a smallpox epidemic? Finally my impatience got the better of me. I left her the following cryptic voice mail,”The jig is up!”

That, ladies and gentlemen, got a response, and at last we were able to plan for her to come see me in my town. She flew in on a Friday night just as my husband was flying out on a business trip, making the timing just right for an All Girls’ Extravaganza. I picked up the Hurric. picked her up at the airport and took her straight to my new midtown condo to spend the night. She admired the condo, and we both exclaimed over the sweet note my husband had left for us. Then she unpacked a few of her things. As I watched her familiar movements and listened to her long accustomed voice, I had this exact thought: I am restored to myself.

Our plan for the week was to have no plan. That way our plans couldn’t possibly go wrong. That evening, we wanted to eat dinner someplace where we could hear ourselves talk. I recommended a place where we chose a secluded table. No sooner had we sat down than a large group of ladies, some under the influence of more than two martinis with more in the offing, began screaming raucously, in a way that truly rattles the eardrums.

What do you suppose Ellen did? She approached those ladies, put her arm around one, leaned in and had a little ole talk with them. And they lowered the volume! When we left the restaurant a waitress followed us out to thank her for helping with the situation!!! How do you describe someone like this?

I told you she’s a force of nature!

The next day Ellen accompanied me to a Knit In Public Day at the zoo. She joined right in with these knitters, sharing knitting anecdotes from her own experiences.. And yes, she had brought her own knitting, self sufficient as always. She patiently allowed me to show her off to these folks who may never see her again,with nary a complaint about the heat or crowds. What would you call someone like that?

After knitting we stopped in a consignment store to look for midcentury modern furniture pieces for my largely unfurnished condo. She said she did not know what midcentury modern was, but she found me two tables, and rearranged my car so that they would both fit. But that is not all! She went all the way back down to the condo with me and helped me schlep them up there in grocery carts! Impressive, right?

And wait! There’s more! She moves furniture!

On Sunday Ellen gamely accompanied me to the Book Club Brunch where she knew barely a soul. I had actually not read the book to be discussed but by chance she had and was able to make salient comments while I nodded sagely. Though we were at a lovely function in a lovely home, Ellen murmured not when I announced we must be moving on to the theater to see Death Trap. This allowed me to use my last two remaining season tickets and also take advantage of the special that day for extending my subscription. All because of Ellen.

On Sunday night we dropped in to Tug’s at Mud Island to be waited upon by my son. While enjoying our meal there we proofread a paper my son was writing for a summer school class. I am fairly sure we were the only two customers there discussing poetry. After dinner we took a leisurely stroll by the banks of the Mississippi River, remarking on the environs and how many pieces of driftwood resembled dinosaurs. Thus ended another cultural evening.

After a discussion of poetry over dinner.

Ellen did not flinch the next evening when it was time for Iyengar Yoga. Her graduate school schedule had prevented her from going to her own class all winter, but she knew enough to know not to push herself. She has “subbed” in my class before, so many members were of course glad to see her. After yoga we spent some quality time outside on my pergola ( which her husband was instrumental in building) before eating a lovely dinner of grilled vegetables and chicken. Prepared by Ellen.

Post yoga quality time.

Our chef having some well deserved relaxation.

Tuesday was my hair day but we made it Ellen’s hair day too. I told her I liked her hair better red than blonde highlighted, so she obligingly had it redone. I watched to see how the stylist blew it dry so I could show her later. We were too hungry to take pictures, so just believe me that we were two groovy red haired old ladies when we left that shop.

And Wednesday. By Wednesday I had to face a deadline - Mary Hannah’s portrait. For months I had been working on the portrait my niece had asked me to paint. I had decided that I would have it finished as best I could by the time Ellen departed on Thursday so she could deliver it for me. This meant that after helping me with some yardwork early in the day, Ellen would be stuck watching me paint. Ellen had, however, bought some teeny tiny canvases, and tried her hand at them while I labored repeatedly to get M. H.’s skin color to a reasonable tone. Or tint. Or something. Eventually, though her skin looked like combinations of calamine lotion and badly applied makeup, I could do no more. Ellen was suitably soothing and optimistic that the portrait would pass muster with her daughter.

One of Ellen’s tiny canvases.

That night we again spent the night at the condo in order to be closer to the airport in the morning. We wanted to have a nice evening so I made us a reservation a place close by where I did not think there would be gaggles of loud ladies. Ellen acquiesced when I suggested she change out of those crummy shorts, and together we walked in the blazing heat to the restaurant. She changed into a skirt of mine that was too long, while I was wearing a skirt I considered a little dowdy. As we walked I saw how easy it could be for the two of us to become peculiar old ladies together, going to the Early Bird Specials and matinees, careful to be home by dark.

It was a bittersweet evening. As I doodled on my side of the tablecloth, Ellen was compiling a list of all we had done.

Now with red hair.

The list was long, but not nearly long enough. Oh, the things we would do if we had more time! Oh, how empty indeed would even the mundane events be without her! We decided once again that there was no help for it but to retire together in the same place, on the same property if possible. We’ll tell our husbands it’s the only way.

Ellen has gone home now. The portrait is delivered. I am trying to recalibrate myself after almost a week with this adorable creature who knows my thoughts, who finishes my sentences, who always finds something to celebrate. Now that you have read my post I must ask: what you would call my sister? How can she even be described? If you can think of anything - not L.G. or Hurricane of course- I’d be glad to know. For now, I’m just going to call her She Who Restores Me To Myself.

Hurricane Ellen

Posted on June 13, 2013 by mindfulmagpie

I know you wonder why you haven’t heard from me. I know you’ve been worried about me. So let me assure you that I have lost neither life nor limb. But I have experienced a powerful natural phenomenon that one doesn’t encounter every day : Hurricane Ellen.

I volunteered to experience the effects of this powerful little swirling force. I invited her. I flew her here in fact! You may have heard of her last year if you read my post Extra Extra, Read All About It, which details my lovely girls getaway with Hurricane Ellen. I referred to her in that post as The Little General, but I have been informed NOT to call her that any more. So for now it is Hurricane Ellen. She’s not going to like that either, but my brain is in too much of a whirl to come up with a title that describes her in more superlative terms.

I do owe Hurricane Ellen a better moniker, and the flattering description she so richly deserves. In print right here I promise to do it. But not right now. I am packing to go out of town for the weekend, and my force of nature house guest just left this morning. For now I just want to tell you I am still here, not harmed, but actually much improved from having my wonderful sister here for almost a week.

In parting I will say that if you know someone you long to spend the week with, go ahead and make it happen. Don’t wait to have the time of your life. You may not experience it as a Hurricane, but any force of nature brings its own rewards. I must stop here because my husband is clearing his throat and giving me those “hurry up” looks. I will give the full Hurricane report when I return!

A Reliable Tour Guide

Posted on April 8, 2013 by mindfulmagpie

Don’t expect a slick sophisticated travel review today. I’m returning to my recent trip to Istanbul to tell you about some of my adventures. Many times when I travel it is because I am tagging along with my husband while he works. We have our methods down pat. We arrive a day or so early and do things together. Then he works for two and a half days while I amuse myself, and then we have a little more time together after his work is concluded.

When people I know found out I was going to Istanbul, a majority of them advised me not to go anywhere alone. Many of them said this not based on any of their own experiences, but because an American woman had recently been murdered there. Personally I was not afraid. For one thing I already live in a very violent town, and could hardly imagine Istanbul being worse. Second, I am careful when I travel. I don’t venture into “iffy” areas. The places I want to go are distinctly undangerous - museums, for example. What are the statistics on murders inside museums and museum bookstores? Finally, I trust my own instincts. If I even think I might start to feel uncomfortable in a place, I leave.

Despite my own opinions, the pleas not to go out alone continued. Even my daughter who had recently been to Istanbul asked me not to go out alone. She had not gone out by herself while in Istanbul, but she had had no reason to; her husband was not working. To appease my daughter, I said that while her Dad was working I would get a Turkish bath at the hotel and go on a tour. That seemed to assuage her fears.

As planned. my husband and I had a day to orient ourselves to the town before he started work. The first day he worked I booked myself for a Turkish bath at our hotel. I knew this was probably not going to be the most authentic experience, but having had no Turkish bath at all, ever, I thought I could start here. In fact I wasn’t even sure what a Turkish bath was. When I checked in at the spa desk, I was led to a ladies’ dressing room and shown where to put my clothes. and what towel to wrap myself in.

I complied with these directions, and sat down on a bench in the dressing room wondering what I was supposed to do next. After a few minutes I went out to the front, draped in my towel, causing a maintenance man to jump ten feet,( They’re very modest over there) and asked the receptionist if I was supposed to come back to the front. All she said to me was “No.” “OK, no,” I muttered to myself and went back to the dressing room. It sure was getting hot and humid in there! I sat and sat. In a few minutes a woman clad in a bikini like outfit came in from a back door in the dressing room and addressed me in Turkish. When I couldn’t understand her she left. Since I have such trusty instincts I realized, in my sweaty humid state that unless I approached someone I would probably spend my entire day sweating in a towel in a dressing room! I knew not to go to the front desk so I opened the back door, where I saw the Turkish speaking woman. Gulping in the fresh air of the corridor I ventured,” Turkish bath?” She responded again in Turkish, but this time I heard the word“hamam” (Turkish bath) so I vigorously nodded yes.

We needed no language for the bath. I stretched out on a warm slab of marble, listening to some soft music as the attendant scrubbed, lathered and rinsed me. Heavenly! After her ministrations she led me, freshly toweled, to a dark room with chaise longues, and brought me a tray of tea and fruit. And left me.

I nibbled my fruit and drank my tea, resting on the lounge which also seemed heated. After a few minutes it seemed a little…hot. What was I supposed to do now? I peered into the hallway. I saw no one. Once again I decided I’d better take matters into my own hands. Since no one was apparently ever going to come back for me again, I decided I could sneak back into the dressing room for my phone and take a few stealth pictures. Then I let myself out. No one seemed to notice.

This was where I had my Turkish bath. The same little maintenance man was cleaning the room,so I didn’t take a full shot. I figured I had frightened him enough for one day.

The next day, Sunday, I was booked on an all day tour which was to include being picked up at the hotel and returned to the Asian side at the end of the day. I arrived in the lobby at the appointed time. After fifteen minutes of waiting, caffeine deprived I spoke to the desk clerk who stated my car was outside. Sure enough, a young man in a business suit was waiting for me in a four door sedan. He ushered me into the back seat and in silence drove me from the Asian to the European side. We pulled into the parking lot of the HIlton, beside a couple of vans, where several Turkish men were conferring. It seemed to me that Turkish men seemed to do quite a bit of conferring.

Someone opened the car door for me and I got out and stood there. One of the Turkish men approached me and asked if I wanted to go on Tour One or Tour Two. I stated I was booked for Tour Two, because I had already done most of the things on Tour One. His face fell.”Alright,” he informed me,”You are the only one on your tour then.”

Gulp! How does one go about being the only one on a tour? I didn’t know how to get myself back to the ferry to the Asian side so I decided I had best just go ahead with it. I was returned to the sedan, with my original driver, whom I thought resembled Balthazaar Getty, plus Aran, my very own tour guide.

I’m not really sure where all we went. I was just the Queen in the back seat.

After riding through several neighborhoods, with Aran narrating and Balthazaar silent except when the two men needed to confer in Turkish, Aran announced it was almost time for our break, during which I might like a coffee. Aah, a stop in a darling Turkish coffee shop sounded just right to me. As I daydreamed of aromatic coffee in the back seat, our driver pulled right into McDonald’s. Yes, I did say McDonald’s.

One of the McDonald’s cats.

While my driver and tourist guide bought coffee upstairs, I went downstairs to the ladies restroom. I had bought a bottle of water ( You can’t drink the tap water there) so I could take my vitamins and such. I was the only one down there, so while I was in the stall I went ahead and dug out my gallon sized ziplock bag which was filled with individual baggies of all my daily medicines.

My water bottle was in one hand and a baggie of vitamins was in the other, when the lights suddenly went out. I dropped the vitamins and they scattered all over the floor. Here I am. I said to myself. In this moment. On a toilet. In a bathroom. In the dark. In a McDonald’s. In Istanbul. With two men I don’t know. Taking a tour all by myself. Well, what is travel for if not for new experiences?

I managed to get my pants up without flushing my medicines down the toilet and exited the dark room without further mishap. My two Turkish friends were still enjoying their coffee and cigarettes.

You can have your Big Macs delivered in Istanbul. Good to know.

Next we went to a scenic overlook. I am afraid I can’t remember the name. It was too hazy for good pictures, but I enjoyed people watching while I tasted a selap, a local drink made of dried orchid roots. Aran and Balthazaar were standing by, respectfully keeping an eye on me. I was beginning to feel the way Sasha and Malia Obama might feel, precious and well cared for. And deserving it too.

Soon we departed to the Beylerbeyi, a summer palace of the sultans. Baltahzaar let us out and we entered the palace grounds. Aran told me that visitors must be accompanied by a guide, So he gave me a lovely tour of the palace. Unfortunately photography was not allowed, so I can only tell you it was sumptuous inside.

The tunnel to the Palace.

The palace grounds.

We journeyed on to the Serkeci train station, to the site of the original Orient Express route. A complimentary lunch in the train station restaurant, also named the Orient Express, was included on my tour. Aran ushered me to a table with a gentlemanly flourish. Before I knew it a mustachioed waiter appeared for my drink order. Since I was the only person in the restaurant, I was in fact attended by several mustachioed waiters. In regal solitude I sipped my tea, ate my lunch, admired the Agatha Christie posters, and read my Kindle.

After lunch I had time to take a few pictures and pretend I awaited an appointment with Hercule Poirot. Aran seemed to have vanished but I eventually saw him conferring with a few other Turkish men and drinking tea at a small corner table. I think my darting in and out of the train station alarmed him; whenever he couldn’t see me he rushed outside to find me. In fact there seemed to be an abundance of time to wait after lunch.

Train station cat.

Because guess what? We were waiting for Baltahazaar to bring Other People, would be joining us for the second half of the tour!! Was I ever glad to see them! Now I no longer had the crushing burden of being the only person to tip Aran this day! This dilemma had been buzzing around my brain like an aggressive bazaar merchant all morning!

When the others joined us we piled into a van and went for a brief turn at the Spice Market. I was surprised to find myself a little unwilling to share “my” guide with these interlopers. I winced when I heard these Americans asking questions such as ,”Are you a Muslim?’ And, “Why do I see so many covered women?” But I remained gracious, as always.

Can you guess which one of these men is NOT an American?

Our last stop was a cruise on the Bosphorus. As we made our way there Aran asked the others what hotels they came from. I was the only one on the Asian side. “What will happen to me when the tour is over?” I asked Aran. “I don’t know,” he replied. “I have to take all the others back to their hotel. But I’ll show you how to ride the ferry back; it’s easy!” he reassured me. Hmmm. Suddenly I was no longer such precious cargo.

People watching on the Bosphorus cruise.

It was such a glorious, sunny day for a boat ride that we had a huge crowd. It was difficult to take pictures, so after a while I just listened to Aran’s narration and wondered how I would return to the Asian side. In due time the cruise was over. Aran was in a big hurry to get the other tour members back in the van. I can only assume there was some deadline for returning either the van or its passengers. I barely had time to press some lira into my guide’s hand before he pointed where I should get the ferry to the Asian side, and turned in the opposite direction.

I approached the pier as Aran had directed but the sign did not say Kadiköy which was my destination. No one was on duty in the ticket booth. I needed to buy a ticket from someone. Since I did not know I would need my Istanbulkart, I had left it at the hotel. I saw someone talking to a man in a reflective vest, so I decided I too would approach him. He informed me that this was the correct ferry. The destination was the Princes’ Islands, but Kadiköy was the first stop. And he was glad to sell me a ticket.When the gangplank was lowered I crowded aboard with all the others.

When the tea man came around, I treated myself. Sipping the sweet hot liquid, I concluded that when I travel there is no such thing as “going out alone”, because I always take me with me. In all of the activities I had undertaken in part to keep my promise not to go out alone I had had to rely upon my own judgement. Heck, if I’d not taken action the day before I’d still be wrapped in a towel in the basement of my hotel! Who had helped me in the dark McDonald’s bathroom? ME!! And right now, after being treated like a hothouse flower most of the day by my tour guide, I was left to my own devices to get back to where I’d come from. From now on, I told myself, whenever someone says don’t go out alone, I’ll say, “Don’t worry; I never go out alone!” I am the most reliable tour guide of all.

Read This When You Get Back

Posted on February 20, 2013 by mindfulmagpie

Here’s the deal: I’m off to Istanbul in about twenty minutes. That means I have about four minutes to write this post. But I am going to write this so that I can remember how I was feeling before I left. I feel crazy right now, but wonders await me in Istanbul.

I didn’t mean to be in such a chaotic state this morning. But really and truly it is not all my fault. A few days before Christmas my husband remarked that he had been invited to teach a class in Istanbul in February. I immediately informed him that yes, he did want to accept this offer. He took my advice and accepted. For weeks he emailed through a third party in the United States to whomever made arrangements in Istanbul. Eventually course dates were arranged, but until we knew dates, I could not start my own planning process.

So finally we had dates and a location: Hilton in Istanbul on the European side. I immediately communicated this to my daughter who had recently returned from Istanbul. We looked up the hotel, and I began to orient myself to the locale. Then my husband came home and said that was not the right hotel. It would be at the Doubletree, on the Asian side. I looked up THAT hotel, and began to learn how to get around on that side.

We did not get to make our own airline reservations, which was a little off putting because at first the reservation maker had us changing planes three times. Sigh. I asked my husband if he thought I should even go because it seemed so hard to make the plans. He informed me, as I had him, that yes, I did want to go.

So. Late in January we finally had tickets, which meant I could go ahead and read books about Turkey and try to learn a few words. Every chance I got I was reading about how to get to the Museum of Innocence, the Florence Nightingale Museum, and the more typical “must sees” such as Topkapi Palace and the Aya Sofya. I was starting to feel a little confident about tackling a visit to this magnificent city.

Then my husband came home one night and said, “We’re not staying at the Doubletree; we’re staying at the Parkhouse Hotel.” And so I scratched the Doubletree and began to google the Parkhouse and its environs so that I could navigate the area.

About five days ago my husband began to cough and cough and cough. I suggested he head to the Doctor. He declined. He coughed. I suggested. He declined. He coughed. And yesterday he went to the Doctor. He sounds a little bit less like a recent escapee from a tuberculosis sanitorium, for which I am glad , because he will have to speak for two days straight at the class he is teaching.

I’ve continued to try to learn words and make plans right up to the wire. I didn’t sleep well last night because my poor little patient tossed and turned. I woke later than I wanted to, and I was mighty cranky. Finally I went and showered. As I combed my wet hair my husband stepped in the bathroom and announced, “Oh. I got an email that they changed our hotel reservations back to the Doubletree.” And that’s when I started laughing like a hyena.

Whatever! We’re going to Istanbul and we’ll stay SOMEWHERE. My husband will be able to speak or he won’t. I can always come to his class and read the stuff out loud for him, though I don’t know what any of it means. I’ll refer to my carefully loaded Istanbul Eats apps, and learn from my Turkish language book on Kindle. I’ll take photos, and eat good food. I’ll view as many fabulous sites as I can, and drink in the beauty of the city skyline. The adventures to come will outweigh the craziness of right now. I just know it.

In Which I Appear In An Expat Blog

Posted on November 5, 2012 by mindfulmagpie

Whee! I am sprinkling imaginary colored confetti all around the room thinking about the story I have to tell! I’ve been sitting at the keyboard struggling with how to preface my tale by reminding readers that my husband/ traveling companion and I are exact opposites, and that therefore we are in constant tug of war trying to find overlapping ground in and out of our mutual comfort zones. And that sometimes it’s not pretty. But when we can both get a healthy push outside what we were expecting, we are ushered into the land of great memories. So grab a handful of confetti, and come on! Sprinkle it into the story wherever you want!

Last week I went with my husband to Amsterdam, Netherlands, where he goes at least once a year on business. I go with him as often as I can. We always arrive two days early for him to recover from jet lag before he teaches a class for two and a half days, and I amuse myself. Because he has to take his vacation days for these trips ( They are a sideline, not his regular job) we usually have to leave as soon as he is finished with his class. As one might expect, I feel somewhat chafed under this routine, though I am certainly grateful to get to go anywhere at all, and have tried to make the best of the short time by planning something new for us to do together on the one full day my husband has before his work begins.

This time my plans were to go outside the city to the Hoge Veluwe Park. a large wildlife reserve with a world class art museum and restored hunting lodge of the former land owners. Free bicycles are available for riding through the park. The plan was to go through the park, the museum, and the lodge and then stop at the nearby Airborne Museum. which tells the story of the World War II battle of Arnhem. My husband agreed to these plans except he just wasn’t sure he wanted to ride bikes in this cold weather.

So Sunday morning, we embarked for the train station, two hours later than we planned, due to having accidentally set our clocks back TWICE for Dutch daylight savings time , and proudly without a guide book, because I had an international phone plan, and I was going to use it. Oops! When we arrived at Arnhem, where we were to catch a bus to Hoge Veluwe, I couldn’t get my phone to work. ( Later I did find out how to make it work.) We stood around the train station trying to read the bus schedules. There was no one on duty in the bus information kiosk. I asked a couple of bus drivers who told me to take bus numbers which didn’t exist. I stepped into a third bus and was trying to describe where I wanted to go, when I heard a voice behind me saying. “Is this where you are trying to go?”

I turned and there was a young woman with an open guide book, pointing RIGHT at our destination. “Oh yes,” said the bus driver. “We go there.” Aaah! So we boarded the bus, along with the young lady, who explained to us that she too was going to see the Kroller Muller Museum at the park, which has the largest collection of Van Goghs outside of the Van Gogh Museum. Then we all faced the front and took a winding route through the countryside until we arrived at the back entrance of the park.

Of course we did not realize we were at the back of the park, which meant that the museum was farther away from us than we expected. We heard the young lady with the guide book ask the admission desk lady how one would get to the museum from the gate and heard the woman reply that one could walk or bike the SIX MILES to the museum! Well! So much for “Mr. I Don’t Think I Feel LIke Biking Today.” I’m thinking at that point he was rather relieved to know that biking was an option.

So we found ourselves combing through the bike racks for the right size bikes, as the little young lady did the same. I call her a little young lady because she was of rather short stature. Sadly, none of the bikes were right for the length of her legs. “Oh well,” she said in a philosophical tone. “I’ll just walk”. Oh my. I felt awful leaving her there while we rode. I found myself offering to try to ride her in or on the kiddie seat which was on the back of each bike, though I knew she did not know us well enough to accept such an offer. As I expected, she declined , and set off resolutely to cover the six miles to arrive before the museum closed.

Cold and windy day

Nothing will induce this man to wear a scarf.

Meanwhile, we set out on our gearless bikes in the 40 degree windy weather to ride across the park. The terrain went from wooded, to meadow, to sandy, and back to wooded. Every few minutes I would lament the fate of the young lady, for even on wheels this was a difficult six miles. Couldn’t one of us have ridden the young lady on our bike handlebars? Did she have a warm enough hat? By the time we neared the museum I was hungry and cranky. After parking our rides in the bike stands we ate a quick lunch in the cafeteria.

I will tell you that the museum is worth seeing. It was founded by the Kroller Muller family to house their growing art collection.

It was good to see the Van Goghs.

Remember this man! We’ll be seeing him later.

Sadly we did not have enough time to give the museum the perusing it deserved, but I think we made it through most of it once. In one gallery I was relieved to run right into the young lady I’ve previously mentioned. She recounted her arduous journey, reporting that about halfway through the walk she’d commandeered an abandoned child’s bike with crooked handlebars. It had a rough ride, but she made it work, finding out that when she’d parked the bike it also had a flat tire! We were glad to know that to exit the park we would go on a different, shorter path to catch the bus.

The afternoon was waning, but we took a few more minutes to see some of the sculpture garden. And when we returned to the bike racks, guess what?? There were no bikes left!!! Someone had taken our bikes!!! So as the sun sunk lower in the sky we walked about a mile and a half to the edge of the park. And there, huddling in the hood of her coat, was the young lady, whose broken child’s bike had NOT been stolen. She knew the bus schedule, and announced the bus we wanted would arrive in twenty minutes. A handsome young Dutch man - yes, the one I told you to remember - joined us at the bus stop and echoed the expected time of the bus.

As we listened to the night sounds in the woods, stomping our feet for warmth, we finally made one another’s acquaintance. Our young lady introduced herself as Lindsay , a native Texan who had only been in the country for two months of a two year stint working in the Hague. She had been trying to go somewhere in the country every weekend. Twenty minutes became thirty, and then forty, before we decided we had better hike to the next village “only” a fifteen minute walk further, to catch another bus.

Again we trekked down the road. I was gratified that Lindsay agreed to wear the extra scarf I had brought. I would hope someone would lend my daughter a scarf under similar conditions. I was in that “slumber party” mode by then, which for the un- slumber -party- minded means that everything appeared extremely funny, for example, remarks such as “I could break into that barn over there and steal a COW and ride it to the bus station!” So I laughed like mad, knowing all the while that my husband’s brain was swarming with doomsday scenes of himself being stranded in the countryside, unable to teach his course the next day.

Finally we reached the next village, and the bus stop, which judging by the odor of manure was just on the other side of a horse farm. The helpful and again handsome young man read the schedule and determined that we had just missed the last bus to Arnhem. But in about another hour, a bus would come and take us to some other unknown town where we could catch an unknown train to Amsterdam. To appease my husband’s unspoken worry I said we could also take a taxi to the train station. I don’t think it helped, as he quickly retorted that would cost too much money.

So I shrugged and gave up on making suggestions. ”Where’s your bloody colleague?” our Dutch young man yelled at a bus going in the wrong direction. “Yeah! Lindsay and I echoed,”Where’s your bloody colleague!”Lindsay remarked she would surely have something to blog about from today. Blogs! We both had blogs! We quickly got to writing down one another’s blog addresses. I couldn’t see my husband but I assume he was staring at the sky and grinding his teeth. Soon his efforts paid off, for we spied a bus pulling up on an adjacent street, and then one which went to Arnhem! We dared not hope as my husband ran over to the bus to confirm its destination. My husband was so flustered that he referred to all of us passengers as “colleagues” to the bus driver, and exhorted said driver to wait for us. We colleagues sprinted right around to the bus and boarded, except for the handsome young man who apparently was going another way.

Ohh, heated bus seats were a welcome luxury. We hurtled through the night, skipping past most bus stops, as they were deserted. Before we knew it we were pulling into the Arnhem train station. Now all we had to do was get on the train! Spying a train timetable,we saw that the next train to Amsterdam would depart in two minutes! Yikes! The three of us sprinted through the train station. Lindsay and my husband took an escalator; I pounded up the stairs.

At the top of the stairs was the train for Amsterdam. Lindsay dove in the door. I followed her. My husband followed me. And just then the train pulled out of the station. Looking around, gasping for breath, I reflected that we must have gotten on the first class car. This car had wood paneled walls. People were eating, and buying beer. We kept walking through cars looking for second class. But all the cars seemed so nice. Eventually we ran into a conductor who asked Lindsay for her train ticket, Perusing it, she announced that WE WERE ON THE WRONG TRAIN!!!! Yes, we had indeed boarded not the Intercity, but the super fast German ICE train to Amsterdam. Oh well, we were on the train now. “You will have to each pay four extra euros for the train,” the conductor solemnly informed us, no doubt wondering why all three of us were laughing like hyenas. After forking over the extra euros, we asked if we could stand in the snack area, as the train was so crowded.

It seemed only fitting to celebrate our adventures with a beer which my husband procured for each of us. So we sipped our beers in the train saloon, propping ourselves between the train windows and the table. mighty glad to have places to prop ourselves. We were relieved and exhilarated, for we had bested adversity that day. Cheers to us! Cheers to the handsome Dutch stranger! Cheers to adventure! Cheers to whatever we hadn’t already cheered!

Our co-adventurer Lindsay.

As Lindsay exited the train at Utrecht, we waved through the window until we couldn’t see her anymore. Early the next day I checked Lindsay’s blog, [email protected] , and saw that she had already posted about our adventures! Reading her account I felt I was living that day all over again. It was thrilling to read about myself through someone else’s eyes, and know that we had shared this madcap adventure! I tried to comment on her blog, especially to ask permission to mention her blog, but it wouldn’t let me leave a comment. Lindsay, if you read this, I hope it’s OK!

I’m home now, marveling over how travel enriches my life. It teaches me that two very different people can can share adventures. It rewards me for the time I spend learning about another country and culture. It reminds me that sometimes I’ll just have to use my wits regardless of how carefully I plan. It renews my conviction that all people are connected, and that bonds can be forged among all people. If you get a chance when you travel, do something you have never done before. You won’t be sorry. And I can’t promise, but you could even wind up being mentioned in an expat blog!

And Away We Go

Posted on October 26, 2012 by mindfulmagpie

This post is just a quick note to say I’m off on an adventure, and won’t be able to post for about a week. I’m going to Amsterdam for a brief but thrilling getaway. I’ve been there several times, but not for a couple of years. I look forward to revisiting familiar spots and exploring new ones. Some of the time I’ll be with my husband, but I’ll have free time to do as I please while he works- the best of both worlds! Talk to you when I get back!

Vancouver’s Siren Song

Posted on October 21, 2012 by mindfulmagpie

Modern photography has forever changed my travel memory process. Is anyone else out there old enough to remember being invited to your friends’ and relatives’ homes to sit in their darkened living rooms to see their slides of the Grand Canyon? Or, when Polaroids came into vogue, to see eighteen envelopes of newly developed pictures from the beach? Well, I certainly remember those times. When I was growing up it seemed that our family would have one endless evening of viewing either our own travel pictures or those of our relatives, and then we never saw the pictures again.

Today, thanks to technology, we can see our pictures as often as we want to. And we can delete the awful ones so that no one is subjected to seeing blurred photo after blurred photo while smiling and agreeing that yes, the Smokies are breathtaking at this time of year. Having such easy access to my photos lets me savor my memories over and over again. While looking at my photos, what happened months ago seems to have occurred only yesterday. Since I will be traveling to Amsterdam at the end of this week I thought you might like to look back with me on the last day of my trip to Vancouver in June.

For those not numbered among my thousands of regular readers, I will say that I have posted about Vancouver several times before. To bring you up to date, after we had been in Vancouver for a few days we had seen many of the “must sees” for first time visitors. But I was anxious to do at least a tiny bit of exploring off the beaten path. At the last minute, I found the Vancouver blog I wish I had known about earlier, Miss 604. If you go to Vancouver, check out her blog! It is full of daily events in the Vancouver area. Anyway, scrolling through the blog I found a listing of Vancouver’s hidden gems. And there it was: the Punjabi Market. That was the perfect outing for our last day!

We reached the Punjabi Market by bus, crossing over into Kitsilano, going straight down Main Street. As we passed through shopping districts in the drizzly rain, I was kind enough to point out to my husband the many inviting thrift stores we passed. He did seem relieved when I said what a shame it was we wouldn’t have time to go to them. Maybe next time?

As soon as we arrived in the market area, my companion and I parted ways, he to find a place where he could sit and read, and I to find and capture shiny objects of beauty. I walked up and down the street a few times, looking at the variety of stores. Which ones should I visit? Stores which sold food and large kitchen items were just not practical; this gal does not check bags on an airplane. And saris? I love them, but a red haired woman in the sari store was going to be a bit conspicuous. Ah, here was a store that could accommodate my needs!

This may have been the place. Source: vancouver.about.com

I don’t know the name of the place, but it was narrow, and filled with shiny glittering bracelets and other bibelots seemingly designed for the magpie in me. The gracious shopkeeper, seeing I was about to have the vapors from the effects of all the delicious shininess, allowed me to look at my leisure and did not object to my taking pictures. When I wanted some of the hanging pretties ( I don’t know how else to describe them) , she agreed to my climbing a step ladder and trying to release said pretties from their perches on the ceiling. She asked where I was from, and I told her, but she did not seem to have heard of it. When I am striking up a conversation while out of the United States, and the person I am speaking with has not heard of Elvis Presley, I give up and say, ” I’m not from these parts.”

How was I going to decide what to buy from all these treats?Be still, my heart!So I had to have some bangles, and I had to have some of the hanging pretties. Then there were the shoes. I bought two pair, but wish I had bought ten, because these lovely shoes OWN me. I wear them everywhere.They match whatever I plan to wear. If they want to go to the swimming pool I take them. If they want to go to dinner I take them. You would do the same if you had these shoes. May they last long and delight me for years.

Here they are hanging out by the pool.

Seriously shiny!

These too!

About the time I left that store was the time at which I had agreed to meet with my companion. I found that he had conveniently parked himself at a bar which served local draft beer. I wound my way up the street and joined him. After a beer, I suggested we investigate the clothing store opposite the bar. I felt somewhat timid about taking pictures in the store, so my companion approached the lady behind the counter on my behalf. He asked her if I might take pictures; he thought she replied affirmatively. However, after I took one shot she began to exclaim that I must NOT take pictures! Yikes! At least I got one!

These delicacies will have to wait until next time.

It seemed to be time to move on. We caught a bus and went into Gastown. Both of us were sad that our lovely trip was coming to an end. In Gastown we stopped for dinner at the Black Frog Pub.

Hey! Who’s that woman in there with my man?

After dinner we took one last long walk back to our hotel. When we arrived back at our suite, we were rewarded with a lovely sunset view from our living room window. As we packed we reflected upon the way we had been welcomed in Vancouver at every turn. Surely the city was encouraging us to at least return some future day if we could not extend our visit today. It was too soon to leave, but we have heard the siren song. We shall return!

Saturday in the Neighborhood

Posted on October 15, 2012 by mindfulmagpie

When you’re zipping around in the car, bustling back and forth between home and places unknown, do you ever look longingly at places you pass, and wish you could stop and go in? All along my daily routes I notice what is new, or what is familiar and resist the urge to pull off the road and investigate. I think I am drawn not so much by the places themselves but by the freedom to interrupt an annoying trip to the post office, or to forgo a business meeting entirely because I wanted to try out a new walking path or take pictures of the changing leaves.

But just because I cannot excuse myself from adult responsibilities all the time does not mean I can’t mix some small adventures in with the drudgery. Today I had a pressing errand I had put off for a week - returning some tile samples for the condo to the tile showroom, about twenty miles away. Mr. Tile Man was eager for me to return these tiles, and I was eager not to have then whumping around in the back of my car.

After returning the tiles to the showroom, I got back into my car, turned to my companion in the front seat and said, “Let’s have a little fun!” Who is my companion you ask? It is none other than my darling Nikon D3000, which I had remembered to bring along. With this stylish little friend I would reward myself for having had to run such an obnoxious errand.

For the two of us had plans. We were going to drive around the neighborhood with no particular destination in mind, taking pictures of whatever caught our eye. I was in no hurry. My camera was in no hurry. If I saw something I wanted to record , fine. If I did not, that was fine also. That’s the way life should be! Here is what we saw.

Unused railroad depot against the blue sky.

I retraced the route I take at least twice a week to the gym. My personal training appointment is at 7:30, so there is no hope of dallying along the way, and on my way back, after having been subjected to a challenging workout, I only want to get home and drink coffee as soon as possible.

It says stop! I often wish I could!

The door of the depot.

The roof of the depot.

The depot is actually for sale. The unused railroad line is being transformed into a Green Line trail which will connect the city from east to west. Part of it is already open. When it opens out here, maybe someone will turn this little depot into a coffee shop!

Across the street from the depot are some old buildings, such as this former grocery store. It used to be open as a sundry when I first moved out here, but I don’t know if it is still open.

This old house is a restaurant, the Cafe Fontana, where Italian food from fresh local ingredients is made daily. It hasn’t been open very long, but I’ve already been there several times and was not disappointed. I love that the place is owned by a family in the neighborhood. And when you go in you are welcomed like a neighbor. It’s a good feeling! This is an old post office which has been preserved by the community. In the background is a church cemetery as well as some new construction. I’m thinking this building may have been a where people lingered and visited after getting their mail, once upon a time. In front of the post office is an old school turned into a community center. Alumnae of the school have kept the building from destruction, and committed citizens have made a small museum inside.

I guess I had to have a reminder that I am in suburbia! These empty swings and picnic tables are available! Well, for now I DO live in suburbia, which is not as diverse as I would like, with not as much culture as I would like. But that is another story. For today I would rather concentrate on how no matter where I am, things catch my eye. And that it is important to stop all the busy-ness sometimes and just look around. What about you? What do you go by all the time but never seem to have time to investigate? I hope you’ll make the time soon. You won’t be sorry!

mindfulmagpie

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