Lioness of El: An Artistic Mystic's Travelogues

“Tempesteuros, Vol. II,” E-Log #4: Eachtraí in Éirinn (Adventures in Ireland)

2011-08-21T13:38:00.000-07:00

Ballycarbery Castle, Ireland

Skylark B&B
Hounslow, London - England
and
Casa MarandAr
Santa Barbara, CA. - USA

Sleepy and disoriented, we peered blearily through the coach windows at the all-too-familiar florescent faces of Burger King, KFC and that syrupy siren, Starbucks. What? Had we driven through some strange portal and ended up at an Omaha rest stop? Nope— here we were in the English countryside somewhere outside Birmingham at 10pm, about a quarter of the way through our epic, 12 hour coach-and-ferry journey from London to Dublin… and here was Colonel Sanders, inviting us in for a lovely cuppa and some fried wings with chips! (We had blueberries and water from Waitrose Market.)

What struck me most about Dublin was the smell: petrol and diesel fumes, and raw fish wafting out of Asian markets, and suspicious sewer odors, and Guinness and the cigarettes, cigarettes, cigarettes! (Granted, as I had a chest cold my sensitivity was probably heightened, but I felt like I needed a surgical mask just walking around the place.) The only reason we’d even booked a few nights there was in order to do day trips to the nearby sites of Glendalough and the Hill of Tara, however since I was under the weather we ended up spending our time alternately napping, drinking tea, watching British reality TV (ludicrous/amusing in a whole different way from American reality TV), and roaming the streets in search of viable sustenance. The most entertaining bit was when we went to see Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Part 2 at nearby “Cineworld,” and a world it was: with 5 levels, over 15 screens, a game room, a full bar, and a Ben & Jerry’s counter! The lobby looked like an airport, with films and show times listed on computer screens and miles of rope stanchions for people to queue in. (Apparently Dublin has the highest rate of cinema-goers in Europe.)

Finally, on Tuesday afternoon we were high-tailing it out of the city in our sporty black Peugeot rental car. (“Where can I get one of these in the states?” Marlon wants to know, and indeed— the car with the “zombie lion” emblem couldn’t be more appropriate for a metal head Leo!) We made it to Co. Cork on the southern coast of Ireland that night, and the colorful village of Clonakilty, where our room at the Bay View B&B literally had a bay view (and a cow view, which was nearly as exciting)! The next morning we woke to our first Irish rain and made our way west, along the wet, winding country lanes to the Drombeg stone circle (which couldn’t have looked more mysterious and alluring in the mist if a Hollywood set designer had conceived it). Drastically smaller than either Avebury or Stonehenge at only 9 meters in diameter, Drombeg had a wonderfully intimate feel, and also a preserved sense of sanctity and purpose that was truly special, with vestiges such as flowers and beads from recent private rituals. There I felt a wonderful connection with St./Goddess Brigid, which pleased me as I had been feeling too poorly the previous day to stop by her renowned well in Kildare.

Drombeg Stone Circle

After a night in Kenmare (which was notable mainly because the B&B only had a twin left so we slept like a couple from a 1950s sitcom, with a night stand between us: “Goodnight Ricky!” “Goodnight Lucy!”), we headed out onto the Kerry Peninsula. The 179 kilometer “Ring of Kerry” is one of the most popular of Ireland’s scenic drives, a route of sprawling pasturelands and picturesque coastal hamlets, of colorful cliffs and hills with “teeth”: jagged layers of rock jutting somewhat incongruously out of emerald carpets and flaxen mermaids’ hair, on which sheep perch stoically. The highlight of the peninsula was the ruins of Ballycarbery Castle (an excellent recommendation by Devon), where we spent over an hour scaling narrow winding staircases, peeking into yawning chasms, waving to the startled cows through beautiful arched windows, and taking pictures of each other in a variety of theatrical poses ranging from merry to melancholy to “metal.” (We wished fervently we could teleport Marlon’s drummer and bassist there, for some truly epic band photos!) Another highlight was Staigue Fort, an imposing circular stone structure which was pretty neat, but what endlessly amused me was the fact that we were the last in a line of seven cars filing up the road to the site, to the epic radio accompaniment of a selection from the opera “Carmen”!

Dingle

When we entered the smaller Dingle Peninsula, we literally drove out of charcoal rain and into crystal sunshine, blinded by the brilliant emerald, lime and jade that greeted us. (Is Dingle really greener than the rest of Ireland? we wondered, Or is this just the first bit we’ve seen in sunlight?) The lush fields soon gave way to sandy bluffs and sapphire seas, and the charming, laid back town of Dingle, comfortably snuggled between hill and ocean and appropriately, a sister city of Santa Barbara. (The sculpture of Dingle’s famous resident wild dolphin, “Fungie,” that sits in their harbor was created by Bud Bottoms, sculptor of several iconic pieces around Santa Barbara including the dolphin fountain at Stearns Wharf.) The B&B we’d been recommended by one of our Kerry hosts was full, so we tried the B&B a few cottages down, where a typically Irish older gentleman opened the yellow door, gave us a long appraising look, and said rather ominously, “I have one room… You might like it…” He then led us around the back and showed us a gorgeous, bright room right on the water, with a private patio embraced by wildflowers. Gee, we guess it’ll work!

I confess that there have been a couple occasions on this trip, after a looooong day of travel, where I have found myself sinfully desiring the anonymity and predictability of a Motel 6, where the most complicated question you’ll have to field from the desk clerk is, “Smoking or Non-Smoking?” However the B&Bs, their stewards and their guests have repeatedly proven that quite silly with their memorable warmth, genuine hospitality, and quirky Character! Every experience is different and unique (with the possible exception of breakfast, which is pretty firm at juice and cereal, or the “Full Irish”: fried eggs, sausage, Irish bacon, tomato, toast and—if you’re really lucky—blood sausage), however there are a few B&Ber archetypes that one meets again and again… Like the Snorer, whose wife you keep telepathically prompting to give him a good shove; the Guy Who Charges into Shared Toilet without Knocking (always, always, always lock); and the Hoofers, those perfectly nice and normal people who inexplicably make sounds like bulls break-dancing when in their room. And then there’s that Sweet Older Couple that just sits smiling serenely at each other through out breakfast without saying a word, who you’re pretty sure you want to go home with and have milk and cookies and hear bedtime stories!

We stayed 2 nights in Dingle and had the greatest time, touring the Oceanworld Aquarium, eating at the vegetarian café, shopping the local handcrafted goods, and sitting on the bench outside the Marina Inn, where we could both hear the live Irish music playing inside and enjoy the sea view. (Pubs in Ireland are truly communal and seem to encompass the sidewalk and street as well as the interior, with folks hanging out curbside with pints in hand, and occasionally toddlers on hip as well… By that same token, there are no “sleepy” little villages in Ireland— no matter how tiny, every single one of them has a pub which merrymakers will be making their way merrily home from at 2am!)

Cliffs of Moher

Heading north towards the Cliffs of Moher, we crossed the Shannon River into Co. Clare and passed through the charming surf community of Lahinch (a surf community in Ireland? Abso-freezing-lutely!). Devon and Terry had told us about a “secret” back way in to the Cliffs of Moher, so with great relief we bypassed the zoo of coaches at the entrance and wound through the little farm lanes, passing by foot through three gates and a field full of cows (who seemed downright perplexed by our adoring attention). Eventually we emerged on a positively breath-taking plateau 700 ft. above the ocean, with kaleidoscopic cliffs plummeting below us and parading down the coast as far as the eye could see, wearing crowns of silver and tawny grass and purple wildflowers. This was the rugged, windswept Ireland I had been anticipating, and I felt deeply, deeply blessed and grateful to be able to experience it in such an authentic way!

From there we headed into The Burren, a downright alien-looking limestone landscape where, word has it, exotic wildflowers and orchids grow out of fissures and crevices in the rock. Unfortunately we wouldn’t know, because we made it about a hundred feet down the trail in the horizontal rain with our umbrella bucking like an animal in the wind before conceding an indoor activity might be more sensible… So we headed to the Burren Perfumery (another great recommendation by Devon), from which we emerged smelling extremely attractive, if we do say so ourselves, after sampling the oils, creams and perfumes made on site (secretly I thought flower essences made from the native Burren plants would have been even more interesting).

Then it was on to Galway. Arriving at rush hour, we had a hell of a time trying to negotiate the one-way streets and find vacancies, but eventually found the Red Gate B&B, where a teddy bear of a man with a red beard and only three teeth that we could see gave us an enthusiastic welcome, and his last room (another twin… “Goodnight Darin!” “Goodnight Samantha!”). That night we enjoyed uncommonly delicious pub food and phenomenal Irish music and dancing at “The King’s Head,” supposedly named because the building’s original owner was responsible for beheading King Charles I (apparently the English wanted a non-English executioner)!

Galway

En route back to Dublin, we rather impulsively decided to spend a night in the Midlands, a decidedly less touristy part of the country with an authentic heartland feel. We ended up in the pleasant village of Birr in Co. Offaly, where completely incidentally, they were in the middle of their annual Vintage Week and Arts Festival. The most entertaining element of this by far was the “Mongrel Dog Show,” where locals young and old paraded around with their pooches in a generally disorderly, comical and heart-warming fashion, in classes ranging from “Fluffiest Tail” to “Most Gentle” (privately we agreed that if Mom’s dog Bella had been there, she would have swept the lot).

Leap Castle

The next morning we stopped by to play with the ghosts at Leap Castle, supposedly the most haunted castle in Ireland, however Lonely Planet had failed to articulate that it was a private residence! The master of the castle, Mr. Ryan, wasn’t bothered though, and invited us inside by the fire to tell us tales about the place’s original owners, the O’Carroll clan, who were apparently so greedy and quarrelsome they were shipped off to North America (perhaps that explains some of our political problems). Mr. Ryan—a wizard of a man with a gray beard that straddles a line somewhere between Santa Claus and Gandalf—is also a professional tin whistle player, and his wife and daughter both dancers, so we spent a great deal of time also discussing music and the arts!

Back to Dublin for one more night (and back to Juice Restaurant, this time for a banana-pineapple-parsley-spinach smoothie, among other goodies), and then it was back on the Epic ferry-and-coach journey to London, this time during daylight hours and significantly easier. The trip came full circle as we returned to our B&B in Hounslow (aka Little India) where we had initially met up with Devon and Terry… was it really a month ago? After a day spent recuperating and eating a LOT of Indian food, we did indeed head into London, where thankfully despite the recent riots, everything was British-as-usual. At the Tate Modern, we attempted to look as solemn and intellectual as the other patrons as we scrutinized “art” that included red paint splashed on canvas and, as far as we could tell, an entire room devoted to a pile of sunflower seeds. The highlight was Monet’s "Water Lilies" and of course, our very reason for being there, Raoul Dufy’s “Kessler Family on Horseback”, circa 1932! There were Marlon’s grandmother, great grandparents and great aunts and uncles, memorialized forever in paint for everyone to see and keeping very good company, just feet away from Rodin’s “The Kiss”! It was amazing to think of all of the family history this painting had witnessed, hanging in the Kessler home for fifty years… How incredible.

And that brings us to the conclusion of this particular MarandAr Odyssey. Our hearts over-flow with gratitude for the myriad blessings, perhaps the biggest being returning Home with an even greater appreciation for the everyday blessings! Thank you all as always for taking this journey with us (and having the stamina for some exceptionally long Logs, even by my standards!). (In addition, I have broken my own picture-taking record. Uh-oh...)

;) With love and gratitude, Always, Arielle & Marlon

“Tempesteuros, Vol. II,” E-Log #3: The Southern England Mystery Tour

2011-08-11T13:48:00.000-07:00

The Roman Baths

Lynch's Cafe
Galway - Ireland

According to legend, the healing properties of the natural thermal springs at Bath were “discovered” by King Bladud around 863BC, when his skin disease was cured after bathing in the waters (or possibly when his pigs were cured of leprosy after a romp in the mud, depending who you ask). Today, the springs can be enjoyed in two ways: by touring the 2,000 year old Roman Baths, and by experiencing the mineral waters firsthand at the nearby, state-of-the-art “Thermae Spa.”

We arrived after a fairly harrowing time negotiating the trains, during which we were rerouted out of our way to Didcot Parkway (however as soon as we pulled in and saw the nuclear power plant situated less than a mile from the station, we knew we were there on a Divine Mission and happily sat on the platform playing guitar, singing and dropping flower essences until our train arrived). We were also suffering from a mild case of PRD (Post Reunion Depression), so we decided it would be in our best interest to start at the Thermae Spa, a futuristic building of glass and stone appearing like an alien mother ship that’s landed among its historical honey-stoned neighbors. There, we were tempted to use the provided foam noodles at the Minerva Bath as light sabers- or alternatively, laser controls for our rocket ships- but we figured that wouldn’t be appropriate in a spa setting. Instead we enjoyed floating in the built-in current and ogling the city views from the rooftop pool, followed by a visit to the Steam Room, where each chamber had a different aromatherapy scent!

First thing the next morning it was off to tour the impressive Roman Baths, followed by the most mysterious (and mystifying) part of our Mystery Tour: getting around in our rental car. As I am dangerous enough behind the wheel of a manual even under normal circumstances, Marlon the Manual Master deftly tackled driving on the left side while I “navigated,” which essentially involved frantically scanning signs as we entered a roundabout and then screaming, “Right!” or “Second Left!” or “I have no idea—go around again!” And around we’d go. (For whatever reason the English rarely put compass directions on their signs, such as East or West; they say “A330 towards Brandyshire” or “R597 towards Wheedleton,” so essentially if you don’t know your England geography, you’re royally screwed. Additionally, there are no signs indicating what road you’re actually on at the moment, so you might think you’re on the A330 towards Brandyshire, but in fact you’re on the A445 towards Sheepbury, and the only indicator you’ll ever have of that is when arriving in Sheepbury going, “#$%*!”)

Glastonbury Tor

Next on the itinerary was a night in the New Age-y hamlet of Glastonbury, which aside from being considered one of the planet’s most potent spiritual energy centers, is believed to be the mythical Isle of Avalon and the hiding place of the Holy Grail, among other things. We found the village a bit claustrophobic and the “vegetarian” restaurants somewhat of a joke, at least as far as breakfast is concerned (tofu sausage, beans and mushrooms, anyone? How about some 25% juice?), but the legendary Tor did not disappoint! I practically danced up the 521 ft. high hill, frequently pulled off the path to converse with the sixth-dimensional Ladies in White, priestesses of Avalon, and the third-dimensional sheep (who were actually one and the same). Afterwards we refilled both our water bottles and our spirits at the impressively beautiful and serene Chalice Well & Gardens, before it was back to the roundabouts!

We pulled into Avebury in the early evening, when the sun was low enough to give the standing stones a warm candlelight cast. (They say in ancient times, Glastonbury and Avebury were linked by a sacred track, which is now a narrow country highway… Was that the route we took? We have no bloody idea, but we like to think it was!) As promised, our B&B—along with a portion of the village—was actually inside the monumental stone circle, which was additionally quartered by the main road and highway (one can only assume the village was built during a time of anti-pagan sentiment… ya think?). We spent all that evening and the next morning playing among the stones— and with the sheep, who served the material purpose of keeping the weeds down and the spiritual purpose of acting as guardians to the site. Periodically one of them would baa plaintively for up to several minutes, until answered by another sheep across the field; then the first sheep would break into a mad dash, throw itself to its knees before the second sheep, and start suckling wildly, its cotton ball tail wagging like a puppy dog’s the entire time! (Sometimes two would even do this simultaneously, to great effect.)

While the presence and energy of the individual stones was still very much intact and they each had a distinct personality I would have happily chatted with all day, the energy and integrity of the circle as a whole felt markedly broken, or nonexistent. (Apparently the majority of the stones were buried or moved by the medieval church and an archaeologist restored the henges to the best of his ability in the 1930s.) To the best of my own ability, I redrew lines and filled in gaps in the circle with flower essences, and Marlon and I laid our hands on the stones and whispered to them.

Avebury

Around noon the next day we hiked across the cow pastures to view Silbury Hill, the largest artificial mound in Europe, believed to have been built to represent a pregnant goddess. However as soon as we arrived we were distracted by something imprinted in the wheat field on the other side of the highway. “Look…” “What the…” “Is that a… ?”

I always imagined that when I saw a crop circle it would be like lightening: a hair raising, flesh pimpling, electric zing of higher consciousness, and that sense of being touched by something greater and beyond one’s understanding that leaves a lasting impact (I’ve had a similar experience even just viewing images of genuine crop circles). We stood on the hill gazing over at what appeared to be a crop circle before our very eyes, and we said: “Hm.”

“It looks like ET Junior got a hold of Daddy’s toys,” Marlon remarked. The shape did seem rather elementary: a solid circle surrounded by two rings. And the edges seemed… sloppy. Things were further confused when a local man came by walking his dog and said, “Oh yes, that’s a crop circle. The man who used to make them died a few years ago so I don’t know who’s doin’ ‘em now, but there you go.” The man who used to make them died a few years ago?! With a statement like that, we could have just as easily been talking about ceramic squirrels as massive geometric shapes mysteriously appearing in the middle of the countryside.

Nonetheless, we had to go see for ourselves. And ladies and gentlemen, I am sad to report that it was a genuine “crock circle”: the wheat stalks were broken, big tufts were sticking up all over the place, and above all, it just felt energetically dead and uninteresting, like tractors and smirks. I was heartbroken, and sulkily complained to the heavens, why couldn’t I see a real crop circle… to which I received the rather wry reply that the girl who sees spirits and talks to rocks isn’t really their target demographic! I’m here to do the waking, not have the luxury of being woken. And— there would be other opportunities.

Last on our itinerary was of course, the quintessential site of Stonehenge. Initially I was horrified by the thick caterpillar of bodies carouseling around the monument, however once we made the commitment to go in, we flew on angel’s wings, in full MarandAr Style: a couple on the way out handed us their tickets so we had free admission, and we magically had a good five feet of personal, tourist-free space directly in front of the henge for picture taking (or perhaps we were just that smelly)!

It's been a week or so out in the Wild Irish West, without (convenient) Wi-Fi... We are in the edgy bohemian city of Galway now, with a couple more nights on the Emerald Isle before we head back to the England capitol for our final few days before flying out. Apparently there are riots in London (how unEnglish!) so we may spend our time hiding out in our B&B on the outskirts... I will be disappointed if we do not make it to the Tate Gallery and some other quintessential city sights, but on the plus side, I may be able to actually finish up the trip, Log-wise, before we leave European soil!

Love and genuine Irish blessings to all of you,
Arielle & Marlon

“Tempesteuros, Vol. II,” E-Log #2: The Kesslers and the Cotswolds (Part 2)

2011-08-01T14:19:00.000-07:00

Lost in the Cotswolds

Juice Restaurant
Dublin - Ireland

I am counting on at least a few of our days in Ireland being exceedingly dull so I can catch up with myself! And thank you to all of you as always for your kind comments about the Logs- I'm glad to be entertaining others besides myself and Marlon with these epics.

Before we continue with the Reunion, I need to mention that I am writing you from the mecca of vegetarians and vegans (and those that are neither but consider there to be more than two food groups on the planet and like to partake in them once and awhile), "Juice" Restaurant / Juice Bar / Free Wi-fi Spot! We washed up here like 2 castaways on the shore of a tropical treasure island, exhausted and nearly drowned by Dublin's roiling sea of grunge and grime, and goblins in the form of confrontational street Weirdos. (And me with a chest cold after our nightmare experience on the over-nite ferry, surrounded by unfortunate individuals hacking and coughing moistly.) I nearly fainted away in the street when reading their menu: fresh squeezed juices, smoothies, dishes and dishes of vegan options, and- what do you know!- there actually are other teas in this part of the world besides English Breakfast! And Bob Marley on the stereo. Thank you Lonely Planet. :)

On with the Reunion:

Day 3 dawned clear and sunny to everyone’s relief, as we had weather-dependent activities that morning: Marlon was off to a local activity center for quad biking, skeet shooting, archery and reverse steer buggies, while Devon and I were headed over to the Jill Carenza Equestrian Centre for a “hack” (trail ride).

The Kesslers are a historically horsey family (Raoul Dufy paintings of Oma, her siblings and parents on horseback hang in the Museum of Modern Art in Paris and the Tate Gallery in London, respectively!), but I was still surprised by the large number of us signed up for the ride: 16 in all, a veritable cavalry! The staff at the stable outfitted us with compulsory helmets and “back protectors,” which resemble bullet proof vests at best and life jackets at worst. (Considering that ordinarily I don’t even bother with a saddle, let alone body gear, I found it all a bit fussy- however later on when we were careening down narrow lanes between 1-foot thick stone walls, I admit it was a comfort). I was paired with “Captain,” a huge, graceful dark Thoroughbred who took his name very seriously and attempted to race to the front and lead the charge at every opportunity!

"Kessler Family on Horseback" by Raoul Dufy, 1932

We passed through the picturesque village of Stanton and climbed up into the hills, crossing fields scattered with sheep and overlooking a breathtaking quilt of emerald, gold, russet and lavender. And we rode. We rode like the Nazgûl were chasing us, galloping up hills, whipping along narrow country lanes bordered by grass as tall as our horses’ shoulders, and diving into woods so dense that branches flew at our faces. It was positively thrilling, and well worth the saddle sores! (Unfortunately Marlon’s experience at the activity center was not quite so thrilling due to bitchy archery instructors and boring tracks, but at least he and his cousins bonded over the disappointment, not to mention the humorous retelling of their exaggerated yawns while they rode quads around in a circle like kids on a pony ride.)

The event that many had been most anticipating, and which there was perhaps most discussion about, was the traditional Family Football (soccer) Match on the morning of Day 4. Apparently an important part of this tradition was for the English, Dutch and Costa Ricans to kick the sorry bums of the “Yanks,” however considering that there were only 6 Americans signed up and none of them had played since the Holland Reunion, in my opinion this would not be much of a testament to skill, let alone sportsmanship (and I said so). Besides, wasn’t part of the whole point of the Reunions to bring different nationalities together and develop relationships? (And the excuse that “mixed” teams would diminish competitiveness was a lame one, as the teams for Quiz Night had been mixed and there had been what I would go so far as to term a juvenile amount of competitiveness in that activity.)

After a fair amount of controversy in the days leading up to the match, the official announcement was made at the Formal Dinner the night before: the teams would be mixed. (This was met with about 5 seconds of stunned silence, and then a solitary pair of hands rang out in applause: mine. I was on my own for another agonizing few seconds, and then others trickled in and gradually the room filled with clapping.) And everyone had to admit, it was a truly exciting match! All four teams (each with 11 players and a variety of nationalities) were fantastically equally matched, and every game was won by only one point (with the exception of the first, which was a draw).

(...I am tempted to order four more rounds of my apple, carrot, beetroot and ginger juice, but at €4.50 a pop, I should probably refrain...)

That afternoon was another thoroughly speculated about event (those Kesslers like to end with a bang), the “SURPRISE” activity. Right away the coach driver got fairly lost and drove us all out of the way for which he apologized profusely, but we assured him this only added to our sense of suspense! Finally we pulled into the narrow, tree-lined gravel drive of a private estate.

And there, set up picturesquely in the middle of a green field, was our very own circus.

Giffords Circus

(Actually it was Giffords Circus, an English company renowned for their vintage themes and theatrical storytelling, as well as serving high quality food with fresh local ingredients.) Friendly people in period dress greeted us with trays of champagne and appetizers, and for the little ones there was a cotton candy booth and essentially a carousel ride, but with swings. Shortly atmospheric music by the phenomenal band lured us all into the big tent, where tables had been set up in a semi-circle around a circus ring with a superb stage set. Every detail- from the vases of marjoram on the tables to the hand-painted dishware to the artful banners and murals- was exquisite, and enveloped us wholly in their world (perhaps another place in time, perhaps another dimension). Best of all, naturally, was the show: an imaginative circus-style telling of Tolstoy’s classic “War and Peace,” replete with a clown, fire jugglers, an aerial silks performer, a knife thrower, a death-defying gymnast and live horses! And in the middle of it all they served us a wholesome meal, followed afterwards by ice cream from a local Cotswolds creamery (where, I should mention, the cows spend their days happily grazing in idyllic Cotswolds pastures).

It was the perfect culmination of a perfect four days, but it was bittersweet as we all understood that the unique magic that brought so many individuals together from different parts of the globe was coming to an end. The activities and events had been extraordinary and I had actually been brought to tears on more than a few occasions by the humbling privilege of the experiences- however I have to say that above all what made the Reunion such an honor to attend, was the people. Every single one of them friendly, warm, witty and interesting to talk to, and gracious yet refreshingly non-chalant about all of the fanfare and luxury that was part of the Kessler experience (at least as often as every three years).

Now Marlon and I were off to start our romantic duet portion of this European symphony, which we were looking forward to but which nonetheless felt strange after being part of a grand orchestra for so many days. How odd that from now on the other guests in our hotels, the other diners at our meals, the other passengers on our coaches, would be strangers (at least to begin with)!

I will leave you there. Next up: The Southern England Mystery Tour!

With lots of love, Arielle & Marlon

“Tempesteuros, Vol. II,” E-Log #1: The Kesslers and the Cotswolds (Part 1)

2011-07-26T20:33:00.000-07:00

Broadway, England

The Crown (Glastonbury Backpackers)
Glastonbury, Somerset - England

Once upon a time (in 2005), two new young lovers embarked on a journey. It was a journey so epic, so ambitious, so entirely without hotel reservations, that few couples come out the other side without having invoked the dreaded Silent Treatment (or worse): they backpacked across Europe for two months with only one another for company. It was a journey with only one stipulation: get from Athens to Amsterdam in 8 weeks, though as those of you who read the Logs know, it was soon to become an epic beach safari, the Quest for Laundry, the Quest for the Perfect Salad, an ode to gelato, and many other things, most of them involving tomatoes and nearly all of them being in the same elbow space as Everybody Else and their mother, cousin, sister, and aunt.

Now, six years later, it is time once again for one of the renowned, if notorious, Kessler Family Reunions, this time to be held in Broadway, England, and which this time- after much successive hoop-jumping and a urine test (kidding…about the urine part)- the heroine will also be permitted to attend. Thus, our young lovers find themselves back in Europe, older and, surely, infinitely wiser…

I’ve had “Werewolves of London” in my head for six days. Is that really the only song I know about Britain?

In contrast to our last two international trips, I am pleased to report that the journey here went incredibly smoothly. The only bit of trouble we had was when we arrived in Hounslow and spent a ridiculous fifteen minutes wheeling our luggage back and forth through the puddles, trying to locate the hotel where we were to meet Devon (Marlon’s mom) and Terry… Silly us, we actually thought the street numbers would be sequential!

After a quintessentially English cup of tea during which Devon and Terry regaled us with tales and tips from their last ten days in Ireland, we caught the “tube” (subway) into the West End of London. Getting off at Piccadilly Circus (I was expecting clowns and elephants but apparently it’s not that kind of circus), we strolled Trafalgar Square, admired the iconic silhouette of “Big Ben” in the distance, and got directions from a “bobby” (police officer) for where we could find really good Indian food (and it was… There is a surprisingly- to me- large Indian population here, especially in Hounslow, where our hotel was run by a very nice Indian family and where the unexpected sight of a Bollywood movie poster on the side of a bus queue nearly got me left behind by the group and run over.)

The next morning we hopped the tube back to Heathrow International to meet the private Family-hired “coach” (bus) that was to take us to the Reunion, along with Marlon's uncle, aunt and a smattering of cousins that had just flown in from California and southern France, respectively. We then proceeded to spend the entire hour and a half ride in fits of laughter as they all reminisced about some of the more outrageous antics at previous Reunions (stolen bikes in Switzerland, too much tequila in Costa Rica, sex shows in Amsterdam, and face-plants in Vancouver, to name a few).

Lygon Arms Hotel

The village of Broadway in the heart of the Cotswolds charmed one immediately: all stone walls and gabled roofs and pristine lawns and distinguished couples strolling High Street with their ice cream cones. The Family had booked us all at the Lygon Arms (literally all 106 guests were part of the Reunion and it was closed to the public), one of the oldest hotels in England with records dating back to 1532 and ties to several distinguished military members throughout history. Initially I was disappointed that our room was in the newer part of the hotel and not the original building, but considering the strong level of paranormal energy evident in the main house, in the end I figure I slept much better being removed from it all!

Day 1 of the Reunion started with a group of us (namely those with kids and those who act like kids) heading off to the Cotswold Falconry Center, where we had the privilege of seeing several enchanting birds of prey, including Eagles, Falcons, Hawks, Vultures and Owls, as well as an impressive flying demonstration where the handler’s accent was nearly as engaging as the show itself.

That afternoon it was off to “Sphering,” which none of us had heard of before but essentially involves careening down a hill in something that resembles a huge hamster ball. (Let’s be honest, I was never going as anything but a spectator.) There are two different types of Sphering, both of which were available: Harness or Eclipse Sphering, where two people are harnessed to the inside of the ball and sent careening down a hill, and Aqua Sphering, where up to three individuals lie down in the base of the ball in a pool of water, which theoretically keeps them in place as the ball spins around them while careening down a hill. (It could be described as an extreme sport under any circumstances, even without the chilly rain that started immediately after we arrived and continued intermittently all afternoon!) In order to get inside the ball, one literally had to run and dive through a hole in the side, which was especially entertaining in the case of the Aqua Spherers, as they all screamed when entering the freezing water. (“Eh, they’re just puttin’ it on!” scoffed our facilitator with an ironic smile, having assured us beforehand that the water was heated.) Perhaps the most collectively enjoyable aspect of the event was that we were invited- nay, encouraged- to help shove our family members down the hill when it was their turn in the sphere!

"SphereMania"

It should be mentioned that this spectacle was occurring in the middle of the English countryside, literally with three cows watching from the bottom of the hill (apparently they had escaped from a neighboring farm and simply refused to be rounded up- and why should they, with such ready entertainment available to them?). The reactions of those emerging after the Harness Sphering ranged from deathly pale and sickly to ecstatic and grinning (Marlon being one of the few of the latter), but the Aqua Sphering seemed universally enjoyed, despite everyone being blue with cold!

That night was “Quiz Night” in the Great Hall, where we were all assigned to a table for dinner that was to be our “team.” A few of us were nervous we’d have to answer family trivia questions- or worse, be asked to recite everyone’s name- but topics were general pop culture stuff in three rounds: “People,” “World,” and “Random.” Our team was unequivocally the Rowdy Table, which was partly due to the fact that we had a Bingley brother and partly because we were next to the Kids’ Table and kept trying to call each other out for using mobile technology to cheat!

Berkeley Castle

Day 2 was Marlon’s 30th birthday and we were off to see a castle! In usual Kessler style, we had the place entirely to ourselves, and after tea and biscuits in the Tea Room, the private guided tour began. Berkeley Castle is perhaps most renowned for being the site of King Edward II’s imprisonment and murder by his wife Queen Isabella (actually a refreshing change from the usual King-with-ten-mistresses beheads wife for making eye contact with another man), but there are two other facts that make it unique and, in my opinion, more interesting: the same family has lived there for nearly 900 years and its descendants still reside in a wing of the castle; and Shakespeare’s “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” (indisputably my favorite by the Bard) had its first performance there in the Great Hall!

Almost immediately after I entered the castle, I was aware of the spirit of a woman, who linked arms with me and whispered conspiratorially like a long lost girlfriend. I was trying to make an impression of some semblance of sanity on Marlon’s family so I felt that I needed to stay grounded in the present and couldn’t tune in with her as I desired, but she was simply delightful and so was the home for which she obviously had a great love, which felt considerably more warm and cozy than your average castle. (Later our guide revealed that the current Mrs. Berkeley, mistress of the castle, has spoken with conviction of having a friendly ghost that follows her around.) The Keep on the opposite side of the courtyard where the dungeon and King Edward II’s cell was located had an entirely different energy however, cold and crawly and not really worth detailing.

Next up was pre-dinner cocktails at Broadway Tower. Everyone enjoyed the stunning view from the top, which is said to encompass thirteen counties, however only the Europeans enjoyed the “pims,” some sort of gin concoctions with fruit. (I had my own little adventure getting there, as I had wanted to join the group that was walking from the hotel however they had already left so I ended up wandering through a maze of sheep, pastures and gates trying to find the correct footpath. Fortunately I soon ran into Marlon’s second cousin and his girlfriend who were also attempting the walk and we sorted it out.)

Dinner was at the pristine home of the remarkable hostess and planner of this particular Reunion. It was only a few blocks walk from the hotel, along a pretty little lane bordered by stone walls and attractive homes that straddled a line somewhere between cottage and estate (I can only imagine what the neighbors thought, seeing our 100-strong throng shuffle by). When we arrived we were directed around to the back, where a large dining tent, live band, clown, juggler and three different carnival booths were set up there on the lawn behind the flower beds! The BBQ buffet was followed by Marlon's Birthday Cake, which was followed by many valiant and humorous efforts in The Strong Man Game, or "High Striker", where one attempts to ring the bell at the top by striking the appropriate spot with a mallet (it turns out more a game of precision than strength). Pretty surreal to play such classic carnival games for indefinite periods of time without ever having to fork over money or tickets!

Because the battery is almost dead and this is reaching novel proportions, TO BE CONTINUED in Part 2...

Infinite love to all of you,
Arielle & Marlon

"Mayanical" E-Log #5: Oo-la-la Uxmal

2008-04-01T11:33:00.000-07:00

Uxmal, Mexico

Cafe Club
Mérida, Yucatan - Mexico

Our flight home leaves in a little over four hours. Until then we are "kick'n it" here at Cafe Club, the first actual Internet Cafe- as in Internet and food- we've come across the whole trip. It makes for a much more enjoyable experience for Marlon, as he can enjoy snacks and work on his custom guitar design while I Log!

Yesterday we rented a car and drove south- roughly an hour- to the site of Uxmal. Based on what I'd read in Lonely Planet, I'd had a poetic vision of cruisin' the Yucatan in a funky old VW bug, however we got a new white VW Pointer, which I confess was much better in the end as it had AC!

Uxmal (pronounced "oosh-mahl") is considered one of the most beautific and harmonious sites due to its well-preserved pink-hued limestone structures and Puuc ("hills") setting. It has fascinating and extensive mosaics, including geometric designs ("Xs" are a big theme) and intricate carvings of everything from Chac-Mool to thatch huts to owls to serpents and turtles to representations of the planet Venus!

Like many Maya sites, Uxmal was mysteriously "abandoned" at one point, in this instance supposedly for reasons of drought. In general the Maya "disappearances" are considered one of the biggest archeological mysteries, however it’s not that big of a mystery so long as one has a basic understanding of inter-dimensionality: the Maya simply tuned the big, cosmic radio dial to a different station, one with a little less Garbage and little more Nirvana!

Cuadrangulo de las Monjas

I found that Uxmal belongs undeniably to the air spirits: the birds, the bees (who had hives in all of the buildings, discouraging tourists from taking refuge in the cool interiors), the dragonflies... and the DRAGONS!

From my journal:

The dragons were highly prevalent here in ancient times. They were oracles and magicians and they partook in many of the ceremonial rites and "governing" of the city. Not directly governing, they are clear: offering their wisdom and counsel to the Elders, priests, etc. (advisors) There was a female human oracle as well, the "dragoness"- she was in most direct and intimate contact with the dragons, and would be seen soaring through the skies on their backs. (There was an Empress as well.) The dragons' communication was tonal, and telepathic. They sang (hummed?). Their flight was tonal too, not reliant (physically) on wings. "Wings for show" (if at all). Dance was a huge part of life, culture. The "dragon dance". Peace. There was great peace. They understood... There is so much flight, how I long to soar with them.

There were also iguanas (reincarnated dragons?), appropriately more draconian in appearance than their Tulum relatives and in much greater number! Marlon made fast friends with them when he shared our leftover grapes and mango skins, and at one point we were surrounded by up to five grande iguanas, each with distinctive characteristics and personalities (one Marlon called "The Knight" due to his bold air and mail-ish markings).

"The Knight"

One of the biggest perks of having a rental car was that for the first time, we had no limitation on the amount of time we could spend at a site, and we relished it- spending ultimately close to five hours at Uxmal! (Even so, it was our thirst that ultimately drove us to the exit.) It was an exquisite experience, a perfect site to end with.

Mérida has been wonderful as well- it is a highly diverse and culturally rich city, with live music on most nights (oftentimes three bands per block), and on weekends, they close the Centro to all but pedestrians. We've highly enjoyed sitting in the Grande Plaza in the evenings with our sorbet, watching the locals drumming in circles and selling their wares and offering horse carriage rides and sharing affections (something you rarely see in the states you see everywhere here: people beyond the college age making out)!

It has been an amazing and unforgettable experience and as always, parting is bittersweet. In conclusion, I'd like to leave you with a few notes on "site-seeing":

MarandAr's RECCOMENDED SACRED SITE PROTOCOL:

1) Arrive early, right when they open, if possible. It will be cooler and you will have much more solitude- both important factors in really experiencing the site. (Nothing sucks the excitement or mystery out of an ancient city faster than flower-wilting heat and flocks of people with video cameras.)

2) Don't bother with breakfast. The night before, go out and buy the biggest, ripest mango and juiciest plums you can find. You will enjoy these at a spot and time of your choosing at the site, and they will taste SO GOOD. They will keep your energy "up" in more ways than one! Eat them over the ground so you can share the juices with Mother Earth. Afterwards, you can go out for a big, grounding lunch.

3) Go with your instincts, and don't be afraid to wander off the path! Don't feel that you have to see or climb on every structure or read every plaque to really experience the site- oftentimes the most value can be found in sitting in one place you feel called to and "being". Go where your feet take you, or where your feelings guide you.

4) If an animal crosses your path, ask it what its message is- be it an iguana, a turtle, a stray dog, a bird, or an insect! (Likewise, be aware of the people around you- often you will see the same folks repeatedly, even from town to town! Obviously, there are important wavelengths at work...)

5) Sunscreen, a hat and/or sunglasses and deet-free bug spray are good to have on hand. Also, if you are anything like me, bring chapstick and reapply regularly! (On a mildly related note, if you have sunburned lips and your boyfriend has just consumed fajitas with mui picante sauce, refrain from kissing him lest you burn with more than just passion!)

6) As a general rule for traveling, never, ever, ever, EVER go anywhere without toilet paper (thanks, Portia)!

7) All of our experiences were much enhanced by Star Essence Flower and Gemstone Essences! They are great to drop at the sites- also in your water bottles, over food (especially "questionable" items), in face creams, on sunburns, and any other incidents that may occur, such as scrapes or cuts! Marlon had a pain in his toe at Chichèn Itza that made it uncomfortable to walk- a little flower essences and Reiki and he was good as new!

Thank you all for taking this journey with us.
With "mucho grande" love,
Arielle

"Mayanical" E-Log #4: The sites, the sights!

2008-03-30T10:41:00.000-07:00

Tulum

Cafe Internet Santa Lucia
Mérida, Yucatan - Mexico

What a whirlwind! We've been to three sites in as many days, and we're not stopping there. Each of them has been profoundly moving in distinctly different ways... I feel as if I carry a piece of each of them with me.

As my last Log had to be cut short due to bus departure time concerns, I will continue with the ruins at Tulum:

I found the energy of Tulum to be very similar to that of Delphi, in Greece- there was an impression of grace and harmony, and of people walking peacefully along flora-lined paths, with a real emphasis on spirituality. Granted, all Maya sites could be said to have an emphasis on spirituality, though this was more contemplative, less "My temple is bigger than your temple!" More... feminine, if you will. (Of course, this could be due to the fact that I was female in an incarnation there.) I felt like a wanted to walk with utmost reverence on the Earth.

As we finished our circle of the site and were heading back towards the exit, I was strongly called off the main path, to the southwestern corner where Tulum's wall (supposedly built for defense, though I resonate deeper with the theory that it acts to define the boundaries of the "sacred area") meets in a "watchtower". I will remind you that iguanas were everywhere at Tulum, and there we found the Grandfather Iguana. (How appropriate that the patriarch of the site's "guardians" be near the watchtower!) He was nearly as long as my arm not including his tail, and meeting his gaze made something stir deep within. He was intensity within stillness. I offered him some of my Sacred Site essence and promptly fell into a liz-erie. The following is an excerpt from my journal:

The iguanas are the Time Keepers. They and their brethren (of which I got the impression there are many species) hold the energy (of the sites) until the rest of us Remember. They await the day when the ancient sites will once more be used for ceremonial purposes. They are grounding. They are like poles, grounding the cosmos into the Earth and visa versa. They are Peace/they project Peace. Their power is in their quiet. "Power in the moment." Power is in the now, in the potential for movement/action. They are ancient but they are still here because they know how to harness the present/presence. Their presence is Now, the now that is not dependent on time, the now that is beyond time. They are here now presently, and now then. It is the same. There is no time for the iguanas. That is how they keep it. They "present" it. They are present/presence.

Grandfather Iguana

(At the conclusion, Grandfather bobbed his head several times, indicating clearly we were done. I thanked him and offered another dosage of Sacred Site essence, and he squinted his eyes in Zen acknowledgement.)

We flew back down the road in order to check out of our cabaña by 11am, me in a state of elated "being" and reluctant to depart from the ruins. After stowing our bags at reception for an hour in order to enjoy the beach one last time, we moved to cheaper accommodations in town (appropriately, at "Hotel Maya"), which allowed us to be closer to the bus station and to enjoy Avenue Tulum's many delicious restaurants and- we confess- shopping.

That night we boogied until bedtime to live reggae-rock music and enjoyed authentic Italian gelato (mmm hazelnut and almond)! To say the least, it was difficult to leave Tulum.

From there it was on to Cobá, where fortunately we were able to stow our bags at the hotel/bus station while we enjoyed the ruins. Cobá is one of the oldest sites and considered to be one of the most "important" to archeologists. Its architecture mysteriously resembles that of Tikal in Guatemala, rather than the closer sites of Chichén Itza and Tulum (theorhetically marriage alliances were made between Cobá and Tikal). As the site is so extensive, bicycle rentals are available in order to more efficiently enjoy the far-reaching and widespread groups of ruins... Coast along jungle paths with a cooling breeze a step ahead of the mosquitos? You didn't have to ask us twice!

Cobá

We cruised comfortably down the forest-lined trails on our bikes- which we named Viva Verde ("Live Green") and Toro Rojo ("Red Bull"), respectively- me catching the spirits of the trees in my embrace so they could share in the flight. The energy at Cobá is very much tree/sun. Resting my palms on the stones of the ruins I perceived Sun Light, not there merely by nature of being in the sun but by intention, with deliberation. It was the language of Illumination, and while I couldn’t comprehend it cognitively, it flowed into my veins and found resonance within.

About 1.5 kilometers in we came to El Gran Piramide, Cobá's most dramatic structure and the largest pyramid in the Yucatan peninsula. It basically resembled a "black diamond" level slope of stone, with a single rope down the middle that one could grasp if they felt the need. I'm not good with measurements, but it must have been at least a gazillion feet high!

(I must appropriately insert here how impressed I am with the Mexicans' laid-back attitude- they non-chalantly sent us careening down rocky trails on mechanically-questionable bicycles and scaling mountain-size ruins without so much as a waiver. This approach apparently works for them, too- I have yet to hear of any Mayan temple staircase mishaps.)

Marlon and I both picked up on some contradictory residual energies at the pyramid: the focused and loving nature reverence of the astrologer-priests, and the belly-deep terror of the sacrificial victims. It was disturbing to us, and launched a philosophical discussion on the nature of duality, and the nature of belief. So far as we could intuit, the priests sincerely believed in what they were doing and their intentions- for the most part- were pure. Yet there was no denying the horror of those "sacrificed", and therefore the fact that the priests' actions- however positively meant- were negative in nature, and had negative repercussions.

When exploring another trail "off the beaten path" we came across a turtle! Turtles are associated with the Mayan rain god Chac-Mool, who had been announcing himself with brief and sporadic showers the last couple of days. I offered the Mother Turtle some Sacred Site, and again fell into a deep communication.

She waits patiently and listens. She is unafraid, but does not tolerate that which is outside her best interest/comfort. (She waits patiently for me to understand what she has to say.) Patience. Patience. She is free. (She is me.) She is the Earth. She listens. The ground talks to her as she traverses over it, a song in her belly. In the energetic sense, her shell is not hard and impenetrable but an amplifier. She simply chooses with great discretion and deliberateness what is to be amplified and what excluded from her womb of possibility. Her home is the water, therefore she is fluid in nature. Water: there used to be much more water here (Marlon just found some shells)! The turtles have been here always, have always Known... The turtle is a mother. I feel her force, her nurturing. That word again: "Womb". A womb of embrace, a womb of choice... (This is all we have time for.)

Mother Turtle

To say the least, I appreciate the presence of these animal emissaries and all of their wisdom!

I snapped out of my "turtlerie" just in time for us to race back to the bus station. We just made it onto the bus to Pisté, and I think provided quite the entertaining spectacle to the mostly Mexican passengers as we struggled to our seats while the bus was in motion!

In Pisté we decided to let our cab driver recommend a place (which previous experience has shown can be a gamble), and he took us to Flamboyanes (Flamboyant) Guesthouse, whose vibrant fuscia walls were indeed flamboyant! They had everything we've learned to require- hot water, a window, and a toilet seat- and were very warm and soft-spoken. It was one of the best nights sleeps we've had this trip, which made it difficult to get out of bed the next morning in order to get to Chichén Itzá before the tour buses (but as always, it was worth it)!

I wasn't quite sure what to expect at Chichén Itzá as it's been so thoroughly hyped- and was under the allegedly more blood-thirsty Toltec influence- but I was quite enraptured. (This still doesn't excuse the ten US dollars admission fee- they think they're sooooo special because they have the Mayan calendar in stone!) I scattered more flower essences at Chichén Itzá than anywhere else thus far, and was so thoroughly plugged into it that when we reached the platforms where they used to display the skulls and bodies of their sacrificial victims, I was abruptly overtaken by emotion. I don't mean to be dramatic, but the spirits of the slaughtered were crying out for release, and I was the nearest not-smart-enough-to-shield-myself conduit. Utilizing flower essences and prayers, ultimately the energy was released and healed, and I felt a sense of purpose in the whole thing.

Chichén Itzá

Next we checked out the cenote (a sort of canyon/cave filled with natural water) where they used to enact all manner of ceremonial rites. I was determined to drop some essences directly in the water (where skeletons were found), however as it was roped off five feet from the edge- now the Mexicans choose caution- this was tricky. With Marlon's encouragement, I manifested a break in the throngs of onlookers and quickly ducked under the rope. Success!

Lastly, we visited the famous El Castillo pyramid, which is the Mayan calendar formed in stone, and an awe-inspiring presence. It's a Toltec temple built on top of a Mayan one, and I had this sense as I sat before it, of a gateway within.

El Castillo Piramide

There's a gateway inside the temple. (Sacred geometry?) A sense of lines of energy crossing and meeting: pathways, pathways in/out, to/from places of the mind/universe! [I'm being told] both the same- the universe is contained within our minds. Every dimension, every galaxy, every world, every star- within our single cells, within us. We will never build a machine, rocket, what-have-you that will successfully travel through time or all of the way across the universe. They key is in us. This temple is a representative of the gateway that we are. It is the universe contained. It opens and closes with every breath- if we do not breathe, we do not exchange with God. We do not receive, we do not offer, do not live awake nor indeed, perceive. We are portals, gates, doorways! Temples, "sacred sites", etc. are merely meant to awaken within us our dormant gateways, to awaken within us the universe contained. We are not reliant on these places/structures in any regard for this- they are catalysts, not means. We are it. Awaken the temple within. Open the door. (Interesting- whole new dimension to the concept, "the body is a temple"...)

Now we are in Mérida, which we will use as a base to explore some of the area's ruins, before flying out on Tuesday. We are staying at the positively awesome Hotel Trinidad, which more closely resembles an old European villa than a Mexican hotel- replete with two lush green courtyards (our room looks out on both of them), tile floors, dark paneled double doors with peek-a-boo windows, and moody plumbing! (There is also a rather regal chair in our room which I am convinced would make a great throne for Marlon if he would just give in to his royal Leonine sensibilities.) Indeed, central Mérida itself has a distinctly European flavor- we are enjoying it immensely.

I hope to do one last log before we depart, to detail our experiences at Uxmal etc... Until then-

As always, with much love,
Arielle

"Mayanical" E-Log #3: Free-for-all Mahahual; Honeymoon Tulum

2008-03-28T10:10:00.000-07:00

Mahahual

Cyber Planet
Tulum, Quintana Roo - Mexico

When we left off, we were waiting for the over-nite bus to Chetumal. That was another interesting experience in nocturnal travel. I don’t know whether it was because we were in the very back of the bus or because all Mexican drivers share a certain affinity with Speedy Gonzalez, but there was an alarming amount of swaying and lurching. It was so severe that ultimately, Marlon concluded the only way to prevent involuntary body propulsion would be shoulder straps! In fact, the more we discussed it, the more we wondered why shoulder harnesses should be limited to baby car seats and astronauts, when there are so many scenarios in life where one might desire a little extra torso support...

As our main objective for coming to Chetumal was to catch another bus, we were pleasantly surprised by its charm and a laid-back attitude we attributed to the Caribbean. (Although, as the city was largely devoid of residents- we assumed for Semana Santa, the Mexican spring break- that may have contributed, as well.) One thing we were really excited about in Chetumal was checking out Museo de la Cultura Maya, which is organized into three levels, mirroring Maya cosmology: the main floor representing this world, the upper floor the heavens and the lower floor the underworld.

When we initially arrived at the museum, they said they would be opening in 30 - 40 minutes, so we looked into the bus schedule and went back to the hotel to change and relax a bit. When we returned, they said they would be opening in another 20 minutes, so we went for quesadillas (or as Ben says, "quese-dizzles"). When we returned to the museum for the second time however, they were completely barred up with no one in sight, and when we finally managed to get a hold of someone, he said they’d closed 20 minutes ago!

Que?

Museo de la Cultura Maya

We rattled the gate and moaned our displeasure and considered haunting the place. The others were convinced that with some effort, I could fit through the bars, though we were unsure what this would accomplish aside from proving my rightful place as a Circus performer. Ultimately, we walked down to the water instead, which was equally nice.

It was decided that the hassle (customs) of going into Belize wouldn’t be worth the brief amount of time there, so the next morning we hopped a bus to the beach town of Mahahual. It was a "2nd Class" bus, meaning no AC, no baños, no boundaries. We picked up and dropped off anyone anywhere, and once the driver got out to get a cool drink and shoot the breeze. I found it to be the most enjoyable bus ride yet, mui authentico.

The first thing we saw of Mahahual was the idyllic turquoise of the Caribbean sea. The next thing we saw clarified where the populace of Chetumal had gone. Plus-size families toting inflatable crocodiles, old men with binoculars (?!) and young, scantily-clad muchachas and muchachos all partook in the festivities, and all to the same soundtrack of Spanish pop and club music (which the beachfront restaurants blasted from speakers taller than myself, as if they were performing a public service). The four of us looked at each other in varying degrees of alarm and humor as we pulled in, and one man (whose age suggested he would be better off refraining from such activities) thrust his hips in the direction of the bus.

Marlon and I were reminded of Pescara, Italy, however there at least the military-fashion rows of lounge chairs provided some sense of structure!

Between Semana Santa and the aftermath of August’s hurricane (which has many residents living in hotels and many hotels demolished), everything was booked in Mahahual. However, this turned out to be a blessing as we ended up in the neighboring town of Costa Maya, which was dramatically more quiet and down-to-earth. It also had a large ex-pat community, and we quickly discovered the unexpectedly hip bohemian café Aroma, which served large and tasty panini sandwiches (and were willing to do mine sin carne). The sun was so potent however, that it glared off the white, dusty roads like a mirror and even sitting under an umbrella all afternoon we were each of us a shade darker!

Café Aroma

That evening Marlon and I made the five-minute walk to the beach for a sunset swim. The turquoise waters felt as wonderful and nurturing as they looked, and we basked in their exceptional buoyancy a comfortable distance from Mahahual’s "festivities". However, as we made our way back to shore Marlon suddenly cried out in pain, and closer inspection revealed three dark purple spikes in his foot- belonging to a sea urchin, we surmised! Neither of us thought they were poisonous, but Marlon couldn’t put weight on the ball of his foot and we were soon resigned to limping along the highway. I prayed fervently for a taxi, and shortly one materialized. Marlon explained that he had a problema and indicated his foot, to which the driver nodded stoically and drove us to Mahahual’s hospital- a simple 2-room building with a quaint ambulance out front. Inside were two men in street clothes, one of which spoke English. He said not to worry, this happened all the time (to tourists), in fact just the day before a girl had come in with twenty sea urchin spines! He also confirmed that sea urchins weren’t poisonous, however they release a mild toxin and, "If it happen again, pee on it."

(The visit cost us only five dollars, nonetheless it was fortunate that Marlon had stuck resolutely to his intuition to bring cash, even though I’d said that we were going to commune with the sea and what the heck did we need money for?)

That night we began a three-day love affair with Che Burger, which was run by a charming and warm Argentinean family and served VEGGIE burgers, pasta, and Chimichurri sauce (an olive oil-parsley concoction) with warm bread! They said they hoped we would return, though I don’t think they anticipated us taking that quite so literally, as we returned the following two consecutive nights, plus a lunch!

On Easter the four of us swam in the cerulean sea and went on a smoothie hunt, which proved much more challenging than the proverbial egg hunt, however eventually we found them- presented in plastic baggies with straws as there were no to-go cups!

By Tuesday the crowds had returned to the city, and Mahahual felt like a ghost town in contrast. We and the few other non-Mexican tourists ventured out tentatively, raising our noses to the wind like rodents checking to insure the danger has passed. Portia and I had been highly anticipating horseback riding on the beach, but the place we’d found online previously was closed and had apparently discontinued the rides! (As always, travel teaches adaptability.)

On Wednesday morning Marlon and I boarded a bus to Tulum, having reached our point of departure from Portia and Ben. Such bittersweet partings!!! I was deeply saddened at the goodbyes, yet also excited for the next leg of our adventure. As the bus pulled away from Costa Maya I thought, Alas, we are "Quattro Fromagio" no more, returned once again to "MarandAr".

Tulum has been incredible from the very beginning. The last available accommodations and the cheapest accommodations on the beach both happened to be at "Zazil Kin", within walking distance of the ruins. (Granted, "cheap" is a rustic solar-powered cabaña with cold shower for 90 US dollars a night, but as Marlon pointed out, we’re paying for the location. He was accurate, but the idea always ruffles my feathers. As Michael Franti sings, "I don’t need a passport, to walk on this Earth, everywhere I go cuz I was made of this Earth..." Nonetheless, we could see the ruins from our beach which is pretty dang cool.)

Zazil Kin

Taking a beach walk that night, I felt the ruins humming to me and Marlon commented that the stars here resemble a spiral, like a great vortex. (We’d both taken some Illumination essence, bear with us.)

Yesterday morning we dragged ourselves out of our pink mosquito net-enshrouded bed in order to get to the ruins right when they opened. It was a pleasant walk down the road and we were greeted at the entrance by several cats in blissful squinty-eyed repose at the area’s pure vibration. Once we entered the site, however, it was iguanas that ruled the roost. They were everywhere, mostly perched majestically atop deteriorating columns and former buildings. Marlon tuned in right away to the fact that they were the spirits of former residents, acting as guardians for the site.

Crickey! Marlon has just informed me that our bus leaves fifteen minutes earlier than we’d anticipated. I shall have to leave off here for now!

Adios! We are off to visit Cobá, on our way to Pisté (Chichén Itzá).
Much love!!! Arielle

"Mayanical" E-Log #2: Profound Palenque

2008-03-20T14:36:00.000-07:00

Palenque

Anonymous Internet Club
Palenque, Chiapas - Mexico

We are in our fourth hour of "passing the time" until our bus departs (only nine to go). Alas, I shall catch you up.

We arrived in Palenque around 7pm Tuesday. Due to the spring equinox and an alleged music festival, it quickly became apparent that all of the recommended places- and then some- were booked (no one takes reservations). Eventually we found two available cabañas at Michol’s, though as Portia relevantly noted, they more closely resembled tool sheds than sleeping quarters- in fact, they put the "rust" in "rustic". We were out of other options however, and "adventure" was, after all, our objective!

The good news was that Michol’s was a lot more subdued than the other hotels, all of which seemed to have perpetual Hippie Happy Hour. Nonetheless, said Happy Hours were still audible and my cold, cinder-block-ensconced outdoor shower was accompanied by an interesting symphony of crickets, bird calls, and- techno music.

Michol's

Fortunately nights are cooler here than in Villahermosa, as we had to sleep fully clothed in order to avoid the mosquitoes and other potential creepy crawlies in our tool sheds (Portia was kind enough to remind us about scorpions before bed). We rose early and received the first of the day’s many sales pitches for local hallucinogenic mushrooms (no wonder the hippies were so happy). I wanted to explain that my life was hallucinatory enough without the aid of psychedelic fungus, but naturally all I was capable of communicating was "no, gracias" with progressively less patience!

As Portia and Ben wanted a warm breakfast, we agreed to meet at the ruins later and Marlon and I headed up the road to the Zona Archeologica Palenque. Along the way, we enjoyed some of the Star Essence Flower and Gemstone Essences I’d brought: the quintessential Travel Solution, Illumination, and my own blend, “Sacred Site" (Chaska, High Frequency, Sublime Chocolate, Whale Time, the Earth Balancing Trinity, and the Soul Purpose constellation, plus Lemurian Quartz). We shared them with the trees too, however there was too much barbed wire to offer any to the cows.

We were mildly delayed by the fact that tickets purchased before 9am were only available an additional one and a half kilometers up the road (for the record, the site opens at 8am), but then we were in!

Palenque, part of the Maya civilization, is one of the most intact and aesthetically majestic ruins in Mexico. With an average of 85 inches of rain a year, it is also one of the wettest, which is evident in the deliciously lush tropical forest that surrounds the site (and which kept it well hidden until the 16th century). I found it almost over-powering in presence and scope- the intensity level of the energy was both exhilarating and draining.

After touring and photographing all of the most quintessential and/or intriguing ruins, we met up with Portia and Ben at the Templo de Las Cruces, which- as it sits elevated above the rest of the site- provides a positively breath-taking view of the ruins and surrounding jungle. It was nice to rest our tired legs and allowed us to appreciate the site in a more receptive fashion. (I became momentarily emotional when my past life as a Palenque priest came to consciousness for healing.) Revived by our respite, we continued our explorations, ending with the pristine waterfalls and bathing pools which used to serve as ceremonial baths. Much to our consternation, there was no swimming allowed, however Ben (ever the rebel!) ran around the barriers and stuck one toe in.

Our sleep was much improved last night by finding a hotel in town of the non-toolshed variety (ironically, at hotel "Los Angeles"). Tonight we take the over-nite bus to Chetumal on the Caribbean coast, where we will dip into Belize for- what else- more Mayan ruins. (Our original plans to check out Reserva Biosphera Calakmul and its ruins were dashed due to transportation concerns.)

Hasta luego, amigos!
Much love, Arielle

"Mayanical" E-Log #1: Headyness

2008-03-18T14:10:00.000-07:00

Parque Museo de La Venta

Cyberclub
Villahermosa, Tabasco - Mexico

"There is no end to the adventures we can have if only we seek them with our eyes open."
-Jawsaharal Nehru

Hola!

Well, once again it started in Limbo (aka LAX Tom Bradley International Terminal). From there we embarked on a journey that was not even half the distance but nonetheless managed to surpass our infamous Air India flight to Athens in overall exasperation and discomfort. (We took heart, however, in that previous experience has proven the gnarlier the departure, the better the trip.)

Functioning on only two hours of sleep or not, we arrived in Villahermosa ready for adventure and highly anticipating the sight of Portia and Ben's familiar faces. After some very special one-on-one attention from the customs agents (we were the only international travelers on the flight from Mexico City), we emerged into the clinging heat and into the welcoming embrace of my soul sistah and her equally soul-ish lovah (if you will)! Having arrived in Villahermosa a few days prior, they were able to spare our sleep-deprived brains the exertion of decision-making, saavily negotiating a taxi back to the hotel and a good spot to enjoy some yummy, authentic Mexican cuisine.

Portia & Ben

(A little backstory for those of you not priorly informed: Portia, one of my very bestest friends, and her boyfriend Ben are in Mexico for her spring semester. They have agreed to tramp about the jungle and contemplate the mysteries of the Maya with us for Easter break.)

After freshening up at the hotel and briefly contemplating rigging a zip line to get into the swimming pool on the roof across the way, we headed off to Parque Museo de La Venta. A lushly green and sprawling complex full of windy trails crossed by looping vines that allows one to entertain Indiana Jones fantasies without the risk of booby traps, the parque includes a nice zoo, but is most famous for its "ginormous" stone Olmec heads.

The Olmec were the earliest (known) culture in Mexico, followed by the Zapotec, Maya, Toltec and Aztec cultures (most prevalently, anyway). They are considered to have been the most peaceful and, by some accounts, vegetarian and extraterrestrial. (As I am both vegetarian and extraterrestrial, naturally I was highly anticipating seeing the remnants of such an obviously wise and great people.)

The tour began a little dry from an energetic standpoint with reproductions of statues from other archeological sites, but as we made our way along the vegetation-choked paths and each turn revealed progressively more dramatic and impactful stone monuments, I was not disappointed. The most profound and deeply affecting was Monument 4 ("The Old Warrior"), one of the colossal heads. Roughly as tall as Ben (6') and similar in all around size to my Dodge neon, he was indeed colossal! The path led directly towards him, face-on, providing an intense and eerie sense of eye contact as you approached. Standing in front of him, I was level to his third eye, which appeared patched and was therefore pronounced. (We contemplated whether they were covering up something that was there or whether a chunk of his forehead had fallen out and some kindergarteners had attempted to patch things up a bit.)

The Old Warrior

There were signs everywhere depicting angry-faced statues with hands reaching towards them that stated "No Torca" (no touching), but Ben and I (what rebels!) both felt compelled beyond understanding to touch The Old Warrior.

The minute I pressed my palm to the stone, my mind was flooded with images akin to the code seen in The Matrix movies, vertically scrolling symbols. They were white against a starry backdrop, and I immediately thought, "Star Codes." It is speculated that the Olmec heads are depictions of their gods (and that their size represents the extent to which these deities were idolized), but the knowing engulfed me very distinctly then that they are carriers of cosmic consciousness. (It was also impressed upon me that they used tonal frequencies- sound- to move the colossal stones, some of which came from very, very, very far away by ancient standards.)

Sadly the parque was near closing time so we had to keep moving and I did not have the opportunity to delve further into my impressions, but The Old Warrior's vibration remained with me.

Today we are off to Palenque, roughly 2 hours by bus, to see the ruins there. Though Villahermosa is very nice and the locals extremely accommodating (we American tourists are apparently quite rare here- we literally turn heads!), it will be nice to get out of the city.

"Tempesteuros" E-Log #7: C'est la Bordelle!

2005-07-25T16:45:00.000-07:00

Narbonne, France

easyInternetCafe
Amsterdam, Holland

Dag!

As I am flying home tomorrow, one could ask if it's even worth sitting down to write this Log, though the journey would distinctly lack closure and completion for me if I didn't wrap up this phenomenal ride for (and with) you all... Particularly those of you who have inquired lately into the freakin' status of things!

Okay. So, I wish I could say it's hard to believe it's been so long since I last wrote, but the truth of the matter is that Venice feels eons ago.... Luckily, my memory (and nothing else, thank you very much) is like an elephant's.

Though the remainder of our time in Venice wasn't as dramatic as the first 24 hours, it still wasn't lacking in Venetian ambiance- despite the fact that we did not have the city's most quintessential and cliché experience, a gondola ride. Marlon especially was disappointed by this, though the compulsive rebel in me was actually quite impressed that we made it through the city without falling prey to its biggest tourist trap. What we did do was come across a down-to-earth jazz club pizzeria, where a couple of ladies took pity on our meager beverage budget and insisted we have the rest of their very nice bottle of cabernet (definitely an instance where the glass- or shall we say bottle- was half full). It turned out these ladies were crew members on the cruise ship "Princess", and we all mutually regaled one another (including the waiter, who had no other patrons) with travel tales for a good portion of the evening. From them we learned "cheers" in Turkish (which I'm sure you'll all be hearing from us in the future), as well as what to expect in our next destination of Turin, which were "hippies, but with morals". Hm.

Turin, Italy

Regardless, Turin made a wonderful impression right away, because everything of interest to visitors was actually in the same vicinity as the train station (almost like they actually thought about it or something). While I'm not sure about "hippies with morals", the residents appeared well-learned, down-to-earth, and quirky to be sure, very like the city itself, which came off like a bohemian intellectual who has long since stopped concerning themself with society (Turin was the capital of Italy until 1945). Obviously, my kind of place, which was fortunate as our actual reason for coming there didn't pan out (we had been anticipating visiting the controversial New Age community of Damanhur). In my opinion, anyway, the real reason the universe had guided us there was the first consistently good food of the entire trip, particularly salads, for which the waitress almost received a hug every time she presented one. (Marlon and I have joked extensively about this trip seemingly being "The Search for the Perfect Salad", though just a decent or good one would have been an accomplishment too.)

With that, our time in Italy was over. (Those of you who have seen the movie Spaceballs will appreciate that we consider our pace through Italy to have been comparable to "Ludicrous Speed!" though we probably did more there than anywhere else.) We caught a train (or three, or something- anyway) from Turin into France, specifically Nice. Our first day in a country is always the hardest, so that along with some other factors made Nice not very nice. We'd been consecutively in big cities for the past two weeks (along with Everybody Else, etc.), so unfortunately, returning to the city where I'd spent my seventh birthday just felt like another obligatory stop in another congested maze rather than a charming stroll down memory lane.

Anyhow, another one of my psycho- I mean, psychic- moments got us to the small inland city of Narbonne, where we were able to comfortably acclimate to France (horribly offending only a few French citizens in the process, by the accidental and automatic use of the Italian "grazie" instead of "merci").

Finally, then, we were able to set our bags down for an entire week, with the generous accommodation of Marlon's cousins in the Cote d' Landes. Having access for the first time in over a month to amenities like a kitchen, a DVD player, and an affectionate canine companion (not to mention one of the world's most famous surfing beaches a stone's throw away), we were very content in the little town of Seignosse. Marlon's cousins were enthusiastic hosts and when we weren't sleeping all morning or spending all afternoon on the beach, made sure to show us a good time. (Most memorable of all, perhaps, being our tour of the Basque country, where we sampled dangerously delicious traditional Basque pastries and a polar bear-sized dog almost ran our car over.)

Seignosse, France

After a stop-over in Blois (pronounced "blwah", yes really) to check out a castle, we arrived in Paris. I had officially had a case of homesickness since Nice and was experiencing a state of exhaustion I'd never known before, so despite several memorable childhood trips to Paris I wasn't expecting great things from it. Thus, I was really impressed with how relaxed and in-my-element I immediately felt there- though our exhaustion still kept our 7 month anniversary and Marlon's 24th birthday on a far mellower keel than we had anticipated.

Now here we are in Amsterdam, where it has been pouring rain for the past two days, somehow a fitting end to our epic and transformational "tempesteuros" adventure. I wish I had some wonderfully wise and deep metaphors or perceptions to close it with, but really, truly, my brain... yeah, see, I don't know where that though went. Anyway.

All of our love,
Arielle & Marlon

P.S. And now, to test my brain's facilities even further...

MarandAr's SUMMATION OF ITALY (a brief and gross generalization):

1. Pizza. It is well-known that Italy is the pizza capital of the world, and it's true that even the smallest restaurant has pages and pages of pizza selections. However, they range something like this: 'Tomato, cheese, and ham'. Or, 'tomato, cheese, and mushrooms'. Or, if you really want to go hog wild, you could get 'tomato, cheese, ham and mushrooms'. Plus, all of Europe takes great delight in confusing the hell out of Americans by referring to peppers as "pepperoni", thus everywhere you'll see "Vegetarian" pizzas with "pepperoni" on them. (Actual pepperoni is referred to as "hot sausage"- how naughty.)

2. Standing Room Only. Italians are really fond of having about 1 meter of bench for every kilometer of platform. Thus, you end up with people setting up camp while they wait for their train, perching on their luggage and singing 'round the lamp post, which is quite jolly really.

3. Gelato. Words cannot really express the divinity of gelato, and I don't know, are words really necessary?

MarandAr's SUMMATION OF FRANCE (a brief and gross generalization):

1. Mushrooms and Anchovies. Mushrooms and anchovies are to France as tomatoes are to Greece (refer to Log #4).

2. Sugar and caffeine. If you actually find anything for breakfast in France aside from pastries and coffee, it has "American" plastered pointedly all over it. Also, if you decline "cafe" after your meal, you're sure to get a look somewhere along the lines of, "Have you forgotten your medication this morning?" It's one of life's great mysteries how the French are all so svelte when the main-stays of their diet are sugar and caffeine.

3. Rose-colored glasses. France certainly has a reputation as romance capitol of the world, though whether this stems from actual romance or merely the particular shade of pink they're so fond of (salmon), I'm not sure. Let me just tell you that if you feel like you're dining and sleeping and bathing in a grizzly bear's stomach, you're probably in France, and I actually don't mean that in a bad way.

P.P.S.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

We'd like to thank the following specifically, though our gratitude is with you all!

~ Mom Christner, for the warmth, wit, wisdom, and consistency of her e-mails, and for my edge in France (and in life).
~ Mom Chapman, for her financial and otherwise support.
~ Dad Christner, for the use of the digital camera, and for the emergency stash of cash which got us out of more than one tight spot!
~ Dad Jeffers, for the use of "The Daytripper" travel guitar and the mini-disc player (thus providing our therapy), and for driving us to the airport.
~ Soul-sibling Portia, for the tea and Emergen-C packets, and for her enthusiasm, and for her un-wavering friendship and love. We wished you were here!
~ All of the angels of Star Essence, and all of the heroes of Hearts Adaptive Riding, for letting me go- and come back (I hope).
~ Rica Shelton, for the use of her backpack!
~ Many more!

P.P.P.S. If you're curious, the subject of this Log is French, meaning "it's chaos"- or, more literally translated, "whore house".

"Tempesteuros" E-Log #6: "A young girl transfigured by Italy..."

2005-06-30T14:33:00.000-07:00

Piazza della Signoria

Internet Point, module #11
Venice, Italy

Buongiorno again!

DISCLAIMER REGARDING FOLLOWING LOG: I feel it is necessary to apologize to those of you who have not watched the movie "A Room With a View" to the point of knowing it intimately like my family and I (or at all). Just bear with me and note that phrases in both quotes and italics are meant to be in an English accent.

As I touched on in the last Log, we made it to Italy a bit later than initially intended (which probably has a lot to do with the fact that this trip has been based entirely on intentions rather than actual plans, in fact the only entity known to possess an actual itinerary for us is the universe itself). Thus, we are here, along with- as Marlon put it- Everybody Else and their mother, cousin, sister, and aunt (hi, Mom, Brynna, Angelique, and Aunt Sally! Wish you were here!). Obviously, the less positive side of this is that when I am attempting to photograph famous monuments from the best possible angle, when we are ambling wide-eyed through the historical streets with our gelato and, indeed, when we are kissing in some of the most picturesque locales in the world, we are doing it in the same elbow space as Everybody Else and their mother, cousin, sister, and aunt. The more positive side of this is that we are discovering just how expeditiously and thoroughly we can experience and see all of the quintessential elements of a city (and indeed, some of the well-kept secrets) in the same amount of time it takes the average tourist to put their bags down and change some money.

Starting with Rome:

Possessing an entirely new lease on life with the aid of our freshly-laundered garments, we set off to see what Rome was all about (obviously a crucial step to living out the old adage, when in Rome...).

First was Vatican City and the Sistine Chapel, which we'd anticipated popping in and out of though it turned out to get to the chapel you were required to tour the entire Vatican Museum (and pay for it, monetarily and otherwise), and not even in a fashion of our own choosing but as specifically dictated to us by ropes and arrows (I suppose it was only fitting, as their religion doesn't allow one to wander from the path either). All in all, I left there with additional admiration for the involved artists, the severest case of claustrophobia I've ever experienced, and basically just feeling creeped out beyond description. Oh, and confused: if anyone has an explanation for there being a brass replica of The Death Star (from the Star Wars movies) in the Vatican courtyard, please let me know. Seriously.

Rome

From there we proceeded to the Pantheon, Trevi Fountain, the Colosseum, and Constantine's Arch, and treaded on half of Rome in the process. We also completely accidentally stumbled across some ruins and the colossal building Italians refer to as "The Typewriter"- I can't remember its actual name- though I'm sure I'll surprise none of you when I admit that the highlight of the day for me was bonding with the carriage horses outside the Colosseum. In fact, my demeanor was so noticeably improved by the encounter that Marlon has vowed to find me a horse to pet at every opportunity!

From Rome it was on to Pisa, the true City of Love as far as I'm concerned. From the moment we arrived at the train station, everywhere there were couples engaged in passionate affection, and overall the place had the purest frequency of anywhere we've yet been. We were stopping there only for one night and only because its Leaning Tower is quintessential Italy, though both Pisa and its famous monument ended up utterly enchanting us, despite- or perhaps because of- us viewing it all after dark. (The Star Essence Angels will be tickled to hear that I dropped some Earth Balancing Essence at the base of the askew monument- the security guards seemed unable to decide whether or not this was a threat, so they let it be.)

Leaving Pisa wasn't easy (literally as well as emotionally- I won't go into it), though we had Florence to look forward to. As soon as we were shown to our room, I went to the window and (after fumbling briefly with the modern window latch) said with a delicate English pout, "I thought we were going to see the Arno." (Which was fun despite being ridiculous, as we'd lost the volition to carry our bags any further a full fifteen minutes away from the river. Of course, it became even more ridiculous when there was a mix-up regarding how many nights we were staying and we were required to move to a different hotel the very next day, giving me a second opportunity to say it- which I took. This also allowed us to humor ourselves extensively by doing our own take on "Don't you agree that on one's first visit to Florence one must have a room with a view?" by saying, "Don't you agree that on one's first visit to Florence one must have a... room?")

Florence

Florence was every bit as profound and raw and beautiful as A Room With a View portrayed it, though I envied Miss Honeychurch's near solitude while exploring the city's sights, as Everybody Else (etc.) were out en force! Nonetheless, we bought postcards, strolled Piazza della Signoria and indeed, got lost in Santa Croce with no Baedeker (guidebook), where we also experienced "A true Florentine smell: Inhale my dear- deeper!". Overall, I would have to say that Florence solidified my transfiguration with Italy ("And why should she not be transfigured? It happened to the Gods"), as well as, obviously, confirmed my sad obsession with movie lines. (Marlon took it all in quite good humor, considering that he's only seen the film in question once.)

Then there is Venice. We both experienced thrills of excitement as we initially laid eyes on one of the most romantically renowned cities in the world, as it is every bit as beautific and surreal as any picture or film ever portrayed it, in fact more so. However, right away I felt an underlying unease that the colorful buildings and celebratory atmosphere couldn't mask, and had a sneaking suspicion that the reason for it rhymed with daunted.

After a much-needed siesta in our room at Casa Peron (the reception of which is dominated by a large green parrot who prefers to answer the day's "Polly want a cracker?" queries at 5am), we headed out for dinner under skies rolling with dark clouds and distant thunder. By the time we finished what we mutually agreed were our best pizzas yet, it was drizzling and the canals reflected purple lightening branches in the skies above. We grabbed our sweatshirts and my camera and dove into the dark, labyrinthine streets, holding to each other to avoid falling on the rain-slicked stones. We quickly discovered that the broader, more easily traversable corridors tended to lead nowhere, and the narrow, uneven little alleys where two people could barely walk shoulder to shoulder tended to be main thoroughfares... sometimes. Also, the most direct route, or indeed, any route, was never the one indicated by the signs... for the most part. Sort of. Basically we were almost kinda lost all of the time but having a blast anyway (as were a trio of girls who spontaneously broke into song and dance through the puddles). We finally made it to bed at 2am, and I dreamed of ghosts. No surprise then, that I awoke a few hours later to an etheric vase being repeatedly hurled at the wall, only to start the pattern over before ever shattering. Also, men in cloaks were marching through the room five abreast, and a small-statured shadow on the stairs could have been child or goblin. I snuggled into Marlon's embrace and managed to fall asleep again, with thoughts that Santa Fe, NM. was no longer the most haunted city I'd ever been to...

Venice

Anyhow! As usual the drama has droned on. We are here in otherworldly Venice for another few days and then where we go, only the universe knows! The only thing that is apparent at this point is needing to get to France within the next week if we are to make Amsterdam by our deadline.

Love,

Arielle & Marlon

"Tempesteuros" E-Log #5: Roamin in Roma

2005-06-24T22:58:00.000-07:00

Foosball in Pyrgos, Greece

Punti BolleBlu' (Laundromat/Internet Access)
Rome, Italy

Buongiorno!

Ever since Crete, the Quest for Adventure had been forced to share the stage with the Quest for Laundry, as the hero and heroine's garments have been stinking as much as their Greek and Italian (repetitions of "Dove lavanderia?" - Italian, "Where is the Laundromat?"- have not improved the latter much at this point). It was a great stroke of fortune that Milos had a place that would do our laundry for us, though we had not encountered anything similar since (we kept being falsely directed to dry cleaners) until this evening!

Si, we are in Italy!

Ironically, moving between countries was the smoothest, most spontaneous transition we've made yet. After a pleasant few days in Olympia, we caught the bus back to Pyrgos (where we played foosball at the station with an hysterically primitive and monolithic wooden table- hi, Portia and Wadrien!), then on to the port city of Patras. Fortunately our Eurail Passes gave us substantial discount on ferry tickets, as it was another over-nighter and we were both adamant in having a cabin this time. Also fortunately- and as if to deliberately contradict everything we'd been saying being our other ferries' backs- "Blue Star 1" was more cruise liner than ferry, equipped with three bars, two restaurants, a casino, Internet access (which we didn't make it to before the signal went out), and apparently, naval technical somethingerather that would probably be of great interest only to my dad (hi, Dad!).

Landing on the port city of Bari in Italy was akin to landing on another planet. All of a sudden there was a whole other language to deal with, and we may as well have been Greek for all of the Greek that kept instinctfully coming to the edge of our tongues. After a rather harrowing time getting to the train station- not to mention negotiating the train station itself- we decided on a direction and went with it. Our delayed arrival in Italy required us to bypass the Amalfi Coast- and unfortunately, as a result, Pompeii- due to sky-rocketed prices in high season (not to mention our being short on time), so we made for Rome and got as far as the coastal city of Pescara that day. As a result, my first impression of Italy was half carnival, half horror circus: Pescara certainly knew how to have fun, but it was in such an over-the-top, in-your-face fashion that one wasn't sure whether to jump in or run screaming... Particularly from the kilometers and kilometers of umbrellas with two lounge chairs apiece lined up in military fashion down the length of the beach. Some of these people had to walk a kilometer just to take a swim, but it didn't seem to deter them from enjoyment!

Pescara, Italy

Anyhow, another train ride through the breath-taking Tuscan countryside and we arrived in Rome- we were at an entirely different station than we had anticipated, but we were here. After all, would it be a true MarandAr entrance if we didn't have to do a 60 minute clueless dance?

Regardless, we managed to get ourselves to Pensione Ester, which is in a positively magical and charming old building and requires clearance through three different gates/doors and buzzers (and is ferociously guarded by the sweetest little bundle of canine since Toto), and speaking of which, we have to get back before midnight curfew!

"Tempesteuros" E-Log #4: Extreme n' Cretan; Peloponnese Tease

2005-06-20T11:59:00.000-07:00

Olympia, Greece

Epathlon Internet Cafe
Olympia, Peloponnese - Greece

Kalimera! (Good morning!) Or if it is the case, Kalispera! (Good afternoon!)

It is officially well beyond the point that I would typically have since returned home from a trip, which is evidenced by the current sense of normalcy in living out of a backpack and having no idea what my next bed will look like, whether my shower will be hot, nor indeed what the people at the next table are saying! In fact, it is the lack of normalcy which now feels "normal" to Marlon and I- not that either of us were ever terribly normal to begin with, but we didn't always do a happy dance because a toilet had a seat cover. The only thing we can truly predict is unpredictability, and we've come to expect that Greece loves to throw us curveballs- mostly pertaining to getting from one place to another- and test our confidence a bit (it also loves to do this with exaggerated impatience, like it should have been soooooo obvious that we had to purchase tickets 3 kilometers away from the port).

One thing we have down pat is the re-acclimation process required every time we come to a new place. We've whittled this down to about five hours, and it basically consists of returning to preschool for the day. First we go on a field trip, then we have Snack, then it's Nap Time, and then depending on our grogginess levels we may have Play Time, which you're welcome to interpret however you like because I'm sure you will anyway. Bottom line is, we have to smack ourselves on the side of the head every once and awhile to remind ourselves we're in Europe, because we've adjusted to it so extremely that it feels like average life!

Anyhow, that's partly how these Logs come into play, so let's get on with it.

After a long, long, looooong "sleep" on the overnight ferry, which not only smelled but stank (we quickly learned that staying low to the ground was the best way to avoid excessive fume inhalation- stop, drop and roll), we entered into a love/arrrrggghhh! relationship with Crete.

Arriving in Crete

The renowned "Cretan Hospitality" made itself known right away, when our hotel owner insisted not only on driving us to the bus station, but that we join him for a home-cooked lunch by his wife. It was certainly our most authentic Greek meal of the trip, and actually one of the very best, despite- or perhaps because of- the fact that all of its components were like islands drifting in a sea of olive oil. This positive experience was immediately followed by the city of Hersonissos, which Marlon quickly took to referring to as "shithole", even before we were ripped off by the rental car greaseballs (our money, literally, my clothing, in their dreams). The frustration we experienced was such that we occupied a good chunk of time researching Greek insults in our phrasebook (we were particularly amused by piecing together Arnold Schwarzenegger lines in Greek, i.e., "Ohi simfonia" = "No deal") (you have to add the Arnie accent for true effect, obviously).

Anyhow, our only reason for even stopping in "shithole" was its proximity to the village of Avdou and Odesseyia Stables, though the stables' website had failed to mention the lack of accommodation in Avdou, nor that, more importantly, they were closed.

Thus we ended up driving aimlessly around the mountains late that night, searching for a hotel. Eventually we pulled into a taverna, interrupting a group of elderly village ladies it seemed likely were partaking in some local gossip. If we'd landed in a space pod they couldn't have looked at us with more surprise, but one of them understood "hotel" and said, "Mochos," indicating something further up the mountain. (This was then followed by several finger gestures which could have indicated kilometers, euro, or the number of grandchildren she had for all we knew, but we thanked her and moved on.)

It was after 10pm when we found Hotel Mary. We'd been bracing ourselves for another truly ghetto experience, so we were pleasantly surprised by the clean, aesthetic exterior that greeted us, shortly followed by three little yap dogs in varying shades of gray and a large German Shepard. The hotel owner was a small, gentle gentleman in his 60s, who seemed surprised not so much by the late hour, as our demographic (anyone else our age would have been back in shithole, dancing on a bar by now) (sorry, almost anyone- we miss you, Portia!).

After a brief stop at the powerful ruins of Knossos (where I found the cheesy recreations to be incongruent with my inner impressions of the place), we proceeded on to Omalos and the Samaria Gorge, not that the transition was that smooth but I'll spare you too many details. Samaria Gorge is the longest ravine in Europe and a 13 kilometer hike from one spectacular end to the other. Unfortunately, we hadn't thought ahead about all of our stuff and hotel being on only one end, so we had to hike in then turn around. This still came out to about 10 kilometers- 3 of which were steep inclines with unstable footing- so we were quite proud of ourselves (Roger Valencia will be pleased to know that his hat went along for the trek, and even tried to leave me behind once or twice for forgetting to inhale-exhale properly).

Samaria Gorge

Marlon's knee starting giving him horrible pain early on, which necessitated an exceptional amount of strength and determination on his part- making him Warrior in addition to Musician and Magician! However, this also necessitated that I learn to drive stick shift, and leave it to me to do this in conditions even the most experienced manualer might balk at. With my I-can-do-anything-they-can-do in full gear and Marlon proving once again what a man he is (by not only agreeing to actually ride in the car with me, but coaching with all of the patience and lack of condescending a "difficult" woman like myself requires), we set off on the narrow mountain roads, full of hazards like mountain goats our car would lose any battle with and, especially, Greek drivers with no regard for lanes. Our sense of humor remained in check however as I screeched and lurched and eventually stalled us into Sougia ("Nothing to see here, people, go back to your meals.").

Sougia turned out to be by far the highlight of Crete, not bad considering we chose it randomly on the map merely for its proximity to the beach. Though we could only linger there for one night (staying in the aptly-named "Paradiso"), all of our stresses washed away in the exceptionally buoyant waters and we knew a calm and relaxation we'd almost forgotten (we also got our cheapest meals yet and the first "salad" with a humane amount of dressing and lettuce! Yay!). The most memorable thing for me I'm sure will be the local kid gang, comprised of both genders and a variety of elementary ages, and all of whom seemed to have perpetually just devoured something chocalotey. They were around constantly, climbing trees, dancing along the low stone walls, or chasing one another with water pistols. Marlon and I speculated what it would be like to grow up with such a diverse and tight-knit posse in an idyllic place like Sougia.

Sougia

A Local Keeps an Eye on Us

After Sougia it was on to the port town of Kissamos ("Kissa-me-os!" Marlon said, and I was happy to oblige), where after a wild goose chase that I won't go into, we caught a ferry to the mainland. (Deck class was completely sold out, so we simply had no choice but to get our own cabin, yes what torture.)

We got into the port city of Kalamata in the Peloponnese around 7pm, where we quickly became enlightened to the fact that there was not a single room available in the whole place! (Apparently school had just gotten out and every soul in Athens had fled there- we would have fled in their situation too, though to us Kalamata seemed not much of an improvement over Athens.) We hopped a taxi to the bus station and were told that we would certainly find a room in Messinia, and there happened to be a bus leaving at 9:00. Okay. Problem was, once we got there we discovered there was only one hotel, and they too were full. Marlon was starting to entertain the idea of sleeping on the beach, and not happily, but synchronicities were occurring in such a way that I felt confident we would be fine (every last coin between us had come to exactly 2 euro, the cost of the bus tickets).

Fortunately, our taxi driver seemed as dedicated to finding us a place to stay as we were, and 5 kilometers outside of town we eventually found solace at Sias Hotel Bungalows, a secluded resort 200 meters from the beach that we never would have found if the circumstances had been different. It blew the bank a little bit, but it was only one night. We concluded that the universe simply had a really roundabout way of totally hooking us up (despite the fact that the toilet didn't flush and they didn't provide blankets).

Now here we are in Olympia, and we're content to be "settled" for a little while ("settled" being anywhere we stay three nights, or more- Milos being the only case for that).

Tomorrow is our six month anniversary! It is also Summer Solstice, and we intend to visit the ancient Olympia ruins, where the very first Olympics game took place! It is interesting to contemplate what sort of Solstice ceremonies might have taken place there in ancient times...

P.S. Seeing as we will be departing for Italy imminently (we hope), I would like to leave you with the following...

MarandAr's SUMMATION OF GREECE:

1. Tomatoes: whether you bloody well like it or not! In fact, even if you request something specifically without tomatoes, they find a way to give them to you anyway, even if they have to get rather creative with the garnish.

2. Mountain Goats: which have the same population as Athens and are dramatically more intelligent than the average pedestrian about crossing the road.

3. Homeless Cats: In some cities, the most- or solitary- enchanting thing about the place.

4. Accommodation: Most Greeks will go out of their way to make sure you're happy, and we've witnessed more than a few restaurant owners hop on their bikes to go fetch fruit for our quintessential daily fruit salad. In fact, we've speculated humorously on the trail of perplexed Greeks we've probably left in our wake: "Who are these goofy, albeit gracious, people going around ordering fruit salads? Can't they survive on bread and tomatoes (see #1) like normal people?"

5. Buses: which are regarded as the primary and most superior form of travel here, and which they almost seem to delight in making as difficult as possible for travelers to utilize.

6. Phenomenal Beaches: if you look hard enough, and both the beaches and the adventures that inevitably occur in the process are well worth the looking!

7. Ferries: you really don't want us to go into it.

8. Fresh Orange Juice: literally and actually fresh, and available EVERYWHERE!

9. Inhumane Amounts of Salad Dressing: not enough, or way too much! More frequently, there is an inch-thick layer of mayonnaise-like goop on the top, which we subsequently have to scoop off and find a resourceful place to put, usually the ashtray (for more on resourceful uses for ashtrays, see future Logs).

10. Cryptology Games: One result of us constantly wandering back roads and my scrutinizing the map for hours is that I have acquired a basic grasp of the Greek alphabet. I don't know what anything actually means, mind you, but I can sound it out, and we have spent considerable time amusing ourselves with "reading" signs, menus, buses... It is an aspect of Greece I will really miss.

Overall, Greece is a country that offers immense challenge and immense opportunity, a country of extremes and a country of depth. It's given us pleasures and pains and delights and downers, but it's certainly never given us mediocrity. When we return we will do a lot of things differently, but we will always remember and appreciate the true intimacy we have shared with Greece through our hardships as well as our highs on this journey.

Efharisto, Greca!

"Tempesteuros" E-Log #3: Kythnos, Milos, and the Mia Gata

2005-06-10T10:58:00.000-07:00

"The Panda"

Du Lac Music Cafe
Agios Nikolaos, Crete - Greece

Yiasas*!!!

*The dominant Greek word we know, which our phrasebook defines as "hello", though the Greeks seem to use it like "aloha", appropriate for all sorts of gracious occasions.

It seems I have kept a number of you in great suspense! As I'm sure occurred to you, Internet access on the islands was non-existent or limited to strange hours like after 8pm, which is a bloody inconvenient time when you've been on an epic beach safari all afternoon and don't even get around to showering and eating dinner until 9pm. Anyhow, I myself have been anxious to get back to the keyboard, as I have a severe case of "writer's mind" and it can get clogged up with strange fragments of experiences until properly channeled, and thus processed... Thus I very much appreciate all of the enthusiasm I have received for these Logs!

Where were we? Ah.

Apparently having sufficiently proven ourselves (to ourselves as much as the proverbial gods), the return trip from Delphi was much smoother, though certainly not lacking in funk. Let's just say our bus back to Athens would have made the perfect tour bus had the cast members of The Partridge Family and That 70's Show ever decided to take an act on the road.

From the bus it was straight into a cab plastered with "no smoking" signs (but the driver of which smoked anyway, somehow pulling this off as ironic rather than hypocritical), and on to the port at Piraeus, which our guidebook accurately described as a lower echelon of hell that one braves only in the name of catching a ferry.

Three hours later, finally, finally we landed on the island of Kythnos in the Cyclades, then stood on the port like a couple of rocks in the current, suddenly unsure of our next move. Funny thing was, we'd so anticipated getting there, we hadn't put much thought into what we would do once we did. Our only incentive for coming to Kythnos and all of the information we possessed on the island was a small blurb on our Greek Isles map indicating "a relatively quiet island" and "hot springs". Fortunately, my radar honed in on a bus idling nearby and we ended up exactly where we were supposed to be.

The seaside village of Loutra was a huge breath of fresh air- literally and otherwise. Comprised entirely of only a handful of restaurants and hotels, a few super markets, and a motto rental/scuba diving shop, our days there were spent exploring the island in pursuit of beaches (as far as we could in either direction on foot), lounging on the one decent beach we did find, soaking in the hot springs, and of course the quintessential acts of eating and sleeping, a bit more than usual perhaps.

Loutra, Kythnos

Most memorable of all was the quirky old Greek woman at the super market where we went daily for picnic fare. She spoke maybe three words of English but somehow we had a perfect understanding with her. We would mime "smaller" when she tried to unload near-lethal amounts of feta on us, and she patted our stomachs and tutted, obviously saying we needed some fattening up.

By the third day it was time to move on, and after a rocket ship of a taxi ride back to the port town (during which we may or may not have been witness to a covert mafia dealing when the driver picked up a couple of rather dark, Greek pals and went on to converse in rather dark, urgent Greek with them), we narrowly made it onto the ferry heading south. There was a bit of a stress-fest which I won't go into involving the island of Sifnos and another five hour lay-over (though there are certainly worse places to be stranded than sipping cold drinks by the beach), then circumstances put us on the island of Milos around 8:30 that night. Once again we consulted the blurb on our Greek Isles map, which seemed to imply that everything of interest was in Plaka (about 4 kilometers outside the port town of Adamas), though the Divinities had other plans for us. We were standing at the taxi station once again looking fairly lost I'm sure, when a tricked-up, little green Volkswagen pulled up and asked us if we wanted a room. Bending down to come into view with the driver, we met our future friend Nicholas, a young local guy with a big heart and a big fondness for dance club tunes, though he was a self-taught violin player as well. We said no thanks, we were going to Plaka, but rather than drive off and leave us in our muddle he insisted, "No, no, no- you don't want to stay in Plaka. You see, Adamas is the center, with four directions."

Adamas looked more like the center for indiscretions, but that was me after a long day.

"Tomorrow," he continued, "you take car or bus... You take day trips from here, very nice."

I was still skeptical, but then he said the magic words: "Twenty euro a night."

We ended up staying on Milos, and in our nice little room in Nicholas' building, for over four days, the longest we had planted ourselves anywhere thus far. Initially we were there purely circumstantially... then we were there because, well, we liked it. Nicholas' complex had a sense of being its own little community and was located within walking distance of the main center, in a sort of "on the verge" section of town that was an interesting mix of modern housing, empty lots, old car rental shops, and buildings seemingly abandoned mid-try. It was also where all of the strays seemed to end up- cats, dogs, and travelers alike, and on the morning of the second day we were found by a sweet little tabby kitten of no more than 8 weeks of age, whose milky hazel eyes and inexplicable sense of purpose snared our hearts within seconds. We named her Mia Gata ("cat" in Greek- well we fancy ourselves original), and for 24 hours she was our world. We fed her and tended to her cold (which she allowed very generously, seeing as she was a superior feline and all) and otherwise lavished adoration, and she purred like a finely tuned motor and followed us wherever we went, down the street and up steps and everything else.

Mia Gata

Mostly we fantasized: Could we pull this off? Could we actually haul a cat around Europe? Along with the next morning, however, dawned Doubt. Of course we couldn't! How could we experience anything! Where would we stay! We fretted having to make the choice, or worse, carry it out, but "Mia", as we called her, saved us the trouble. We were in town, on our way to pick up our laundry, when suddenly she demanded to be put down. We did so, then kissed to her and walked on, but instead of following as usual she took one look at a shop to her right and walked with an eerie sense of deliberateness inside.

Marlon and I looked at each other and felt a conflicting sense of loss and relief. Mia Gata had chosen her own destiny.

It was time for our real adventures on the island to begin. We walked next door to talk to Nicholas' neighbor about renting a tinker toy ("car" to the Europeans, I say affectionately- and enviously). For 22 euro, we could have a new, flashy blue tinker toy that an American commercial would have smothered in techno music and over-priced sunglasses (in other words, a car Nicholas would have really liked), or for 18 euro we could have a decrepit, old, white Fiat Panda with no AC and no discernable way of opening the passenger side door, and whose highly probable role in the movie Spaceballs had obviously ended up on the cutting room floor.

We went with the Panda.

Initially, we figured it would be a good opportunity for Marlon to teach me to drive stick shift, but "Panda" ended up being a bear of a car even for the Manual Master himself in the beginning, so we decided it wasn't the moment.

In no time we were zipping all over the island with a newfound sense of freedom and independence, from seeing every single beach on the northern shore to getting lost amid a massive and unexpected mining operation on the east, to the sparsely populated southwestern side where wild mountain goats looked up in varying degrees of alarm and disinterest when we "baa-aa"ed at them as we blew past (roosters receiving similar greetings from Marlon in their species' tongue reacted purely in alarm).

The highlights of our Milos excursions however, were by far the beaches, which were phenomenal! Sloping white rock giving the appearance of sand dunes descended gradually or dropped off dramatically into clear turquoise waters, interspersed with magical caverns and twisting tunnels which apparently were once used to hide from pirates- though they looked far more like something a pirate would hide his treasure in (making our way with only my weak keychain flashlight, we felt sure to stumble across a skeleton or Indiana Jones or the gateway to Atlantis).

What a doozy this installment is- and I assure you, this is the compressed version!

Anyhow, eventually we left Milos, deciding to head straight on to Crete as we're realizing Time is starting to come down on us. Because boats go to Crete from Milos only three days a week, and only at midnight, we arrived here at 9 this morning after a rather rough night of it, but we're back as strong as ever!

"Tempesteuros" E-Log #2: Godly Delphi

2005-05-31T15:57:00.000-07:00

Delphi Stadium

Parnassos Internet Cafe
Delphi, Greece

Greek mythology tells of the god Zeus releasing two eagles- one from the eastern most edge of the world, one from the west- who then flew at the same speed and met at Delphi, making this the center, or "navel", of the ancient world. It is only fitting then that Marlon and I are taking this as an opportunity to "find our centers" again after Athens. While I'm sure our journey here wasn't as rough as that of those who used to come by wooden cart to consult with the Oracle at the Temple of Apollo, it certainly wasn't easy. Athens draws an eerie parallel to the proverbial roach motel: you can get in, but will you get out?

After spending a drizzly morning at the National Archeological Museum (and being adopted for several blocks by a sweet, black-bearish stray dog with a penchant for chasing cars), we checked out of Hostel Aphrodite and, with our worlds on our backs, made the six block trek to the bus station. Unfortunately, it wasn't the right station, and we wandered the area for close to an hour with no success in finding out which one was, nor how to get there. Eventually we ended up on a street corner, looking I'm sure every bit as lost as we felt.

"What now?" Marlon asked, wanting my intuition every bit as much as my opinion.

"We wait for Divine intervention," I replied.

Ten minutes later we were trying unsuccessfully to operate a pay phone that apparently accepted only tele-galactic cards made by nymphs on the star second from the right after Jupiter, when a soft Australian accent inquired, "Do you need a place to stay?"

It was our guardian angels, in the guise of an elderly couple from Sydney. I explained that actually, we were trying to get to Delphi, and they replied that they had just come from there. They didn't remember the name of the bus terminal they'd arrived at, but it turned out they actually possessed one of these tele-galactic cards made by nymphs on the star second from the right after Jupiter, and they let us use it to call the hostel and find out.

After close to a dozen attempts and with the translative help of a passer-by, we managed to get a taxi that not only understood where we wanted to go, but was willing to take us there (every airport taxi in the vicinity kept pulling over when they saw our luggage then peeling away in a frustration we shared). Ahhhh finally on to Delphi!

View from Hotel Athina

The gods guided us to our hotel ("Hotel Athina") seconds off the bus when a kind-eyed woman literally invited us in off the street. We got a sweet double with a view and private bath for 1/4 less than we paid for our ghetto hostel experience!

Modern Delphi is a tourist town to be sure, where the locals make their living off of the gawking sightseers, but it is also a quaint mountain town, complete with steep stone stairways and meticulously tended flower pots. In addition to phenomenal mountain and distant ocean views, our balcony overlooks several backyard gardens, and we've enjoyed watching residents make their daily rounds, tending and picking their own produce and herbs.

Of course, ancient Delphi is the real reason anyone comes here, and after our first decent night's sleep since Frankfurt, we headed off to the ruins. Like Machu Pichu of Peru, the site holds an incredible amount of spiritual energy, though you have to resourcefully seek solitude to really experience it. Most potent of all was the stadium where they used to hold athletic competitions during festivals, and we spent the most time here (a jovial group of Australian tourists showed everyone a good time when they raced each other up and down the impressive length of the field).

As we headed back down from the stadium it started to rain, though this didn't prevent us from stopping to give several minutes of affection to a stray cat that was limping on its right fore and had funky growths on its stomach. Not to get too maudlin on y'all or anything, but she told me she would be passing on soon and she appreciated any love we could give her. We gave her lots.

I felt an incredible resonance with the ancient site. As the rain flooded the stone walkways, making them perilous under foot, my past life there as a Teacher at the Delphic Mystery School flooded to memory. (Yes, this part could get a little "woo-woo" for some of you, and you know who you are.) It was like coming home.

Temple of Apollo

By the time we got to the bottom of the main site and across the highway, then down to the quintessential Temple of Athena, it was pouring and we were soaked through. Other sightseers were high-tailing it in droves for their buses or cars or even the nearest space pod. Marlon said appropriately, "When it rains, the tourists are chased away and the travelers come out to play!"

Don't you love him?

Greek superstition says that when it rains, the gods are angry, though it held an entirely different meaning for me: I had taken the habit of pulling a daily card for us from my Hindu Gods & Goddesses deck, and that morning I had pulled Yamuna Devi, "Goddess of Purification". Obviously, the rain wasn't punishing us, it was purifying us! (And after Athens, we needed this on so many levels I'm not sure where to begin, nor do you want me to.)

Tomorrow it's back through Athens to Pireaus port, but only long enough to grab a ferry out of there. It doesn't even particularly matter where it's going- so long as it's heading towards the islands and away from the city.

LOVE!
Arielle & Marlon

"Tempesteuros" E-Log #1: Holy Frankfurt!

2005-05-28T20:23:00.000-07:00

Frankfurt Skyline

Hostel Aphrodite
Athens, Greece

Not all who wander are lost.
-J.R.R. Tolkien

What a long, strange, and fateful journey it's been, and the trip has barely truly begun! Our flight out of LAX was delayed, so we wandered the Tom Bradley International Terminal- a strange limbo between worlds which I imagine wouldn't differ much from a galactic transfer station- for over 5 hours. Ironically, we were flying Air India to Greece, and it only added to our sense of disorientation having beautiful people in saris serving us dinner at 1am. At least when they were herding us like cattle through not one, but three, security check points, onto a bus and down some unsettlingly dim corridors, because it was Air India, one could say we were "holy" cows.

Unsurprisingly because of the delay, in Frankfurt we missed our connecting flight to Athens. Re-booking for the first flight out in the morning was easy- finding an Air India representative to give us hotel vouchers was not. Fortunately, we soon joined forces with some other Air India victims, including a young woman from Berlin who had a big enough voice for all of us (and a better grasp of German, obviously). The whole fiasco turned out to be a Divine blessing in the end, winning us a free night's hotel stay, dinner, and breakfast, and the moment we glimpsed the revolving glass doors into the lobby we knew it would probably be our most high-end accommodations of the trip.

Sitting in the very back of the plane the next day (Marlon was a dozen rows ahead of me- we'd gotten literally the last 2 seats on the flight), I experienced jarring turbulence descending into Athens. It was as if Zeus himself had come out to greet us, and he fancied harassing us an amusing way to introduce himself, and test our character.

Speaking of holy cows, Athens: WOW. As Marlon so wonderfully put it, "fuuuuunkee." Leave it to us to choose to start the trip in the most crowded, polluted, intimidating, and overall culturally shocking city on the itinerary! After the taxi cab ride from the airport (during which it became apparent that Athenians have no fear of death, particularly the motorcyclists that outnumber the cars, the pigeons, and the streets themselves), all we could do was hole ourselves up in our closet at Hostel Aphrodite and scrawl manically in our journals for 2 hours!

Hostel Aphrodite, Athens

Hostel Aphrodite is named for the Greek goddess of love and beauty, though you have to pay close attention to see either of these things. For instance, reception somehow lost our reservation, so instead of the double we'd anticipated, we were put in a twin with bunk beds, and on the main floor- not exactly a romantic ideal. (Our reaction was to curl up together on one narrow bunk, however, which says real love indeed.)

Naturally, what initially attracted us to Hostel Aphrodite is now what repels us! Anticipating flying in at 1am, it met our most important contingency: open 24 hours. Of course, after the overnite in Frankfurt this became null, and with Greece's answer to Ricky Martin making the walls themselves gyrate until 4am last night, the true meaning of "open 24 hours" became clear. (Fortunately, this morning we were able to move to a double upstairs, and we anticipate dramatically more pleasant sleeping conditions for our last night here.)

So much to say and I imagine you're all already tiring of reading! Despite the daunting distance evidenced by our map, Marlon and I set off for the Acropolis this morning with nothing but vague metro directions from reception and a couple of peaches purchased at the local market. The more we traversed the city and experienced small successes, however, the more confident we became. By the time we were actually negotiating the famous ruins atop the limestone hill, we were in our groove. (We have yet to attempt Greek pronunciation to an actual Greek's face, but give us time.)

The Acropolis

Theatre of Dionysos

Anyhow, I'm sure everyone in the immediate vicinity would appreciate it if I would go take a shower. Tomorrow it is on to Delphi, and then to the islands! Despite the victory we feel we've had over it, we look very much forward to getting out of the city and out to the ocean, and raw earth, and CLEAN air, and other elemental comforts.