Solo travel tips for cowards

Levo League published my article with ideas for travelling alone, just as I came back from from 10 days in Georgia, my second solo trip of the summer. It just gets easier.

The next time you go on vacation, consider challenging yourself to a solo adventure —it may help you learn a thing or two about yourself and what you are capable of. You’ll come away with the ability to be comfortable with uncertainty, and with a stronger belief in your own self-reliance. You may also realize that you are better company than you think.

Read the whole piece here.

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Dance your way to a happier you

Once upon a time I went to Burning Man, and it did not radically change my life. But it did make some helpful minor adjustments, and nudged me in the right direction. For example, I would never have taken up barefoot hippie dancing on a Sunday morning, otherwise. And that would have been a terrible loss.

Allow me to back up and set the scene. It’s a dusty hot Burning Man day, and I am napping at Center Camp, under one of the fabric “wings” extending out from the circular structure and providing much-coveted shade. It’s a busy part of Black Rock City, but the noise is lulling, along with the heat.  Through shallow dreams, I hear drumming, and wake up suddenly with one very clear thought: “I think I need to go dance.” I followed the sound to a group of percussionists, some 10-15 strong, each with a white painted instrument. There was no melody, only the flow of rhythm, and the stage-like circular clearing was already full of dancers. I kicked off my dusty boots and joined in. In my long purple skirt, in my yellow headscarf covering dust-calcified pigtails, dancing to the evolving rhythm, I felt more in the moment than I had felt in years. I was fully present in my body, and unselfconsciously, ridiculously happy.

There is no way to tell this story without it sounding cheesy. Here was my transformational Burning Man moment, dancing barefoot with strangers! But it stuck with me. I have fits of moodiness and anxiety, and there are few reliable ways to get through it, but of those, movement – usually hiking – helps the most. Music helps too. Yoga and meditation, these things that slow down the body and were supposed to slow down the mind, only made me more fidgety and distracted. But I have always loved to dance, anything from ballroom to salsa to Georgian folk dance to swing to the local top 40-spinning bar. Dance, I realized, had everything I needed.

It was my tremendous luck to be living in the Bay Area when this thought occurred to me, and soon, half by accident, I stumbled on Ecstatic Dance. It was not an immediately reassuring title. I imagined religious overtones or self-important ceremony, but vowed to give it a try – and fell in love.

Imagine a giant ballroom: tall windows, wood floors, morning light. Imagine music – world, trance, soul, hip hop – not shy of rhythm. Imagine people of all shapes and ages dancing ridiculously, beautifully, unselfconsciously, alone or with partners, with eyes closed, faces focused, or openly grinning. Some might be professional dancers, others can’t quite keep a beat; some stay in one spot on the dance floor, others weave curlicues around the other dancers. It is like that Burning Man moment, but without the dust, and afterwards we all disperse to our regular Sunday relaxation or errands.

The E-dance community certainly skews towards yoga instructors, astrologers and vegan chefs. People will tell you with un-ironic gravity that their life motto is “dharma not drama,” or offer to do a crystal grid attunement for you. There is an altar at the side of the dance space, and will feature, from day to day, gilded Buddhas or a giant crystal, and always tealights. The dance will end occasionally with rolling ohms. This is not my scene. But this is ok. I do not pray or activate nor attune myself to vibrations – or maybe I do, and simply call it by a different name. Because all I know is, it makes me feel present, and happy, and grounded.

I think of all the partner dancing I have done, of the rigidity and polish of competitive ballroom dancing, or the stylized and formal Georgian dance. Then I think what a release it is to move as ridiculously and freely and informally as I want, as reserved or as exuberant as I choose.  It is incredibly freeing to be in your body, feeling no judgment, only the positive energy of the other crazy people around you, dancing on a Sunday morning. It’s wonderful. You should try it.

Life as language mnemonic

I know few enough words in Turkish that I can remember when and where I learned many of them over the last 2 months. Some words float up unbidden and I cannot recall why I know them. But other words take on associations for me, like songs or scents, with certain scenes in my Turkish life. They are more useful than any mnemonic I’ve come up with so far.

Yumurta, the word for “egg”, is an appropriate start. It is the first word I used in my first Turkish errand. Unfortunately,  I learned torba and çorba around the same time. A one-letter difference leaves little margin of error; I hoped to tell the shopkeeper that I had my own bag (torba) for groceries – instead, I told him soup (çorba) was not necessary.

Dikkat – careful! – I learned attempting to cross the streets in Kars. I have since figured out that streetlights are observed at only 3 of the town’s intersections. The rest are decorative.

Yağmur, rain, I first heard standing at the top of the Kars castle, watching the sky broil and darken with a forceful May thunderstorm. The word, all vowel sounds, seemed too gentle for the rushing dark clouds heading directly for us.

Çamur is mud – an appropriate rhyme with rain. Both the word and the substance were hard to miss, walking through a village in sneakers and hoping to stay on my feet, nor trapping my shoes in the stuff. The village kids were delighted that I had increased my vocabulary by one with their help.

I learn the word for “cheese” not in a grocery store but through an introduction to our neighbors’ yellow cat, Peynir. I am relieved that I didn’t test my comprehension by calling “here, cheese, cheese!” to any local strays. To add to my animal confusion, I live with a cat named Baykuş = “owl”.

Dut is mulberry, my favorite childhood fruit. On a trip to Diyarbakir, I went for a walk with Couchsurfing friend, who took me below the city walls and along the Tigris River. We ate our fill from the trees we passed, hands stained violent purple-red. I’ve never been more motivated to keep learning.