Glory Ho

I once heard a friend of mine relay a conversation he’d had with his wife:

Husband: Honey, what’s your greatest fear?
Wife: Well, I think it would be that if one of us died and little Sally had to grow up with just one parent.
Husband: Oh, I see.
Wife: What’s your greatest fear?
Husband: Bears.

But seriously, what’s YOUR greatest fear? And what kind of fear are we talking about? One that threatens your life, your perception of the world or your sanity? Now that I’m safely on American soil, devoid of any disease and free of bullet wounds, I can talk about this. In general, travel was FAR, FAR less dangerous than people imagine–largely, I believe, because people picture us dodging suicide bombers and hiding from Al Quaeda. And that didn’t happen. However, there were a few times when I began to wonder just what the hell we were doing. . . .and these were legit.

Location: Beirut, Lebanon
Inner Monologue: Oh my God. The Sunnis and the Shiites are about to begin killing each other and we are in the wrong place at the wrong time. Didn’t this happen on a subway in Adventures in Babysitting? This is the warzone the news is always talking about. We must get the hell out of here. Now. But how?
What Happened: We’d been dropped off a few blocks shy of our apartment on a street between ethnically divided neighborhoods and had lost our way. Recent days had brought violence and riots. It was rainy and windy. As we walked, we noticed armed soldiers—not the bored looking ones we see sitting atop tanks at intersections—but men hidden under overhangs and around corners. A lot of them. Looking alert and ready for action.
Physical Condition: sweaty, shaky
What I Say To Make Myself Feel Better: Be calm, Andrea. Your chances of getting hurt are still pretty slim. Really. You can duck into a million places. The soldiers are here to protect you. If you are hurt, we’re in the city. Lebanon has ambulances. They will come.
Conclusion: There’s nothing we could have done differently here. You can’t hole up at home and not live when times are tense. We almost always know our way–this is an anomaly. Like the Lebanese do, you must continue with life. At least it’s not personal. I am not their target.

Location: Uganda
Inner Monologue: This vehicle is going to crash and roll and burn. And I am on it. This could be it. This could really be it. The cops will call. My Mom will answer. Hopefully they’ll find the gifts in our bags. I am never going to see my nephew. I can’t believe it. Traveling is not worth this fear.
What Happened: A busdriver has found a paved road and is going so fast around curves that people are falling out of their seats. He is honking every couple minutes at the swarms of people on the shoulder or crossing the road who are carrying babies, herding cows, balancing bundles of bananas on their vintage bikes and toting baskets of vegetables on their heads. Our destination is still hours away.
Physical Condition: Tears
What I Say To Myself To Feel Better: If we are in a head-on crash, I will probably survive. I am high-up and in the back. If we roll, I do have a seatbelt on. Plus, in this country, it is widely known that crowds will form and attempt to lynch the culprit, which, even if you’re dying in the ditch at least provides a bit of justice.
Conclusion: What can we do? This is simply the state of transportation in Uganda. It’s the worst case so far, but its been bad before and it will be again tomorrow, too. Unless I want to walk or spend some serious money, I don’t have a choice.

Location: Nairobi, Kenya
Inner Monologue: Nairobi is called Nairobbery. At least we don’t have a LandRover to hijack. But still, I know that guy wants my bag and this is a very dicey neighborhood. I feel like we’re in the projects. The AFRICAN projects. At any moment, I could be attacked. Those people are watching us. This is personal.
What Happened: We’d been looking for a hostel and a bad neighborhood had seemed to engulf us very quickly.
What I Say To Make Myself Feel Better: Well, even if I’m mugged, the injuries will be minor. I’ll just fall down and lose all my stuff. Whatever. So why am I so scared?
Conclusion: Take precautions as in any city. Don’t go down dark alleys. Stay in crowded areas. Clutch your bag as you walk. I can’t tell you why I was so freaked out–maybe because its more personal or more targeted. But I was. And I didn’t like it one bit.

Ironically, I was never particularly all that scared in Northern Iraq.

Andrea: I’m ready, I can do it. I am light. I can float. What I lose, what I keep, what I find, what I leave behind. The computer. The visas. The right dress. It doesn’t matter.

Me: Hello? Do you want to wear that white tank without a strapless bra? How trashy is that going to look? Don’t you recall that chick in Istanbul and how your whole table was staring at her? And the hairdryer? Don’t even try to pretend that air-drying hair works for you. Clearly, it doesn’t.

Andrea: But when I was in Madagascar, I liked my hair! (see old photo babove) Maybe that will work in Sudan too!

Me: Ha! Maybe with that old haircut and color which you paid $130 for, but with the current $14 do, good luck.

Andrea: Well, I can’t bring the hair dryer. I’m past this! I’ve already decided! Shut up!
Me: What about the turquoise danglies? That black ring you wear every day? The tropical blue necklace you adore from Mom? Not bringing those either?

Andrea: But if I bring them, then I become attached to them
and I worry about losing them. That affects my travel EXPERIENCE.

Me: Blah, blah, blah. You’ve been in the Peace Corps too long. You know that these accessories make you feel better about yourself and therefore, will actually enhance your travel experience, so I don’t know what you’re on about. I’m just getting started anyway. So is it true that you’re going to bring that brown flower dress and wear your CHACOS with it? Are you joking? You know that’s going to look ridiculous.

Andrea: I know, I know. You’re right. I just have to hope for a lot of dinners where people can’t see my feet.

Me: Whatever, it’s time for the real issue. The computer. That mechanical object you are COMPLETELY ADDICTED to, yet think you can pleasantly (while maintaing your sanity and marriage) live without for eight months? WTF? You’re living in fantasy land.

Andrea: But remember, in Madagascar, I wrote in my journal every night. I filled up a whole book in four weeks.

Me: Duh. That was before blogs and laptops and checking your email before you peed every morning. That life is gone. Stop using it as a real piece of evidence! It doesn’t count!

Andrea: But, well, I mean, but I don’t want to worry about the laptop. I don’t want to carry it. I don’t want to leave it in a sketchy hotel room. I don’t want it heaved onto the roof of a bus with goat piss. It’s just not practical.

Me: Oh yeah? I’ll tell you what’s not practical. Going on a six-plus month overland trip when you;ve been a professional volunteer for two years. Then foregoing the one piece of luggage which could create some kind of income (remember that word??) along the way.

Andrea: But Rolf Potts says to leave it all behind! So does Elizabeth Gilbert. . .well, she implies it. Everyone says that stuff just weighs you down. How can so many celebrated authors be wrong?

Me: Haven’t we been over this? They’re the chosen ones! They write for Salon.com and have best-selling travel books and get paid to go on yoga retreats. They’re real writers! You’re not! You can’t rely on them to guide you through life.

Andrea: But I can. And I will. Because I, too, will write. I don’t care if I’m successful or not, because I must follow my bliss. And the richer experience (which leads to a richer book) will come from the lighter pack!. . . .Right????

In honor of a new initiative, Blog-To-Be-Fit, with my sassy new group,

. . .I am republishing my Yoga blog from January. This sums it up for me. . .

Yoga. Agoy. Ogay. Any way you move the letters around, I like the sound of it.

A few years ago, Michael and I gave his sister, Meagan, a present and spirited soul, a yoga studio gift certificate for her birthday. A few months ago, she lent Michael and I a yoga book from Baron Baptiste, life-long yoga master. Our gift had come full circle.

I’ve toyed with yoga before. Signed up for a class or two. Survived panic attacks during Bikram. But it’s always been more of a task than an experience. A line item in my planner. An event which required a careful clothing choice. An easier way to exercise than the run I am always avoiding.

Stressful, too. Where should I stand? Am I taking up too much space? I will never get my leg as straight as hers. That halter top is a-dor-a-ble. I wonder if it’s from Anthropologie. That girl with the eyebrow ring, don’t I know her? Yes, she was in my Master Program. And so on.

Do. Do. Do. Think. Think. Think It’s hard for me to stop.

This time has been different. I’m still Andrea, of course. Rereading chapters, giving self-tutorials and structuring my practice. I cannot go completely limp. I need something concrete to hold on to. And physically, it’s hard. Very. Hard.

But this time, I’m practicing alone with only my mat, my muscles and my mind.

This time, along with the instructions for Downward Dog, which inspires strength, sustainability and plenty of sweat, Baron slips in a little prose for the pose. Make a meditation in motion, he recites. Look high to the heavens, he insists. Open your shoulders to the sky and create space between your ears.

My gaze, unlike my expression during Taebo class, where I appear capable of scalping someone, should be soft and strong. The flow, from one move to the next, unlike my hurried, jolted life, should be slow and fluid. My breath is best, during both yoga and crisis, if complete and steady. I balance by bringing my hands together in prayer. I rest, when tired, by lowering into child’s pose. I lead, when ready, with an open hand.

As I learn yoga, I am learning life.

I listen to my body. I listen to my breath. I listen to this rare and inspiring sermon—one I could never find at church.

Just listen.

My yoga teacher said this morning, that according to buddhism, if you are not in the present, you are nowhere, lost in the past of the future. And in either case, you’re missing right now. This is nothing new, but I love to hear it again and again. It is, perhaps, no definitely, the most poignant and valuable lesson of my adult life.

And here’s my first in a series of tips about how to live your life int eh present.

For as long as I can remember, to calm myself in crisis situations, “Everything will be okay” has been my oh-so-creative mantra. It becomes a chant, at times.

Recently, Michael advised me that a better mantra might be: “Everything IS okay”.

Good point, eh?

Furthermore, as I recently rested my head on Michael’s shoulder, instead of saying “Everything is okay” I randomly said “Everything is spectacular.”

Which has a really nice ring to it, as well.

Any way you move the letters around, I like the sound of it.

A few years ago, Michael and I gave his sister, Meagan, a present and spirited soul, a yoga studio gift certificate for her birthday. A few months ago, she lent Michael and I a yoga book from Baron Baptiste, life-long yoga master. Our gift had come full circle.

I’ve toyed with yoga before. Signed up for a class or two. Survived panic attacks during Bikram. But it’s always been more of a task than an experience. A line item in my planner. An event which required a careful clothing choice. An easier way to exercise than the run I am always avoiding.

Stressful, too. Where should I stand? Am I taking up too much space? I will never get my leg as straight as hers. That halter top is a-dor-a-ble. I wonder if it’s from Anthropologie. That girl with the eyebrow ring, don’t I know her? Yes, she was in my Master Program. And so on.

Do. Do. Do. Think. Think. Think It’s hard for me to stop.

This time has been different. I’m still Andrea, of course. Rereading chapters, giving self-tutorials and structuring my practice. I cannot go completely limp. I need something concrete to hold on to. And physically, it’s hard. Very. Hard.

But this time, I’m practicing alone with only my mat, my muscles and my mind.

This time, along with the instructions for Downward Dog, which inspires strength, sustainability and plenty of sweat, Baron slips in a little prose for the pose. Make a meditation in motion, he recites. Look high to the heavens, he insists. Open your shoulders to the sky and create space between your ears.

My gaze, unlike my expression during Taebo class, where I appear capable of scalping someone, should be soft and strong. The flow, from one move to the next, unlike my hurried, jolted life, should be slow and fluid. My breath is best, during both yoga and crisis, if complete and steady. I balance by bringing my hands together in prayer. I rest, when tired, by lowering into child’s pose. I lead, when ready, with an open hand.

As I learn yoga, I am learning life.

I listen to my body. I listen to my breath. I listen to this rare and inspiring sermon—one I could never find at church.

Just listen.

The Athens Classic Marathon isn’t just a marathon. It’s THE marathon. The closely related ancestor of this course was a cornerstone of the ancient Olympic Games held in the 5th century BC. This exact course was used in the original modern Olympic Games in 1896 and the most recent Olympics in 2004. According to legend, the Athenian messenger Pheidippides ran from the village of Marathon to Athens to bring news of a miraculous victory in battle over the Persians. “Nenikékamen!” he cried – we were victorious!. Tragically for Pheidippides, but fortunately for us, he died of exhaustion from his extraordinary efforts (at least in legend). If he hadn’t, there wouldn’t be a running event called a marathon. In fact, there would be no marathons of any sort. Not even Twilight Zone marathons or the Marathon candy bar.

The Athens Classic Marathon is a marathoner’s marathon. The course is challenging, compared to the fast, flat, marathons in Chicago and London. You will never see a marathon world record set on this course. The majority of the 26.2 mile route slopes upward, and the elevation isn’t given back until about mile 20, when the legs are no longer fully prepared to take advantage of the descending finish. To conquer this course, runners must bring their own spirit, because they won’t be impressed by the spectacular scenery. The course bores its way past strip malls, auto-repair garages, and furniture stores on a suburban highway linking the village of Marathon and Athens. Neither can runners summon energy from buzzing crowds. Supporters are few and far between until downtown Athens. And it isn’t until the last few minutes of the race that you see the gorgeous Panathinakin stadium, the only real scenic payoff of the event.

At bit like Pheidippides, I’ve been training for marathons, and hurting myself in the process, for three years. I’ve nearly died of frustration. My typical cycle goes like this: I’m feeling good, no aches or pains, so I start my marathon training program. As I gradually build my mileage and intensity, I can see exciting signs of progress in my speed, endurance, diet, energy level and attitude. I return to the house sweaty each morning and tell Andrea what a GREAAAAAT run I had! My successful training buoys my entire life, and I become annoyingly evangelical about running. Then, several months into training, when my weekend runs approach 20 miles, my left patella tendon (knee) becomes aggravated. The irritated patella takes weeks to heal, leaving me to unable to run the marathon for which I’ve planned. I get depressed. I get frustrated. I do some research, discuss the situation with my doctor, acupuncturist, chiropractor, and running coach; I come up with a preventative solution, give myself a chance to completely heal and begin the cycle all over again.

I’ve gone through a variant of this cycle FOUR times now. I am aware of how stubborn and potentially destructive this sounds to normal people. Plenty have suggested that I switch to the bike or the pool (as if this has never occurred to me). I have in fact come VERY close to hanging up the running shoes once and for all. But so far I’ve persisted because a new solution sounds promising. To prevent injury I’ve tried orthotic shoe inserts, patella straps, glucosymine/chondrodin supplements, and quad-strengthening cross-training and yoga. Over and over, I come back to marathon training, despite my set backs, because I love it.

I want others to love it, too.

When Andrea and I left for our Peace Corps assignment in August of 2005, the first place our cohort was taken was the Bulgarian ski town of Borovits. Even though we had been in country for only a couple of days, my new Peace Corps friend Thomas Parr and I began proselytizing to our class about running THE marathon in Greece, about one year later. Of the class of 50, no one had marathon experience except for Andrea and me, but we quickly found that Peace Corps volunteers are a daring and ambitious bunch. Immediately, about half the group was willing to entertain the idea. Thrilled with the prospect of so many potential converts, we gathered an organizational meeting, set up an online community (Yahoo Groups), delegated chairmen to travel, fund-raising and t-shirt committees, created training plans, encouraged group runs and sent out tips and encouragement. Peace Corps volunteers are just the type of people to embrace a challenge like this, and they didn’t need much encouragement once the idea took hold. About 17 of us tackled a marathon training program. Two were injured in the process and 15 made the trip to Athens, ready to run.

I am happy to report that I made it through my marathon training and finished THE original marathon! In addition to the preventative measures I listed above, I credit my lack of injury to my restful training schedule. I ran only three days per week this season. I’m even happier to report that I cut 16 minutes off my previous best (Boulder Back Roads, 2003). I finished in 3:19.03, only a few minutes shy of qualifying for Boston, which has always been my long term marathoning goal.

For me, running is a very individual experience. However, the camaraderie between the Peace Corps runners during the trip and during the months of preparation before the event made everything so much fun. We traveled together, we encouraged each other, we stayed together and we feasted together in celebration after all 15 of us conquered the challenging course. Thanks Team, and congratulations!

Nenikékamen!!!

So I know, I know. You’re thinking: Salsa is a Latin American thing. Perhaps Peurto Rican? Maybe it comes from Cuba, the Dominican Republic or Columbia? And you, Andrea, are volunteering in Bulgaria. Truth is, this similar-to-Mambo, side to side, eigh-count dance came from all these places. But New York first came up with the nickname.

The word “salsa” in any context (Mexican garnish or Pachanga), means to “spice things up.”

But rest assured that since we’re in Bulgaria, a land of virtually spice-less food, it’s all about the dance. Salsa lessons are very popular, as they were in the United States a few years back. For around four leva (about $2.50) you can feel sexy with about 35 other fresh, young twenty-somethings (oh my god I am not a twenty something) as you watch the hottest body of all count to ten up on stage.

It was in a back-alley, between-buildings, up the sign-less stairs sort of place—I never would have found it on my own. The Lincolns, Toni, Svetlina and a visiting volunteer, Jesse, were leading. Smelling of sweat and feeling red all over (or maybe it was just the flushed faces), it was packed with line after line of smiling girls and guys, most of them in heels, unabashedly ready, it seemed, to attempt salsa. Of course, everything was taught in Bulgarian. Except for the counting, which was in Spanish. But as I twisted and slid and jazz-squared my way through the hour, I realized that despite his incessant instructions, watching and emulating was enough. Everyone moves their hips in a pretty similar language. And there’s no doubt that my multiple viewings of Dirty Dancing was positively crucial to my progress.

The best part as that it felt so much like America! People were unafraid to look the fool. Nervous, but happy sideways glances and “we’re in this together” looks all around. That enormously satisfying feeling most often experienced amid a public spectacle when you suddenly bond with the stranger on your left.

There, was, in the room, a sense of community. You see, one of the major components missing from the adult culture here are “clubs”. I’m not talking about post-midnight sweaty dance spaces, but common interest groups. So think about it (take a deep breath) no book clubs, running clubs, scrapbook clubs, baby clubs, dinner clubs, writing clubs, chess clubs, sewing clubs, biking clubs, climbing clubs, car clubs, investment clubs, card clubs, poker clubs and you get the point. I could spin the same diatribe on neighborhood councils, junior leagues, press clubs and professional associations. They’re pretty rare.

In America, we like to gather, share ideas, debate and playfully smother our opinions all over our fellow friends, enemies (and relatives!). Our society, schools, professions, and neighborhoods encourage us to “get together” all the time. These institutions wisely know that group-play as such leads to self-evolution and societal progress. And we do, or rather, I did.

So what’s the story? Are Bulgarians anti-social creatures? Why don’t they more often organize these get togethers? I don’t know for sure. Perhaps due to the oppressive, fear-inducing, communism of the past, (meetings in the home may have created suspicions of clandestine activity) as well as the European general disregard for schedules, they just tend to go about gathering in a less formal manner. In place of schedules, dues, nominated positions, Christmas party or committees, there are wildly-flowing, late-starting, competition-free meetings and conversations over cappuccino at the corner. In the U.S., we work more hours, host more dinner parties and always seem to be late for the next meeting. Perhaps were a bit too uptight?

The question, then, becomes: Is societal progress and personal growth possible without some structure? Yes, I think so, but structure certainly speeds up the process and increases efficiency. And you know America: speed and efficiency are top priorities. Why? Because this allows us to do more. And more, at least when you’re talking about knowledge, professional progress or intellectual growth, (not sweaters or subarus,) to me, is actually better.

So I guess salsa lessons are a start. It’s not exactly a common interest group. Someone’s making money and there’s no public (or private) exchange between myself and the other participants. But maybe, if we can listen, smile and move together, in a weekly scheduled format, there’s hope for more.

So it’s been a busy couple weeks. . .and I’ll fill you in on some random information that describes our social life here in Sofia.

Last Wednesday I had a tutoring session at Dunkin Donuts (of all places) with Radost, my teacher, and then Michael and I went to dinner at this Lebanese restaurant off Graf Ignatiev Street with some U.S. Embassy post-MBA employees. . the meal was cheap, the service was smiley and the hummus was amazing. A new staple for us.

At some point, (forget when) I had another going away party for a Traditzia board member–a party (held in the same fish-bowl-lamp room of our Peace Corps swearing in) with tiny-meat-on-a-toothpick trays, a translated speech and a wide range of Bulgarians, Germans, Brits, Americans, and even, perhaps, some Russians. I did my best to wander confidently through that foreign labyrinth of well-dressed women and cheek-kissing acquaintances. Thank goodness my British pals began calling my name.

Thursday, after two hours more trying to get our Lichna Karta (we are still Lichna Karta-less, however) we then we took off for the adventure of the package from Lori & Gary. After a 20 or so minute search through a seedier side of Sofia, we found a massive, pillared building, whose inside resembled an old courthouse or county building–high celings, a marble floor, wooden-framed counter windows. But then we were directed toward a rickety annex that looked like it was under perpetual construction. First there was a series of window visits, and a four leva fee, but a trip to the storeroom was how we eventually retrieved the curve-edged, retaped object that likely once resembled a box. Then we just had to carry it home. Thank you to Michael’s parents for everything!!! Especially grateful for the knee-high boots–now I look like a true Bulgarian.

That night, we hosted a volunteer, Leslie and new Canadian friend, Sara, at our place, munching baklava, sipping wine and chatting about the Northern American music scene (and learning a thing or two about Inuits) in our Middle Eastern Room. Pull out the hideabed, get down the extra blankets, goodnight.

We ran on Saturday. If there’s one “glory-guarantee” it’s running the morning after a soft, early snow. And the statues “looked dream-like on account of that frosting. . with one mile behind me and 2 more to go. . .” My snow-covered dancer in the park, comically appeared to be showering and shaving, the white stuff seeming like suds across her stone figure. The thigh-to-foot, bent-knee statue, skeletal detail, tendons, muscles, showing and all (my own personal running icon) was simply covered in powder as it perched upon its pillar afront the Oborishte theater. That strange, tree-trunk-table and wagon wheel bench (not coffee table! I thought you said you liked it!) that sits on the sidewalk for no apparent reason, was white as well, as if a confused baba had thoughtfully covered it in a lace cloth, awaiting celestial visitors. Then, there was the out-of-place godzilla, the artfully-scaled alligator, the eye-less kangaroos and finally, my favorite piece: the rusted iron, nearly hollow consecutive sillhouettes of a human head, with yellow figures popping toward the inside from every second one–as if portraying the thin layers of someone’s mind, each occupied by vague new controlling visitor. Vertical as it was, the snow left it untouched.

I then popped my head into Ani, the red-haired newsstand lady, to say “doobroutro”, ran past the embassy and ambassador residence guards in all their seriousness, found a new videoteka, a great used-clothing store and then headed back toward our apartment, to rest outside our buzzer, dodge dust from shaken sheets above and ignore those suspicious of my stretching.

Saturday post run, after a trip to the phone company and post office with our landlord we picked up a drying rack, bought groceries and promptly ran into two visiting volunteers (Toni and Randy) on Rakovski. Later, we met them at Osheepka, an affordable favorite with a strange dungeoun-like downstairs, for salads, Zagorka and Black Ram (whiskey). Two hours later we were again, in our Middle Eastern Room blinking at candles, blowing smoke, discussing the Bulgarian social mores. Another sleepover.

The next day, we set off at 10:30 for a rugby game up in the foothills. The two Lincolns (B-17s) met me, Michael and Toni at the two lions on Vitosha and headed via taxi towrard the random rugby track in the foothills, where the grunting, face-mashing, bloody and below-freezing battle would begin. They warmed up with calisthenics. We warmed up with kufte, toast and a woodburning fire in the nearby restaurant. Bellaruse native Jenna and Australian wife Christine were two characters–and the only other female fans (seven fans total) at the game. I learned a little bit about rugby and gained a strange combination of respect and bewilderment for the guys. Afterwards, the Murphys Misfits headed to J.J. Murphys, their sponsor, to consume a free keg. THat’s when I bailed to make an appearance at the Internal Women’s Club Bazaar where I bumped into some Brits, the fullbright scholars as well as a few volunteers–and Traditzia board member and wife of Peace Corps staff, Heidi, who graciously gave me a basket of goodies (oreos, teddy grahams microwave popcorn) from the USA.

This week, there’s Salsa dance lessons on Tuesday, a concert on Wednesday, Peace Corps office visit tomorrow, shopping for Thanksgiving on Thursday and then the trip to Chepalare for the big meal.

We’ll be thinking of you, dear family and friends.

Thank you so very much for your wishes packages, comments and love.