Creative Confidence

F@*# self-doubt. I despise it. I hold it in contempt, along with the hell-spawned ooze-pit of Reistance from which it crawled. I will NEVER back off. I will NEVER give the work anything less than 100%. If I go down in flames, so be it. I'll be back. ~Steven Pressfield


 Are you confident in your ability to be creative? Do you feel free enough in your spirit to create your own art without fear of being judged? Do you have the courage to create irrespective of what others might say about the child borne of your creative passion?

When I was a kid, I frequently used to refuse to engage in creative endeavors or I would purposely create something bad just to prove I wasn't artistic. I put these limits on myself because my brothers were quite the artists, one was great at drawing and the other a musician. My mindset took the perspective that since I couldn't be a better artist than them I would just avoid creative undertakings all together, I would supress my creative inclinations. I believe this mindset came about because I was silly enough to compare myself to others and I was extremely competitive. There are times, I have learned, that having an extremely competitive nature can hinder one's ability to grow, to enjoy.

I didn't really begin to indulge my creative instincts until I graduated from college. My creative expression began with the written word then to photography followed by painting with vibrant acrylics. For a couple of years I was heavy into woodwork which lead to crafting knife handles out of uncommon wooods and other exotic materials. This past year, I have come full circle to expressing myself with the written word via this blog. I toyed with the idea of writing a book, a personal experience trieste, but the circumstances around which the book was to be themed, my life in an exotic land, fell through so, at this time, the plan to write a book is on hold.

Oddly enought, I am most likely to enter the zone when I am creating my art. I say oddly, because for a long time I surpressed this instinct out of fear of not measuring up to someone else, to anyone else. I say oddly, because, growing up, I considered myself an academic, an intellectual, not a creative, not one of those oddball artists wearing funny clothing and spouting bizarre thoughts. I was a 'normal' person.

 I have since come to believe that we all have a creative instinct, an instinct to create our own art, an inner drive to create our own beauty. I believe we tend to not indulge this deep rooted instinct out of fear, out of fear of criticism, out of fear of rejection, out of fear we are not good enough.

My art does not win awards, does not get displayed in a gallery, does not make me famous. My art does not bring me financial gain. I have sold a few photos but not enough to come close to offsetting the financial investment in materials, not enough to pay back the time spent creating my art. In fact, the money received from my photographs just barely covered the cost to have the photo produced by the local photo store.

But that's ok because I don't create art for others. If someone else finds my art pleasing then I'm glad I could bring some joy into their life. If not then there is no lasting affect on me. I don't create art for financial gain. I create art because I enjoy expressing myself through creative endeavors. I create art because I get a buzz from the creative process, from using my skills to create something I find to be beautiful. In the long run, when it comes to my art, the only opinion that really matters is mine because I create art for art's sake, for my personal satisfaction. I create art because my soul breathing is expressing itself in the beauty of my art. To not breathe would be unsatisfying at best and death at worst.

What beauty does your soul express in your art? What beauty would you create if you didn't fear being judged?

The Zone

When meditation is mastered, the mind is unwavering like the flame of a lamp in a windless place. ~Bhagavad Gita

There are occasions when I enter 'the zone'. When I get into a focused mindset and time slows down, time ceases to have meaning, time ceases to exist other than the singular entity that is now, time ceases to have bounds defining existence. In an instant, an hour passes, hours pass, the day moves from dawn to dusk in the time it takes to breathe a breath, in the time it takes to utter a word, in the time it takes a heart to beat.

It is similar to being in your comfort zone but at a level of deeper intimacy, a place where you are one with universal existence, an existence that is all encompassing of time and matter yet an existence that exists solely in the realm of what you can see and feel yet know not that you have thought or feeling. It is a point in the space time continuum where concentration is fully engaged for hours without deviation, without a loss in focus, without a loss in energy. It is a transcendent state, a mystical state where one does not experience anything but total oneness with the activity at hand. It is a state of complete and total absorption. It is a slice of heaven, an ounce of nirvana, an enlightened existential state. It is akin to devout prayer, to focused meditation.

This is not a place one can choose to go. Once cannot say, I am going into the zone and be magically transported to supreme concentration. I find I most frequently get into the zone when pursuing my hobbies which, for me, are a place of intense self actualization.

There are times when I am out fishing on the big waters in Central Canada, casting my tiger striped Suick toward the shore line, retrieving with the jerk technique that attracts the ferocious Northern Pike when time stands still and I am one with the wind, the water, the sun, the rhythm of my body.

Many times I have been writing, writing my blog, writing a personal essay, crafting words to create pictures, crafting words to capture the essence of ideas hovering at the periphery of my consciousness and sip my hot tea to find it has turned ice cold in the hours that have passed while the words marched across the page and created a work of personal art.

I fondly remember starting wood working projects in the afternoon then opening the garage door to discover it is night. I was so in tune with my creation that I had even forgotten to eat yet felt no hunger, only the satisfaction of birthing my work of art.

In the past 5 months, I have frequently found myself entering the zone while at my day job. I have occasionally, in the past, entered the zone at work but never with any consistency. Lately, though, I have been entering the zone with increasing regularity. Not a week has gone by in the past two months where I have not hit the zone at least a few times each week. The adrenaline release I have been getting at work is such that I was excited about returning to work after my vacation in Turkey.

My interludes in the zone have not been day long affairs because, as a Manager, I regularly attend meetings which, by their very nature, require nonzonal interaction. I have been hitting the zone primarily in the evenings when I work on the materials for the Leadership Training Program I am developing.

I am thoroughly enjoying creating this program, creating the materials for the program. I am enjoying the research, the carefully designed outlines with which I am not happy until the ideas flow seamlessly in the PowerPoint presentation. I am enjoying crafting the words and finding pictures that illustrate those words. I am enjoying putting together words and pictures that complement each other in the explanation of the ideas I am trying to instill in my students. Then, I enjoy, presenting the information to the students eager to learn about leadership.

I guess, most of all, I love making a difference in the lives of my students and, because the subject I am teaching is leadership, knowing people I will never meet will benefit when my students apply their skills and lead others.

World Foods

You can't just eat good food. You've got to talk about it too. And you've got to talk about it to somebody who understands that kind of food. ~Kurt Vonnegut

The Meat House in Istanbul

I grew up, blissfully unaware that food had flavor, that food could be more than something to fill a rumbling belly. My staples growing up were CBS, Chicken, Beef, and Spaghetti with the universal spice of salt slathered on to my mom's content. Not content with just salt, she also liberally applied seasoned salt to many of our meals based on her rationale that "seasoned salt is not really salt".

Coming out of my youth, haute cuisine was, to me, steak, probably because it was such a rarity to kids fed more typically on hamburgers, and tuna casserole which is still a favorite which boggles the mind of many of my friends.

Turkish Baklava

I have had the good fortune of traveling to a number of countries during my life. Besides my home country of the USA, I have been to Canada, Jamaica, England, Germany, Italy, Switzerland, India, and, most recently, Turkey. During my travels, I learned to indulge in then to always partake, exclusively, of the native faire as I feel it is important that my pallette be stretched to new limits. This wasn't too difficult because my first real trip abroad where I was forced to eat the native foods exclusively was to England and, well, the blandness of English food makes my mom's dishes seem quite flavorful.

I had a similar experience in Germany when I ate Bavarian food which I found to be on level of blandness that would rival the best food in England.

Turkish Flounder

Jamaica piqued my interest with their wonderful Jerk Chicken which, when combined with the local Scotch Bonnet peppers, is a savory delight that leaves the lips tingling and the mouth watering.

The food I eat in Canada is almost always freshy caught fish, fish caught by me and my team of fishermen, that is cleaned and eaten within minutes or, at most, a couple of hours, of being caught. It is spiced and cooked by Americans so it can't really be called Canadian faire. It is, however, the freshest food I have ever eaten.

Traditional Turkish Food
in Cappadoccia

Swiss food, no matter the cuisine, is always tasty with the possible exception of the fondues which I find to be on the bland side. I like a kick to my food something I have not experienced with the cheese based dishes. The biggest down side of Swiss food is the hefty expense associated with a meal.

Food Bazaar for the freshest foods

Indian food was my first exposure to a true sensory delight in the eating realm. The taste of the food, very different than typical in the US, had so many flavors my mouth erupted in the extravaganza of spices and tastes and smells. The one dish I remember not enjoying was the rice dish with shredded cilantro. Cilantro leaves a very bad taste in my mouth.

Until my recent trip to Turkey, Italy was my favorite country in which to partake of food. In that country, high quality food seems to be almost a religion. Everything I ate was delicious.

Luscious Organic Strawberries

Turkey, however, has set the standard by which I now judge food. Everything I put in my mouth while in that country was a succulent treat. The meats were flavorful. Not just the spiced meats but the unspiced meat itself had wonderful flavor. The fruits were out of this world succulent. We purchased strawberries, cherries, and some local based fruits from the open market. The market itself was a sensory treat of smells and colors. They were, by far, the sweetest strawberries I have ever eaten. I couldn't stop putting them in my mouth until the bowl was empty.

Strawberry Nirvana

While I was in Turkey, I can honestly say, never had a bite of anything that was not fresh and packed with flavor from the fruits to the vegetables to the meats to the myriad breads to the rice pudding. I even had fast food kabobs one day and, though slighly dry, were oozing with flavor. Everything I ate in that country left my mouth smiling with joy.

The only problem I have with the Turkish food is that it's in Turkey and I'm in the US. On every one of my other overseas trips, I was content with coming home to the US and digging into my familiar foods, my comfort foods. That changed on my return from Turkey.

On the last day of my vacation, I was back in the US and decided to get some Mediteranean food in Chicago. I wanted a last grasp at Turkey before my work week started. I found the restaurant, Taxim, on Yelp that was rated at 4.7 out of 5 stars so I went there to eat with my girlfriend. I ordered their chicken dish and she orderd pork on a skewer.

My first bite into the chicken was a shock of salt! I am not a big salt lover so I peeled off the skin to chew on the meat and, to my dismay, it was almost flavorless. I would have sworn I was eating tofu had I not personally peeled the meat off the bone. This chicken was completely the opposite of the Turkish chicken which had much flavor to spare.

My girlfriend's food turned out to be similar. Brown lumps of meat, supposedly pork, with barely discernable flavor outside of the saltiness. And her french fries were drowned in olive oil. The meal cost us $80 and was a huge disappointment. How anyone could rate this swill a 4.7 stars stymied the both of us. I later rated the place on Yelp and was frustrated that the lowest I could rate it was 1 star.

The next day, my work team had an outing at Bob Chinns, a well known seafood restuarant, one where I truly enjoy the food. Well, used to enjoy the food. Compared to the fish I had in Turkey, this fish brandished little flavor, very little to excite my pallette. I finished my Salmon and could only look down at my plate in despair.

It seems, Turkish food has become my Turkish delight and has ruined me for food in my native country. I fear I may not enjoy food again until I head back to one of those countries where, unlike the US, food still is succulent with flavor. The funny things is, the last thing I thought about while planning my visit to Turkey was Turkish food and it has left as big an impression on me as the ancient wonders.

To Ink or Not To Ink?

You may lose your most valuable property through various ways. You may lose your house, your wife and other treasures. But of your moko (tattoo), you cannot be deprived except by death. It will be your ornament and companion until your last day. ~Netana Whakaari of Waimana

When I was growing up, tattoos were the purveyance of the 'not nice' component of society. They were for sailors and bikers and harlots. They were for the baudy, they slightly psychotic, the people with a chequered past, people you feared at some level. Today, tattoos are commonplace, so common that, except for the extemely inked person, they barely draw a glance. Except for the person with ink covering more than half the body, tattoos go almost unnoticed. Even the most inked person does not carry the stigma associated with the artform in my youth.

I have considered getting a tattoo at points in my life, considered expressing my individuality with a personal stamp of ink somewhere on my body. For various reasons, some rational, others irrational, I have never moved the idea from a considered thought to an actual needling of ink.

My biggest fear is probably terror of the needle. The fact the tattoos are done with needles, a needle that pierces they skin a multitude of times, gives me grave concern about being inked. This fear, most likely, falls into both the rational and irrational categories. My mother is a nurse and, as such, when we were sick as kids, she gave us shots. We were given shots because, to quote my mom, "the medicine get's into the bloodstream faster." Of course, as kids, we hated shots because, on top of already feeling crappy, we were getting a painful projectile stuck into our behinds. At times, I fought the needle so hard, my dad had to hold me down so she could administer the healing injection. The injections finally stopped when we kids would non longer tell her we weren't feeloing well.

 Another issue with tattoos is the body tends to sag with age. A butterfly tattoo on the breast may, over time, descend to the waist line looking like a colorful aardvark. And who want's an aardvark, no matter how colorful, permanently engraved on their body? I can't even imagine how horrid any artwork would look on a butt that swells, and sags, and becomes dimpled with fat as the years pass.

Over time, the stamp chosen may trigger painful memories instead of the good thoughts when it was originally imagined. For that reason, getting the name or picture of a person you are in a relationship with is on my list of really bad ideas. People may hurt you, betray you, discard you but the tattoo lasts until the grave. I wouldn't want to go through stuck with the name of an ex visible on my body.

All this being said, all my concerns aside, I am again entertaining the idea of getting inked. I have grown ideas for two tattoos. The first is a tattoo symbolic of my three kids. My eldest daughter once made me a nice design, a design capturing the essence of each of the three kids, but, in a fit of range, tore it up then chewed it up so I couldn't piece it back together. Something representing my three kids, and possibly my grandson, would be fitting because they are all dear to my heart and, no matter what happens, they will always be my kids. Not sure where this tattoo would best go on my body. However, I do know that it would be something I would want to be readily visible to me so that rules out my backside.

The other idea I have for ink is a saying that has come to symbolize my view on life. It's a saying on my RoadID, an emergency response bracelet I wear in the event I get hurt while riding my bicycle and cannot interact with someone trying to help me out. The quote is in addition to the names and numbers of my emergency contacts. It's something I purchased because most of my riding, both on road and off road, is done solo. The quote is:

Be the change you want to see in the world

The quote has been attributed to Mahatma Gandhi, a person who lived a life that I find to be admirable. While there is no authenticated record of him every uttering the exact phrasing, there are authenticated writings that can be distilled into the concept captured in those words. Whether uttered by Gandhi or not, I still have taken this quote as a vision for my life. I can see this quote on the underside of my left wrist as a frequent reminder of how I wish to live my remaining days, a person living an exemplary life.

Will I finally get a tattoo? Will I build up the courage and submit myself to the psychological scarring of a needle piercing my skin repeatedly? I don't know. Today, I am 50/50 for inking but that's also 50/50 for not inking.

Oh The Places You Can Go

You have brains in your head. You have feet in your shoes. You can steer yourself any direction you choose. You're on your own. And you know what you know. And YOU are the one who'll decide where to go... ~ Dr. Seuss, Oh, the Places You'll Go!

One of the things I cherish about long bike rides is having dedicated time for my mind to wander, having dedicated time for my mind to trigger off of seemingly arbitrary events (a song on my eclectic iPod playlist which always plays in random mode, a color worn by a person I passed strolling along the lakefront trail or the wiggle in her walk, a sound emanating from a myriad of sources, a pattern in the buildings lining Lake Shore Drive, a smell which triggers much more than thoughts, a feeling welling up to an unknown trigger, the line of Chicago Street & Sanitation trucks parked nose to tail blocking the bike riding path and road to funnel protesters away from the NATO summit) and unearth thoughts hiding deep within the recesses of my mind. 

Are the thoughts really hiding, afraid of exposure? Sometimes the answer is yes. Sometimes the thought that works it's way through the grey matter is a thought I would rather not examine, would rather not entertain. Today, a song lyric about God pushed me to delve into my living out aspects of my faith. Today, Sunday, found me cycling on the lake front in Chicago instead of attending church services. This is probably the 4th week in a row where I was "otherwise occupied" and was "not able to attend" services. For two of them I was in a predominantly Muslim country so I have a reason I can justify as valid. The others, well, that would be a litany of excuses and, as my sister often says, excuses are the nails in the coffin of failure.

Other thoughts are not hiding they just need a trigger to spring into life. When I came upon the line of trucks blocking the path and street today, I pondered for the first time the effect NATO has on my life other than blocking me from riding a part of the Lake Front Trail near the Museum campus that I really enjoy because I am very close to the water and I get a great view of Chicago. There are protesters in the city this weekend who have a big problem with the organization. It seems one of their biggest issue is spending money on war instead of medical care. I see NATO as a necessary entity. I don't always agree with it's policies but am glad it exists because, I believe, it's important countries have discussions with multi-facted perspectives before they enter an international conflict rather than the alternative of taking unilateral action based off a single point of view.

More often than not, the thoughts are fleeting, ephemeral musings I would like to develop in a blog but they disappear as fast as footsteps in the wet sand on the shore of the Aegean Sea. I had a bunch of these today as I do every time I go out for long bicycle ride. Unfortunately, I did not want to stop my ride to log the ideas in my iPhone. If I did stop to capture every one I would go half as far in twice the time. Still, at the end of the ride, I could kick myself for not recording at least a few of them. But, I do ride for other reasons than to allow my mind space to wander.

A big reason I took up cycling is for the health benefit. Heart disease runs in my family. It took my paternal Grandfather when he was in his 40s and resulted in my dad having a quad bypass in his early 50s. Them having the heart disease gene does not necessarily mean it was passed on to me but I would rather be safe than wake up one day having a premature conversation with Saint Peter at the pearly gates. Also, I added a few kilos to my weight from last summer and need the exercise to reduce the tire around my midsection so I can fit into my clothes again.

I guess, the best thing about riding is the physical travel and mental travel, is the discovery that comes from not always knowing where I will go on the journey, is not always knowing which road (or trail) I will take on any given day and never knowing which events will trigger a journey of the mind. It's the discovery of the places I can go physically and in my imagination.

In Their Footsteps (A Reflection On My Time in Turkey)

There was never yet an uninteresting life. Such a thing is an impossibility. Inside of the dullest exterior, there is drama, a comedy, and a tragedy. ~Mark Twain

During my time in Turkey, I had the opportunity to take in an extensive amount of history, to walk in the footsteps of the ancients, the footsteps of the moderns, the footsteps of the remembered, the footsteps of the forgotten, the footsteps of the famous, the footsteps of the common.

I walked in the footsteps of Byzantine rulers through the immense doors of the Hagia Sophia, doors through which the only people deemed worthy of passing were the ruling class. All others had to enter via smaller, adjacent doors, ordinary doors for the ordinary man and I wondered, if I was that Byzantine ruler that believed he was a god, would I have been a benevolent god or a demanding god, a forgiving god or an exacting god.

I walked in the footsteps of Sultans, walked along the stone path designed specifically for the Sultans royal feet in the Topkapi royal palace, the stone path that passed through the harem where the harem girls cast their eyes upon the Sultan perhaps hoping he would choose them for a night of pleasure, perhaps to plant his seed allowing them to a ascend the ranks of the harem girls. I walked in the footsteps of the sultans, their sons, thier daughters, walked in the very places were schemes were hatched and intrigue unfolded, in the very places were alliances were formed and betrayal plotted, in the very places where life was granted or life was taken away.

I walked in the footsteps of the artists and engineers that designed and decorated the great sanctuaries, the sanctuaries that attempted to become holy artifices as they reached heavenward toward God, attempted to know God, sought to enter the presence of God, sought to bring God into their presence by creating perfection on earth, by creating a place worthy of the magnificence of their God, always in the hope that their creations would be deemed worthy by God thus God would bless them for the ages.

I walked in the footsteps of worshippers when I entered the holy places known today as the Blue Mosque, the Hagia Sofia, and many others for whom I know no name or who's name has been erased by time. I walked in their footsteps, felt their awe thousands of years later as I looked to the heavens while standing in these holy places, as I looked into my very heart hoping it reflected the presence of God.

I walked in the footsteps of the underground people, the tunneling people, the people that built the immense underground cities, engineering marvels with ventillation shafts, communication shafts, enemy traps, bedrooms, living rooms, school rooms, worship rooms, walked in their footsteps through the narrow passageways that led deeper and deeper into their subteranean kingdom, deeper into their lives, deeper into their psyche and there I shuddered just contemplating a life, my life, any life hidden from the warmth of day, hidden from the caressing rays of a sun rising above the horizon in an explosion of fire.

I walked in the footsteps of the fairy castle builders, the people that created vast cities in the sides of hills and mesas and canyon walls, the people that painted intricate frescoes in the ceilings of caves, caves carved into solid rock with hand tools, caves that were the early Christian churches, frescoes depicting the life of Christ, the life of Mary, the stories of the Bible, many roomed cities, multi floored complexes with columns and balconies, rooms connected by tunnels and staircases containing places to cook, places to congregate, places to worship, places to lay the bones of the deceased.

I walked in the footsteps of Caesars on the marbled, processional street cutting through the heart of Ephesus amongst the towering, crumbling buildings, pillars, and statues, walked in the footsteps of Paul the Apostle at the ruins of Ephesus, a significant New Testament city, and imagined him prostelytizing the Gospel, reasoning with the people out of the Old Testament Scriptures, outlining the many passages pointing to, proving that, Jesus was the Christ, was the embodiment of the promised Messiah, proving that Christ rose from the dead, imagined Paul in impassioned debate, imploring all to accept the light that is Jesus and enter eternity at Jesus' side.

I walked in the footsteps of the devout during a powerful rain when I visited the House of Mother Mary, the home where Jesus' mother once lived, in the footsteps of the pilgrims who have made and continue to make the journey from the four corners of the earth to visit the shrine where, they believe, Mother Mary will answer their prayers in no matter which language they utter their petitions, where they drink water from deep springs which, they believe, has the power to heal the aches and pains inflicting mondern man, where they write their prayers on scraps of paper and hang them so, when they are no longer physically present at the shrine, Mother Mary will continue to intercede on their behalf.

I walked in the footsteps of the ancients at Priene, Militos and Dydyma, walked amonst the ruins, amongst the carved stones, the erected pillars, ran my fingers over the proclamations of politicians etched in marble with an ancient script, walked in these places built during the glory days of the Roman empire, days they believed would never pass into history, days that were erased as easily as my footsteps on the sandy beach with the next rising wave.

I walked in the footsteps of slaves, the people that weren't considered people, the people who were not permitted to lift their eyes and gaze upon royalty under fear of death, the nonpeople on whose backs the palaces were built at the behest of kings, on whose shoulders the pillars were raised to support the magnicient domes of the cathedrals, the people's whose ravaged feet dragged the stones to build the temples to give glory to Gods they did not believe in, the expendable people who built the colliseum's then entered those same arenas and had their blood spilled upon the sands for the entertainment of the Roman mob.

I walked in the footsteps of modern man, in the footsteps of today's Turkish, was blessed with the hospitality of people I did not know before arriving, people who took time out of their busy schedules to show me the ancient and modern wonders of their land, people who made me feel like royalty with their attentiveness, people who made me feel loved, people I now count as friends.

Most of all, I walked in the footsteps of the common man, in the footsteps of the people that built history yet, by her fickle nature, have been forgotten by history, in the footsteps of the every day man upon who's back society thrived, the family man that hunted so his wife could eat, that struggled so his children could thrive, who bled that his family may live, who took up the mantle of suffering on a daily basis in the belief that his legacy would make a difference in the circle of his family and that their lives would go on and, hopefully, be better than his own, walked in the footsteps of common man who is remembered only by the dusty trails created by his footsteps while walking over the land which sustained him, the land that created and recreated him for millenia.

I, a common man myself, stand on the shoulders of all those commen men that forged a life in this world by their sweat and tears, men whose daily, ordinary activities built the foundation on which today's civilization stands allowing me to look into the past, to see the present, to glimpse a future. I, a common man, hope that I live a life which builds upon the foundation so many have died to create, a foundation forged on hope, a life on which the next generations can launch themselves into the future. I, a common man, hope I live a life worthy of the common man, the unsung heroes that blazed the trails long before I walked in their footsteps.

Turkey Day #10 (The Last Day in Turkey)

Once you have traveled, the voyage never ends, but is played out over and over again in the quietest chambers. The mind can never break off from the journey. ~Pat Conroy


Today is it, the last full day in Turkey, the last day we will immerse ourselves in Turkish culture, the last day for hanging out with the hospitable Turkish people, the last day for Turkish food, which we have come to adore and must find back home in Chicago or, heaven forbid, I will need to find recipes and learn to cook the delicious faire, at every corner shop, the last day in Asia, the last day in Europe, the last day we will walk amongst some of the most spectacular creations by ancient man on our planet, the last day of a physical, mental, emotional journey that began years too late and ends decades too soon.

The most important part of the journey is that it had a beginning. We took the step to leave the confines of the comfortable US culture where we navigate the daily cultural nuances with nary a thought. We took the step to enter the unknown, bravely visit a new world where we were the outsiders, we were the guests, where we had to adapt our behaviors, where we had to put aside those things we take for common in our own culture and try to adjust our existence to meld with the culture at large.

I could see myself living in Turkey particularly along the West Coast where the Aegean Sea caresses the land repeatedly, continually, nonstop, yesterday, today, and forever. A constant, loving hand depositing the gifts of sand and polished stones of many hues at the feet of the mountain ranges which begin at the seashore and rise quickly to touch the clouds. I could see myself taking a grueling bicycle ride to the clouds in the morning with legs burning and sweat pouring to see an ancient shrine then descending to the ocean in the evening for a refreshing swim in the salt water before a bite to eat and a chai at sunset.

Could I adapt quickly? To the climate a resounding yes. To the culture, to the people? Yes for the culture is vaguely familiar to my own and the Turkish are a welcoming people who, I believe, would help me understand Turkish life. For me, the biggest challenge would be the language for, it is my understanding, the Turkish language is notoriously difficult to learn. It has a grammar structure that requires interpreting every sentence twice, once to understand the subject and once to understand the object of the sentence. The complexity stumps some very adept linguists. But I would put forth the effort to learn.

If I had to make a qualifying statement about this trip, I would say it was a huge success. We were able to see a number of the countries wonders both ancient and modern. We sampled the food (extensively sampled the food and ate enough in the last three days to last us a week) and picked up a few words in the language (not as many as I would have liked). And we met some people with whom we became friends.

The thing about international travel, though, is the measure of success is not so much what you do and see as it is about making the mental trip, the mental transition into acceptance of other’s and their way of life. Success comes by virtue of leaving one’s comfort zone, leaving one’s culture behind and attempting to immerse oneself in another culture, to make one’s way in an unfamiliar world. Success is entirely in the attitude with which one approaches the adventure of international travel.