I got lost on my way to the land of fairy tales. I had confidently followed the road to the Promised Land, only to find that it led to ruins. All over Turkmenistan’s capital city Ashgabat, the run down, rambling houses of the poor were being knocked down and replaced by strangely isolated tower blocks. In this city of constant destruction and construction, no map would stay up to date for very long. I walked back and up around the building site, in search of a road or a landmark that would help me to get my bearings. I found myself at a crossroads and yet again checked my map. Either side of me, bored, young military police men loitered inconsolably. Everywhere you went in Ashgabat they would be standing around; guns in their holsters, heads in the clouds.

The night before, I had come across a young soldier in the park, parading backwards and forwards, stiff legged, between the illuminated fountains and the well-kept shrubbery. Half way through his solo procession, he started goose-stepping like a demented Nazi storm trooper. I was sure that he was about to stick his finger over his lip and execute an extravagant leg swinging turn-around in the style of Basil Fawlty, when he noticed me watching and abruptly came to a halt. As I walked past, he said something. I didn’t understand, so he pointed at my watch. When I showed him the time, his face dropped even further – it was clearly going to be some time before he finished his shift of pointlessly waiting. Even the funny walk couldn’t cheer him up.

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I’m In Love With Florence

So many things I love about the land of people who speak with their hands. People with dreamy stares examining me. As I had never expected at first, there is perhaps the slightest hint of jealousy; the American, the stranger, from the land of opportunity- with all her possibilities; why is she here?

I am here to start each bright, Florentine day with a frothy cappuccino- its caramel colored swirls blending peacefully with the thick, foamy milk. I am here to sink my teeth into a miniature piece of perfection- a creme-filled, sugar-coated miniature Horn of Plenty. The first bite of rich filling like a surprise waiting around the bend, ready to unleash a happy sugar rush. It is hidden amongst the flaky pastry and when it hits my tongue my heart dances excitedly.

I am here to watch the dancing bubbles rise from the bottom of my glass of Procecco; to observe the smoke across the green valley, from burning piles of garbage in people’s backyards, rise up over the countryside while I sit high up on this hill; to listen to the sound of horns blow before the cars come around sharp corners of these winding, bumpy roads.

I am here to let lunchtime Penne Greco make a lasting impression: a medium-sized panful of penne, cooked to a perfect al dente, with a thin cream sauce accented by clams and parsley. With this and other lunches I will begin to truly appreciate what Italian-sized meals means. Small, but not too small-comfortable you could say. Meals here are not supposed to slow you down, rather get you going. In a city with so much to experience, the idea of eating something that sticks like concrete in your stomach is such a foreign concept. It was simple, tasteful, and a perfect mid-day boost.

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Two days after I said I’d never seen one, how badly I felt like I have missed out on an amazing opportunity, I saw my first shooting star. Grazie, Mother Nature. While seemingly fitting to the idea that all my dreams are coming true, I question what else I could wish for after what I’ve already seen and been given so much.

The sky here is so wide and deep with layers of stars, and from where I’m sitting it almost looks like I’m staring at Firenze from an airplane- all the little beaded silver and gold lights shimmering like a sea of life below me. From up here, all my worries get caught in the gusts of wind and carry them down across the valley. The CD of a man who taps the guitar like a master, is playing throughout the house- a melody so sweet it’s like sugar to my ears. From up here I feel small, the same size I felt as I stood at the feet of David, a solid piece of marble carved into the perfect example of man. Each vein on his arms and curve of his ribs made the history of this land sink in fully. Sitting up here, now, I finally have let it all sink in; this fantasy life I have been introduced into- this complex, yet simple world of beauty and art. With that, I can’t help but question whether all the mistakes I’ve made in this life really earned me a place here, in this heaven on earth. I suppose it’s easier to believe that my past lives earned me this reward- that I have been moving toward these hills, these vineyards, toward this food and this soft wind, over the course of all my lives. Whatever I’ve done to deserve the gnocchi I had for dinner last night, or the Chianti I’ll be drinking across Tuscany later, whatever good karma it was, I’m sure glad I did it.

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The language of love is dancing in my mind, so much so that I’m awake at 4am (Florentine time) while my body demands, “No, damn it, it is only 10pm. What are you doing trying to sleep!?” As the pale-white aurora of clouds sweeping across the spiderweb of stars tries to convince me to sleep, I can but only feel tiny in this massive world of things I don’t know.. of things I’ve yet to experience.

Two days in to a complex world of discovery and history. Ti amo Firenze. Little old women, with their push carts and tanned skin whose hardened Italian faces stare me down, then up, then down again, perhaps to say, “Yes I know you are an outsider, but I like your dress” are strolling the square across the street from the pastry shop. The daily morning routine of flaky, ricotta filled pastry, sprinkled with cocoa, along with the perfect, hair-raising cappuccino, is something a gal like me could get used to. While in the old days I could put away an entire rack of AM treats, my cravings are different here. One is enough. It will not be the last time I taste a piece of baked heaven, and if it is, at least I will always remember how it broke off in my mouth, how the filling coated my taste buds, and the way satisfaction sat in my stomach until lunch. Aside from the fact that the locals might shun me out of town for eating more than one, the appeal to overeat doesn’t live in these stone streets.

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When I began planning my trip to Italy and browsing through different tours being offered, I just happened to stumble upon cooking classes. At first I was sold on the idea of taking a homemade pasta course. Perfecting my authentic pasta-making skills would be something I could always carry with me throughout my cooking journey. But after examining the menu being offered, I considered that perhaps it wouldn’t be particularly satisfying for me, as some of the fillings contained meat, as well as some of the sauces. For only a small price difference, I could take a Four Course Tuscan Style Cooking Class. A create-and-eat deal, I was eager to know more. While intimidated at first to ask about vegetarian options, the site that I booked it through assured me that it would be fine, and even sent me the modified menu that I would be set to cook. I was thrilled that I was not shunned by the fact that meat wasn’t on my list of things to eat.

As I waited in the Piazza for the rest of the group to arrive, I began to make friends with the people that I would be spending the next four or so hours with. Chatty, as I’m known to be, the first couple I met hailed from Texas, but the woman was originally from Florida. Fancy that! When another young woman joined the group, who looked to be my age, we almost immediately found ourselves talking about interests, and what brought us there. Come to find out she was from Naples, Florida, just graduated from college too, and was as sweet as sugar. Shut up! When another couple was introduced into the group I learned they were from Tampa. Of all the places in the world! Folks from Colorado, and a couple on their honeymoon from St. Louis were some of the other people I was pleased to meet. It was a wonderful start to what promised to be a wonderful night.

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We plunged down the hill sideways with tires spinning and slid to a stop in the mud. “Quick, make sure you take everything,” said Muhammad, our driver. Rajo and I grabbed our bags and jumped out. The truck climbed back up the hill and on towards the Peshmerga roadblock.

We had no idea where we were. This was the first time we’d stepped from the vehicle in over four hours. Mohammed had warned us that being in the open was too risky – if anyone saw foreigners in this part of Iraq they would know exactly where we were going. We had come to Iraq to interview guerillas in the Kurdistan Worker’s Party (PKK), a militant Kurdish organization listed as a terrorist group by Turkey, the US and the EU.

Rajo and I waded through the mud behind a turbaned shepherd with an AK47. Over the past few hours in the Qandil Mountains I’d gotten used to seeing these machine guns. Everywhere the shepherds carried AK47s, protecting their hordes of sheep, protecting themselves.

The shepherd led us over hills and streams and then back to the road where Mohammed was waiting. If the Peshmerga had caught us, Rajo told me, we would have been arrested.

“Peshmerga,” the Kurdish military force that controls northern Iraq, literally means “those who face death.” We passed several of their checkpoints this morning, lying about our destination when questioned. We had to sneak around this last one because beyond this final outpost the land was controlled by the PKK; we wouldn’t have been allowed to pass.

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Only in rare instances does a person get the opportunity in life to invest themselves in a venture out into the unknown in search of new experiences and have that investment pay out in dividends. In the year of 2007, I set out with six friends in search of such an adventure. The winter in Tennessee that year was cold. Some would say a little too cold. Others would say not cold enough because instead of snow it rained every other day and turning Tennessee into a wet and dreary winter blunderland. Our group was of the latter opinion. We wanted, nay, needed to a release from our cold and damp prison. It was this unrelenting dreariness that inspired our search for whiter pastures. The gauntlet had been thrown down and the seven of us picked it up. The decision had been made. We were going snowboarding. Little did we know what adventures this trip had in store for us.

Our trip began in relative monotony. We knew our trip would take five hours to come to fruition. Despite this seemingly insurmountable travel time we were up to challenge. Our fellowship was resolute in our quest. In a seemingly routine pit stop we stumbled upon a man who lives in high esteem of the hearts and minds of sports fans across America. This phenom turned superstar was readily visible as we approached our fast food reprieve. He was tall. He was strong. His winning smile did not falter as we drew nearer. In fact, he did not move at all. Two of us took this opportunity to have our pictures made with our life-size but petrified hero of the hoop. Basking in the glow of Lebron James’s greatness, our smiles radiated in a way that rivaled that of our champion. Never had we imagined we would ever enjoy an opportunity to meet such a famed and admired person nor would our minds ever allow us to forget it. After replenishing our vehicle and our mortal frames with gasoline and tasty treats, respectively, we restarted our journey towards snowboarding and whiter pastures with a picture and a story about our hero in tow.

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A few summers ago, my mother and I had decided to take a weekend trip to York Beach, ME. We had always rented up there as a family every summer for 18 years. This trip was different because it was near the end of the summer and instead of having my father and twin sister there as well, it was just me and mom. My sister was seriously involved with someone and was on a trip somewhere and I think my mom thought I felt a little left out or down.

It was during this simple weekend trip that I learned that life is better simple. You always seem to want more, more, more but you’re better off without!

We stayed at a hotel across from the beach and we didn’t use our car or TV once all weekend. We spent alot of time talking about life and laying in the sun. It was such a beautiful view of the beach from the hotel’s pool deck. And it was nice to have one on one time with each other. I appreciated her caring enough to take me away to lift my spirits. It was only an hour and 10 minute drive from our house near Boston but it was such a great getaway.

I had realized that I didn’t need a boyfriend or a glamorous destination, or etc… I just need my family. The trip also made me appreciate the beauty around me daily. Nature is a great reminder of how every day on this earth is a gift.

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Nothing in the world can compare to a young child’s scream.

Sure, banshee’s come close, and a cat being tortured is definitely comparable, but nothing beats the high, piercing, never-ending wail of pure torture that is a little kid throwing an absolute hissy fit. The question on everyone’s mind was, naturally, “what sort of psychopath takes a nine-year-old on a zip lining tour of the rainforest?” However, eventually the parent’s took the kid back to the cruise ship and the group could continue in peace.

If you ever get the chance to go zip lining, take it. The most breathtaking feeling in the world is flying through the air, hundreds of feet above the most beautiful, intricate, colorful plant life you can find in the world. The tour started in a literal hole in the ground, surrounded by massive walls of rock on three sides and a road leading up on the other. After climbing a rusted, rickety stair case up 60 feet, the group leader, a Jamaican by the name of ‘Billy’, led us onto a narrow shelf of rock, up more stairs (although these ones were cut into the stone), and onto the mountain side where, after all of us had caught our breath, he climbed onto a big rock sticking out of the ground and said, in a very prominent Jamaican accent, “Everybody gather round! Gather round, people! I will show you how we zip line. But first, I need to explain a few things. First off, quit saying ‘yes’. This is the Caribbean! Here we say ‘ya Mon!’.” We all chuckled. Billy said “I mean it! Repeat after me: Ya, Mon!” “Ya, Mon!” “Again! ‘Ya, Mon!’” “Ya, mon!” “Ok! Now, the first thing you need to do: everybody grab a harness!” We all shuffled over, grabbed the diaper-esque contraptions of day-glo rope with a red and green hooks hanging off them, and turned once again towards Billy. “Everybody got a harness?” Ya, Mon. “Good! Now, make sure the buckle part is in the front, and slide your legs through the giant holes! Have you all done that? Ok! Now , you will see that there is a length of rope coming out of the buckle that is unattached to anything. Everybody see it?” Ya, mon. “Good! Pull the rope so the harness fits you very snug. And I mean snug! Does anyone here want to fall out of there harness 300 feet above the rainforest?” No, Mon. “Ok! Well, then, everybody follow me!”

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Detour

Forty minutes had passed since our abrupt departure from the busy thoroughfare onto a desolate stretch of unpaved road marked only by barren trees, rubble, and an occasional abandoned building. Our repeated inquiries proving futile, the seven of us had retreated into a moment of shared glances and private ruminations. Our silence was broken by the passenger whose input I had prayed we would not need:

“If this is going to go bad, there’ll be a car in front of us and a car close behind.”

I arranged my face into a look of nonchalance, rose slowly from my seat. Casually, I made my way to the back of the bus where the children, unaware, wisecracked and roughhoused along the single bench seat. “How’s the view back here?” I beamed inanely, parting the curtain to the sinking sun. “Everybody good?” I turned smartly to reclaim my seat, my smile instantaneously thawed.

“We’re cool,” I muttered into Mariah’s rigid back.

—–

Her name is not really Mariah, but I figure anyone who requires a fictionalized occupation for international travel deserves an alias as well. There in China, her visa proclaimed her a librarian. But in real life I knew her professionally as an FBI agent specializing in the best-case resolution of kidnappings, terrorist threats and mass shootings and, personally, as the mother of 11-year old “Kelsey,” there gossiping with my daughter Julia at the rear of the bus.

It was our personal connection that brought us and three other families on a 25-hour flight from Baltimore to Guangzhou where we then boarded the bus which was to transport us to the obscure town of Maoming, chosen for its centrality to the various orphanages from which we had each adopted our daughters more than a decade ago. The decision to adopt was what initially brought the seven of us together, luck and fate having led us all to the same adoption agency where we bonded over months of applications, orientations and “waiting parents” meetings culminating in the long trip to claim our infant daughters half a world away. Our babies at last in our arms, we had vowed to return together one day to celebrate our collective good fortune and our daughters’ rich heritage. Now eleven years later, that day had arrived.

“Do we have a plan?” I mouthed, suddenly dubious about our driver’s presumed inability to understand spoken English.

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