I know what heaven looks like from many angles. I’ve looked down on it from atop the great mountain to the East. I’ve admired it from the glorious valley to the West. I’ve wondered at it from the grassy, wide farmlands to the North. I’ve viewed it from a perch on the cliff side over the ocean to the South.

I’ve been on the journey to heaven many times. It’s an event I look forward to all year, especially during the six months of the year that I am buried in snow!

The journey to heaven is not terribly long. About a two-hour drive. But there are some obstacles on the way. I first have to tackle the bumper to bumper gridlock of the city and get on the short but dangerous stretch of the highway 125. I take the next exit onto the Trans Canada Highway and it’s smooth sailing for the next twenty kilometers. Than, suddenly, I round that bend in Bras D’or that reveals the monstrous Seal Island Bridge stretching out over St. Anne’s Bay.

I’m not afraid of heights but I’ve been told that the bridge sways on breezy days. I try not to think about this as I approach the steep rise of steel and concrete that by some mystery manages not to collapse and crumble to the rough waters below. I safely make it to the other side and it’s smooth sailing again for about six or seven minutes until I encounter the next hurdle. I slow down to a crawl to safely round the very sharp curve that begins the ascent up Kelly’s Mountain.

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I have always wanted to go to the Magdelan Islands. The islands, which belong to the province of Quebec but are located in the Gulf of St. Lawrence always held a special interest to me because my Great Grandmother was from there. I finally had the opportunity to visit the islands this past summer with my mother and sister. The trip was well worth it and we had a blast!

But there was one part of the trip that stood out from everything else. The trip to Entry Island on a Zodiac! All the islands in the archipelago are attached by natural causeways and bridges except Entry Island which lies about four miles from the rest. The only way to get to the island is by car ferry, small plane or for the more adventurous, a zodiac. For those of you who don’t know, a zodiac is like a motorized rubber dingy. That’s the best way I can describe it!

The night before we set out on our adventure, we prepared for the bad weather that was forecast for the next day. They were calling for high winds and heavy rains but the weather didn’t stop us from meeting the tour group at the docks at 9:00AM sharp! The crew had rain gear for us so that helped a bit. We left the dock in a torrential downpour but soon, it was unnoticeable as the water was so rough, we were getting wet anyway!

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Six days after I arrived in England, I was bouncing along in a double-decker tour bus riding from Oxford to Stonehenge. Since it was January, and this was England, I had bundled in a turtleneck sweater and layered leggings under my jeans, attempts to keep the cold away. The other American students had brought similar protection for the day. Booted feet stuck out into the aisle and umbrellas poked their noses out from the storage compartments above our heads. On the bus, I peeled off my purple gloves, and unwound the rainbow scarf from my neck. The yarn tassels hung off the edge of the seat, brushing the floor as the bus jostled us toward the southwestern English plains. I watched the scenery outside, the zigzag peaks of Oxford rowhouses giving way to small shops at the edge of town until the bus finally swung around a big traffic circle and faced the open road. Conversations overlapped throughout the bus like Venn diagrams: curiosity about the trip ahead, playful debates on the merits of various scholars and authors, theories on the best places to eat in Oxford.

For an hour, the din on the bus soundtracked a consistent scene outside the rain-dappled windows – patchy fields and a few low English cottages – until the grey ring of Stonehenge suddenly rose out of the mist, dominating the landscape. Tourists scattered around the landmark looked like parades of tiny ants, pink and red umbrella-heads blurring in the fog. I snapped a fuzzy photo through the window as the bus passed the monument, turning to park across the street. We disembarked, hoping that the grey rain would stay up in the thick sagging clouds. In the parking lot stood two giant stones, one a sarsen and the other a bluestone, the two kinds of stone used to build Stonehenge. The bluestone is said to be warm to the touch all year round while the sarsen’s temperature changes with its environment, but on my hands both stones felt chilled by the icy air. Past the gift shop we ducked into a tunnel that dipped under the highway and sloped up on the far side, ushering us into the windblown expanse of English meadow.

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​I am the oldest of five girls in a family where the estrogen is effervescent and the pets are profuse. My dad is a robust 6’4” and was the alpha-boy eldest of four sons. He came from the John Wayne mold; a real he-man. After years of military service, he is the kind of do-it-yourselfer that defines “family fun” as spending a sweltering Saturday (it is always either sweltering, raining, or snowing) remodeling our home or buzz-cutting our backyard bushes. Unfortunately, after 28 years of marriage to the epitome of the beautiful blonde cheerleader-type, and after 80% of his daughters took after his wife, dad’s attempts to run the family with military efficiency started to unravel. Dad and I prefer quiet lifestyles with order, discipline, and minimal drama. We are the straight-forward, dry humor, take-it-all-in-stride type. In a household of six females though, chaos is inevitable. Especially when the majority of them have hit the teenage years. That starts to wear on the best of humors…and despite being generally genial, dad and I are not known for our humor.

So, the great Exodus of 2008 was bound to be a little…stressful. I didn’t give my dad enough credit at the time, but he was making a family of six happily nested females uproot and transfer cross-country. You gotta give him kudos for staying sane. I am not sure I did. That’s what happens when you’re the “responsible one” in the family.

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The Bus to Urgup

Shaky and weak, I stood atop a sandy ridge called Sunset Point. Some Turkish bug still prowled the far corners of my body. My theory that consuming liberal daily rations of Raki in Istanbul would immunize me from such maladies proved to be wrong. My sons stirred beside me. I took a deep breath and pondered both my own condition and our immediate future. Bouncy and chatty, the boys (Jeremy’s twenty-nine and Jon’s twenty-four) were boys again, excited by our coming adventure. I had doubts, not the least of which was my unhappy tummy. Still, one of the great joys of fatherhood is to do things with your kids. We were undeniably about to do something together. Six miles away in the blue distance we could see our destination, Goreme, a small town in the central Turkish region known as Cappadocia.

The helpful young man from our lodging, Esbelli Evi, had driven us west on the main highway and then, after a tire stretching turn, north on a dirt road into the strange crags of Cappadocia. The geologic features of this area remind me strongly of Utah’s hoodoos, of Bryce Canyon. A major difference, as we soon discovered, was that this country was heavily inhabited for a couple of thousand years.

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Dinner with the Usak Family
September 19, 2006

Gridlock in Istanbul is surprisingly mellow. Our late afternoon cab ride from Kurtulus to downtown, just a couple of miles, quickly became a session of jolt and sit. Several streets converged upon ours and many lanes of traffic became two. Given half an inch, Turkish drivers will take as much as they can get. I saw dozens of near collisions in which the cars missed each other by a hair. A miss by two hairs counts as conservative driving and marks you as a foreigner or a hick. Our cabbie pounded his horn heavily and often. He was not alone. Finally, though, he shrugged and leaned out his window to chat with other drivers. Some nearby even exited their vehicles to purchase tea or cigarettes. Road rage? I saw none of it, though similar conditions in L.A. would undoubtedly result in exchanges of gunfire.

Jeremy becomes tense as traffic freezes around us. We have a social engagement and we are going to be late. His researches on Turkish nongovernmental charitable and educational organizations have afforded him many personal relationships with leaders and staff members of these organizations. Cemal Usak, vice president of the Journalists and Writers Foundation, is perhaps the closest of these. Cemal Bey’s (Bey is an honorific used to signify that a man is both mature and worthy of respect) foundation, in brief, seeks to bring about peace in the world through inter-faith dialog and contact. His job is to organize meetings of religious leaders: Muslim, Jewish, Catholic, Orthodox, pretty much anyone who wishes to participate. The hope is that such communication will help members of different faiths find a mutual, non-violent way forward through our difficult times. I had no idea that ecumenical Islamic organizations existed and I’m sure that my ignorance is shared by 99% of Americans.

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First of all, I will start with getting to Las Vegas. I booked my trip through Universal Travel and they were great! My sister was flying from a different city across country to meet me in Vegas and they were able to arrange our itineraries so we would meet close to one another and they found us the lowest possible prices. We were also able to fly with our favorite airline, West Jet. The airline was also very accommodating to our needs both before and during our flights and they didn’t loose our luggage like some other airlines, which I won’t mention here, tend to do quite often! The West Jet flight attendants were friendly and well-trained in making even the most nervous flyer feel comfortable in the air. On-board, there is free TV viewing, complimentary snacks and water and the choice to purchase blankets, pillows and movies for small fees. The best thing about this airline is their policy of never over-booking so your seat will never be given to someone else! They have a very simple check-in procedure which can be done over the internet, at the self-serve kiosks at the airport or at the airline customer service desks and you have the option to pick your seat 24 hours before boarding.

Upon arriving at McCarron Airport, thanks to our travel agent, a shuttle was waiting to take us to our hotel, The Luxor. The Luxor is the giant pyramid that can be seen from almost anywhere in Las Vegas due to it’s massive structure and a powerful beam on top. Although not the most luxurious hotel on The Strip, it was top-notch for our needs! Everything we needed was there including a 24-hour convenience store, valet parking, Starbuck’s, numerous lounges and restaurants and, of course, slots! The area around the Luxor is quieter than other resorts on The Strip because it is on one far end of the street. This brings me to tell you about the one disadvantage to staying at this hotel. It is located on the southern end of The Strip and it is far from everything else and you will need to walk quite far to get anywhere else on The Strip. The walk from The Luxor to the Stratosphere is about 4 miles so bring some sturdy walking shoes even if you don’t plan on staying this far down the street!

Our third day in Vegas, we rented a car from Dollar Car Rental at the airport. Although the rental was cheap and the car was well-maintained on the outside, there were a few minor problems. First, we rented a convertible but could not get anyone to show us how to properly lower the top and when we did ask someone in the garage to help us, she was very rude and told us to ask someone else. Secondly, for an extra fee, we rented a GPS system. We realized that it wasn’t updated and working properly when it led us to a deserted, gravel road in the middle of the desert after we had programmed it not to take us on gravel roads! We had typed in Death Valley National Park and it took us in the complete opposite direction! Thirdly, the interior of the car was not cleaned after the last person used it and there were crumbs and candy all over the back seat. Although we didn’t get any flat tires or have any other mechanical problems, the next time I rent from Dollar, I will bring my own GPS and be prepared for a scrub-down of the interior!

Since we didn’t make it to Death Valley that first day due to the malfunctioning GPS, we drove around the desert enjoying the scenery. I recommend that you spend a day driving in the areas outside the city as there is some fantastic scenery out there!

The next day, we left early in the morning and headed for The Valley of Fire State Park. A few hours in the park was enough time to see it all and for around six dollars per vehicle, it was well worth it. The scenery is so different from everywhere else in the area and there are walking trails, look-offs and a visitor’s centre and gift shop all in the park.

Next, we headed for Death Valley. It took a couple of hours to get there from the Valley of Fire but the drive was worth it. A cautionary note about Death Valley: Even if it is cold and raining everywhere else, bring sunscreen, a hat and lots of water with you into the park because chances are, it won’t be cold or raining! The average temperatures in the park in the summer fall between 41 and 47 degrees Fahrenheit and the average annual rainfall is only 1.58 inches. It was freezing cold everywhere that day until we reached Death Valley and the heat nearly knocked us out when we stepped outside! Due to arriving so late, we did not get to spend nearly enough time there but what we did see was amazing. I recommend that if you decide to visit Death Valley, you go there early in the morning and stay all day.

There are many ways to see the Grand Canyon. My preferred way would have been to drive there and explore it myself but that was not possible so I did the next best thing; I booked a tour through lasvegas.com with Pink Jeep Tours and, trust me, even though I didn’t try any tours with anyone else, I’m positive I picked the best one! We left early in the morning and made our way to the Hoover Dam first. Our guide made sure we stopped long enough to get pictures and he even offered to take pictures of everyone together. The Grand Canyon was next. We made a few stops on the way to stretch our legs, take pictures and we were provided with water and snacks along the way. Once at the Grand Canyon, we boarded a helicopter that brought us down to the Colorado River and than boarded a boat that took us up the river and back and than it was back onto the helicopter to return to the top.

For the next leg of the tour, we were given two options; Option number 1 was to pay an extra fee and wait in line for a couple of hours to see the skywalk. Option number 2 was to go to a place where only our tour operator was allowed to go and for no extra fee, we were guaranteed no line-ups, no crowds and a great view of the Canyon. Everyone agreed on the second option and we were not disappointed. We were the only people there and the view, along with the peace and quiet, was just what we were looking for!

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She wagged her finger at me.

Since landing at Budapest’s Ferihegy Airport two hours earlier, I had been struck by sternness of the people. Compared to the boisterous life that I left that morning in Madrid, the Hungarians seemed cold and mute, hardened by oppressive winters and decades of authoritarian rule.

The middle-aged ticket-taker was certainly no exception. As her wrinkled finger moved from side to side, she barked a few phrases in Hungarian and pointed to an equally unintelligible piece of paper in the ticket window. Confused, I slid my Spanish credit card back in my wallet and hopelessly tried to search for some loose Forint in my pockets. Knowing full well that I had no Hungarian currency on hand, I rooted through my jeans, winter coat, and backpack. Passport. Boarding pass. Map. Handful of Euro coins. Nothing that would get me a ticket from this commuter rail station to the center of the Hungarian capital.

I gathered my belongings and circled the tiny station in search of an ATM or fellow English-speaker. I found neither. Anything short of hitchhiking the final 5 km from the Kőbánya-Kispest station to the city limits would require cash, and I had no legal tender and no immediate way of acquiring any. Tired of retracing my steps around the station in hopes of finding a phantom cash machine, I took a seat next to a sleeping man – who undoubtedly called the station home – and watched a northbound train depart towards Pest. It was a strange feeling to be, for a moment, as poor as any of the dozen beggars that took shelter under the station’s tin roof.

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I opened my eyes and saw the finely varnished wood beyond me, and a piece of a flawless dragee-blue sky illuminating the cabin through the narrow hatch in the ceiling. This was our second day in the Great Harbour Bay in Jost Van Dyke, and I finally started forgetting about my cellphone.

Our small group was composed of myself, my husband Richard, our friends Roger and Christine with their seven-year-old son Lucas, and Rich’s best friend Mike from LA. Rich and Mike studied law together, and now, though life took them far apart, they tried to get together as often as they could. I liked Mike a lot, he was well-spoken and very reserved, which did not go very well with his Alain Delon-like appearance, though Rich told me long ago that Mike turned into a wild tiger when he pleaded. That remained unverified for me, but I enjoyed our brainy conversations when, once in a while, we played backgammon. Roger and Christine were our friends, or, I should say, my friends whom I introduced to Richard when we started dating. Roger and Rich have become friends immediately, and now we often spent our vacation together, without mentioning frequent weekends and nights out. Roger was an editor, and since the beginning of our journey, he completely monopolized Mike stealing my conversation and backgammon partner. They spent all their free time smoking grass and waffling about Hemingway, Proust and the latest exhibit of contemporary artists at the MOMA. Christine mostly slept, and when she didn’t, she worried and then excused herself for worrying. And then worried even more. I did not pay much attention to her worries and excuses, she had a kind heart and has been a true friend in some toughest moments of my life. So, I let her worry if she had nothing better to do while chilling in a lovely tropical paradise.

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The rickety bus ornamentally embellished in psychedelic colours panted for breath as it clumsily climbed up the infamous Khyber Pass. Its inside was overflowing, not just with people- but also their peculiar smells – the odour of unwashed clothes clinging to bodies long unexposed to soap and shower, the strong stench of cattle and their urine stagnating in little pockets on the uneven wooden floor.

I sat surrounded by a sea of gigantic men in tightly wound turbans and loose fitting kurta payjamas. Their female counterparts completely concealed in black burkhahs squatted on the floor alongside their four legged co-passengers. From bits and pieces of their conversation, I could gather that they were fleeing Afghanistan where during the day the sky bled terror and night was burial time for the dead by those still alive. The land too, had transformed into a fearful entity, hidden landmines shattering not just body parts, but their very heart.

A veiled figure and her little daughter occupied the floor space near my feet. The girl, who had been eagerly eyeing my sunglasses for quite some time, began badgering her mother about her desire to try them out. The woman made many futile attempts to quieten her, but the child stubbornly stuck to her demand.

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