Postcards From Near & Far

Istanbul: A Journey Through Mystery and History

Istanbul; a city seething with mystery and intrigue. It’s a place where each shadow has a story to tell and every man is a killer or a king.

It’s 1922 and I’m sitting on the roof of my hotel sipping strong Turkish coffee and watching the sun rise over Central Anatolia. Off in the distance the black dome of Hagia Sopiha is stark against the pre dawn sky. As shadow gives way to light, its stucco walls seem to glow red with the passion of worshippers from centuries ago.

The Blue Mosque, with its seven domes and six minarets, is a solemn counterpart to the cathedral across the street. Built on the foundation of the Byzantine Grand Palace, it’s exterior is a balance of geometric shapes that hint to the magical world inside. Light and color reflecting from every corner puts you into a kaleidoscope of circles, triangles, rectangles and squares. Together they form patterns that are repeated a thousand times across the ceiling, walls, columns and floors, and the dizzying effect will leave you spinning like one of Rumi’s dervishes.

The Whirling Dervishes—that puts me in mind of one of the most memorable experiences I’ve had traveling in Turkey. It was a moonless night in Cappadocia when we visited their temple to witness their sacred dance. Its simple ceremony was a mystical, transformative experience that I continue to study with a passionate eye to this day. The consistent whirling brought the energy of the heavens down to earth and for the first time in my life I felt physically connected to something larger and more encompassing than I’d ever known. Was it God? The Universe? I don’t know, but whatever happened in that cone-shaped room was the type of experience that you can only find when you step away from the world you live in and into unfamiliar territory.

The docks at the foot of the Golden Horn are beginning to show signs of life now. The fog has lifted and people are finding their way through the twisted streets of the Old City. A few sailing ships are tied up along the dock and every now and then the sounds of engines from the steamships echo up to my rooftop perch.

Across the strait, the Dolmabahce Palace looks out over the city from it’s stately position on the Asian shore. The balance and scale of the building hint at influences from the West but the sultans’ Asian heritage is on display as well. Pronounced rooflines and fluid, floral aesthetics allude to Eastern cultures. It’s East meets West on the building that once ruled both.

The wind shifted and the scent of the hotel chef’s fire shifted with it. It reminded me of the destructive blaze at the Pasha’s palace last night. It’s grand facade backlit by orange flames and its brittle windows bursting every so often like fragile bubbles. The black plume of smoke escaped like a dying man’s last breath. It was a sight that was becoming more common these days as the last rulers of the Ottoman Empire abandon their homes to wander off in search of new fortunes. It was the sight, sound, and smell of a decomposing empire.

A panoramic view of Istanbul at sunrise, featuring the silhouette of the Blue Mosque and Hagia Sophia against a colorful sky.

Capturing Your Next Vacation in Words: Travel Writing Basics

Have you ever wished you could capture the feeling you had standing at an scenic overlook? Or the silly moment you shared with your family when you climbed up on a miniaturized sculpture of a T-Rex to take a picture? If you’re interested in writing these moments, whether for yourself or to sell to a travel magazine, it’s fun to write about all the wonderful experiences that come your way when you step out into the world of travel writing.

I wrote an article about the fundamentals of travel writing for work and you can read it by clicking on is link:

Taking an Adventure in Writing, Travel Writing Basics: A Chanticleer Article

Happy trails!

Road Trip Travel Tips for Families

One of my first freelance writing jobs was writing travel posts for websites. With Spring Break and Summer trips coming up, I thought I’d share a post I wrote to help families keep the fun happening throughout their time on the move. I hope you enjoy it!

Tips for a Smooth Sailing Family Adventure

Don’t Forget These Travel Tips When Packing For Your Kids

We’re hitting the road for a long trip across half the United States, but with eighteen hundred miles of open road ahead of us and a three-year-old in the car seat behind me, how are we going to keep our sanity over the course of seven days. Here are some tips I’ve picked up to keep your children from turning your family truckster into a roaming mental hospital.

1) Plan your trip so that your sight-seeing stops are spread out at regular intervals.

2) Have games of all sorts that require little or no actual pieces. A few games that have always worked in my family are I Spy, Twenty Questions, Where’s the Alphabet, The License Plate Game, and memory games like ”I went on a picnic and I brought ____.” Our family loves to put in an adventuresome sounding CD and play the pretend game of “Going on Safari”, where we “see” elephants, giraffes, zebras, and gazelles in the things we pass.

3) Eat in the car and play at the picnic areas and rest stops you find along the way by active games like catch or exploring. By doing this they’ll get their energy out and have another activity in the car to keep them busy. And don’t forget to stretch as often as possible.

4) Buy a kid’s camera and create a scrapbook along the way so your child can keep his/her memories and gain the skill of a photographer.

5) I have mixed feelings about this one–Bring an iPad loaded with your child’s favorite movies

or TV shows but save it for times when there is no other way to keep boredom from becoming meltdowns. The point of being on a road trip is enjoying the landscape around you, so make sure they have time to idly stare out the windows, too.

6) Pack healthy snacks in easily accessible, single-serve bags so whenever they want to eat they’ll be faced with only healthy options.

7) Make sure sight-seeing stops are interesting to your kids so conversation before and after will be engaging and kill time in the car.

8) Along with a box of crayons and paper, bring other craft projects that won’t be messy.Origami or crocheting are both great activities that will require no tools and create no mess and their projects can be given as gifts to people you’ll see along the way.

9) Keep the phone charged so the kids can call grandma and grandpa and tell them where they’re at and what they are doing.

10) Books, books, and more books. Take your kids to the library prior to the trip and let them pick out some favorites and some new books to try. Maybe something about the things you’ll see along the way or maybe the history of the places you’ll visit.

Have a great time and make great memories with your kids on your next trip!

My Indiana Jones Moment

On a trip to an ancient city, I had a memorable experience with a rickshaw driver. Exciting, yes. Annoying, yes, too.

Press play, then come back to read the article: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-bTpp8PQSog

A true story, 1996

Black market street vendors lined the sidewalk all the way out to the main road. They were agressive, thrusting armloads of cheaply made goods out in front of me as I passed by. Trinkets, souvenirs, flowers… I’d just about made it out to the street when something useful caught my eye.

A black leather whip.

“Whip?” the vendor asked hopefully, as he removed it from his arm. “Very good leather. Made from bull,” he added, “I show you.” With a downward thrust of his arm, a loop wound through the long coil, ending with a loud crack as it snapped back on itself. He smiled at me. “You try now,” he held it out to me and as soon as I wrapped my hand around the handle my inner Indiana Jones sprang to life. I had to have this whip!

I handed over my rupees, stuffed the whip into my backpack, and turned towards the street where several rickshaw drivers were calling to me. I went to the nearest one and looked the rickshaw and its driver over with a wary eye. “Very comfortable! Very comfortable, ” he assured me. I doubted this was the case as I looked over his rusted three-wheeled motorized rickshaw, but no matter, I was just going back to the hotel. The driver took a look at the address printed on my hotel’s business card and assured me he could get me there, so we settle on the fare and I jumped into the backseat.

With a sputter of the engine, the rickshaw took off. We rounded the corner and fought our way through the narrow streets of the ancient city, braking for other rickshaws, pedistrians, and the variety of livestock that veered into our path. Gas, brake, gas brake; my body lurched forward and back, pitching left and right as the rickshaw bumped over the pitted streets. It was taking much longer than it should have and I began to sense a tenseness in my driver.

He doesn’t know where he’s going, I realized. Digging into the side pocket of my backpack, I brought out my hotel’s business card again and offered it to him but he waved it away. So, I sat back and watched as the streets continued to pass by. Finally, after turning away from the main road and driving us onto a more deserted and darker street I ventured to ask, “Hotel?”

“Yes,” he answered, with another dismissive wave.

“I don’t think so,” I point to a busier street a few blocks away, “Take me back to the main road over there.” I didn’t know where I was or where my hotel was and it was quite obvious this driver didn’t know either.

“I take you to hotel,” he said with authority.

“No, you take me to that road now.”

He turned in his seat, taking his eyes off the the road ahead without easing up on the gas. “You sit. I drive!” he ordered.

“No! You stop this rickshaw, right now!” I was becoming more and more angry with each exchange.

“You be quiet, woman.”

Well, that was it. I knew who I was dealing with.

I slid to the edge of my seat as he slowed to take a corner. Sticking my foot out of the rickshaw, I caught the ground and sprang from the back seat and landed safely on the dirt road. As I turned to walk away I heard his brakes squealing and felt a spray of rocks pelt the backs of my legs. “You come here! Pay me!” yelled the driver as he came running up behind me.

I had already goetten a few steps ahead of him and knew this would be my best chance to protect myself, so I reached into my backpack and pulled out the whip.

His curses grew louder behind me until he was almost close enough to grab me. With a spin on my heels, I turned to face him. His fist raised in anger “You pay me!” he yelled.

Raising my arm high in the air, I drove the handle of the whip forcefully down towards the ground. The leather rope rippled in a high arc, snapping as it curled around its end with a resounding CRACK!

Surprise stopped the driver in his tracks. A stunned look passed through his dark eyes before turning into a new level of rage. “You listen to me, woman!” he yelled into my face.

Anger flooded my own face as I shook the whip’s handle at him. “No! You listen to me! I am not paying you, and you are not taking me anywhere, so turn around and leave. Now!” I backed away, keeping my whip out in front of me, ready and waiting for him to retaliate.

“You pay me,” the driver called out once more as the distance between us grew. He shook his fist in the air, but he did not move. “You pay me…” His voice trailed off defeated.

I kept walking and made it to the main street where I hired another driver. Anger had overridden fear, but I was tense. After making it back to the hotel I headed to the bar for a shot of whiskey.

Because that’s what Indie would do.

Mary Shelley & The Monster’s Doctor

Mary Shelley’s horror story, Frankenstein; or, the Modern Prometheus, is a classic examination of the ‘science vs. religion’ debate. Written during the Industrial Revolution, Doctor Victor Frankenstein is so taken by the technological achievements of the time he forgets the soul of his creation; his Monster, and ultimately loses all he loves as a result.

Mary Shelley, the literary revolutionary, genre-inventing diva from the late eighteenth century, celebrated her 227th birthday on August 30. A few years ago I wrote an article about a scientist who historians believe could have been the inspiration for Mary Shelley’s Dr. Frankenstein.

So, in honor of Mary Shelley’s massive contributions to the art of writing and the horror/paranormal genre, I’m reposting it here. I hope you enjoy it!

The Monster’s Doctor

Mary Shelley’s horror story, Frankenstein; or, the Modern Prometheus, is a classic examination of the ‘science vs. religion’ debate. Written during the Industrial Revolution, Doctor Victor Frankenstein is so taken by the technological achievements of the time he forgets the soul of his creation; his Monster, and ultimately loses all he loves as a result.

Scientists conducting electrical experiments at the time certainly provided much of the inspiration for Shelley’s maniacal doctor, but one man is cited as a possible model for the theme of her novel.

“I saw—with shut eyes, but acute mental vision—I saw the pale student of unhallowed arts kneeling beside the thing he had put together.”

-Mary Shelly, Frankenstein

Johann Conrad Dippel (1673-1734) was born in Castle Frankenstein in south central Germany in the region of Hesse. As was the custom of the day, he acquried Franckensteinensis or Franckensteina-Strataemontanus as a surname and became forever linked to the place of his birth. He received a Master in Theology in 1693 at the University of Giessen where he also studied philosophy and alchemy and gained a prominent position among Europe’s intellectual elite.

Influenced by the Age of Reason while remaining a fervently religious man, Dippel authored several controversal theological papers under his nom de guerre; Christianus Democritus, a name that represented the duality of his views. In them he called for the demise of the traditional church organization and a rejection of the Bible as the literal word of God in favor of a more personal approach to faith. They were widely circulated throughout Europe and earned him both praise and criticism. One enthusiastic follower, Emanuel Swedenborg, later criticized him as a cultish opportunist who was “bound to no principles, but was in general opposed to all, whoever they may be, of whatever principle or faith…becoming angry with any one for contradicting him.” Swedenborg also accused Dippel of being the ‘most vile devil…who attempted wicked things.’ This opinion was surely based upon his suspected experiments in alchemy. In his Maladies and Remedies of the Life of the Flesh, Dippel announced his discovery of the ‘Elixir of Life’, as well as, a method to exorcise demons through potions produced from the boiled bones and flesh of animals. Even more alarming to the public were rumors of his attempts at ‘soul-tranference’ on human cadavers, where he was viewed as playing God on desecrated corpses.

In the end, it was reported by his contemporaries that after having been thoroughly trashed by the religious leaders of the day Dippel gave up his faith altogether, directing all his energy to his experiments in alchemy. He never backed down from his arguments or the experiments that he felt supported them and may have even actively encouraged rumors that he was in league with the Devil, having sold his soul to become a dark sorcerer.

So, in the end, Mary Shelley may have used this real-life ‘mad scientist’ as inspiration but the moral lesson she provided her Doctor Frankenstein was lost on Johann Conrad Dippel.

A Personal Account of Russia’s Drastic Social and Political Change in 1993

I visited Russia during the 1993 Constitutional Crisis. This is what I experienced.

This is a blog post I wrote years ago on another website. It is a partial account of what I experienced during my stay in Russia in 1993 during a tumultuous time of change-one of many.

Last Stop: Russia

It’d been three hours since we crossed Russia’s northwestern border–hours spent deep inside the West Siberian taiga forest. The constant chug, chug, chugging of the engine had lulled me into a semi-hypnotic state, leaving me numb to the sensations of the train’s forward movement.

Down the tracks, a small town emerged from the shadows of the trees. It was the first village we’d come to since crossing the border, so we’d be disembarking and registering at the customs office. Our passports would be checked and stamped, maybe our picture would be taken, maybe a few questions would be asked. “Just a formality,” our guide assured us.

With a bump and a jerk, our car came to a complete stop beside the station’s platform. Deathly cold outside, snowflakes hung suspended in the thin air, insulating and isolating people from one another. Solemn faces obscured by frosty clouds of breath stared out from under layers of heavy clothing. On the ground, remnants of footprints were carved into the snow, ghostly evidence of travelers who’d passed through this lonely depot before me. A line formed in front of the customs office and I dutifully found my place at its end. As I shuffled along I noticed an English language newspaper lying on a bench. Its headline read:

September 28, 1993: Bloody Clashes Ignite Between Special Police and Anti-Yeltsin Demonstrators. Interior Ministry Seals Off Parliament Building, Erecting Barricades.*

Once again, Russia had found itself swept up in drastic social and political change, and tensions were at a breaking point. During the past week, control of the government had shifted several times between the old Soviet guard and the new Russian Federation, with each side pushing the boundaries of their offices in an attempt to take control.

On September 21, one week prior to my arrival, President Boris Yeltsin had declared the governing body, the Supreme Soviet, dissolved, and announced a constitutional referendum and plans for new legislative elections. The next day, deputies from the Congress of People convened to impeach Yeltsin and two days later Yeltsin countered with a June 1994 date for Russia’s second presidential elections. Following this move Congress announced a March 1994 date for simultaneous parliamentary and presidential elections, preceding Yeltsin’s date by three months.

That’s when the fight turned deadly.

Members of Congress barricaded themselves inside the Parliament Building, prompting Yeltsin to cut off their electricity, hot water and telephone service, and send in the military. Demonstrators on both sides fought in the streets and four days later, September 28, the day I read the headline, marked the first day of casualties. Three days after that, on the first of October, the Interior Ministry estimated that six hundred armed men had joined in with the opposition and reports claimed dozens of people had been killed and hundreds wounded. This development initiated an attempt at negotiations that went on for two days without any outcome.

During this time, top opposition leaders approached the military brass to ask for their support. They realized that without the backing of the armed forces, their cause would be lost. A solid plan, one would think, but, as has often been the case in Russian history, they overlooked the lower rank and file and soon found themselves without the support of the masses. The generals, deciding they couldn’t afford to take a chance on the shaky leadership of the pro-Soviet groups, sided with Yeltsin. He quickly implemented his military offensive, lining up ten tanks in front of the building and firing at the top floors in an effort to force the rebels into a smaller space on the lower levels.

This show of force intensified the situation, and on October 3, Moscow police failed to control a demonstration near the House of the Government of the Russian Federation, commonly referred to as “the White House.” It soon developed into armed conflict. Opponents of Yeltsin successfully stormed the police cordon around the White House, and by noon the next day, elite forces entered the building, occupying it floor-by-floor. Within hours, the popular resistance in the streets had been completely suppressed, except for occasional sniper fire. It was the deadliest street fighting in Moscow since the October Revolution in 1917, when the Russian Empire fell to the Bolsheviks, and the country officially became the Soviet Union. Reports put the “Second October Revolution’s” death toll at only 437 wounded, but some sources claim up to 2,000 had died.

We were in Moscow for five days, and on one particularly cold night, my friends and I took the subway over to the White House. We walked up and down the sidewalk behind those tanks as they sat poised and ready to fire at the occupied state building. It was quiet that night, and in the distance, closer to the building, we could hear Russian voices rising in protest, this time calling for the death of communism.

I had many wonderful experiences during my stay in Russia: visiting ancient cathedrals and beautiful palaces, attending world-renowned ballet performances, but the most fascinating aspect of my trip was being witness to Russian history repeating itself. As I stood in the lonely depot and read the newspaper’s headline I wondered if the stamp I’d receive on my passport would represent the same country two weeks later when I left Russia.

*The headline I use here represents actual headlines of the day.

Video news coverage of the event: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PkPfUnwyFsI

On Location: Cappadocia, Turkey

The Byzantine Cross takes readers to strange and beautiful lands. Cappadocia, Turkey is one such place. Dig into this unique landscape and my own travels there.

Exploring a location in The Byzantine Cross

Cappadocia is a historical region in Central Turkey known for its unique, primitive landscape and its exceptional natural wonders, specifically the “Fairy Chimneys” or hoodoos, that populate the valley floor.

The region’s religious heritage was the center of early Christian learning, evidenced by hundreds of churches, monasteries, and underground cities that were dug into the rock to offer protection during periods of persecution.

An action scene in The Byzantine Cross is set in this surreal world. Below are several pictures of Cappadocia that inspired my writing, including three of my own when my husband and I visited the country in 2009.

To the Extremes

Influences in my life, based on the landscapes of my homes.

I’ve spent nearly my entire life living in two places. The first half on the great plains of Western Kansas, and the second half in the rain soaked forests of the Pacific Northwest.

Two extremes.

For someone like me who has always seen themselves as existing in the middle, these two opposing environments seem ironic. One so big and wide open, contrasting with the other in a way that forces you to withdraw into your home and your thoughts during the long months of dark, rainy days. Certainly, at this point in my life these differences must have had a permanent effect on who I’ve become, postal codes forever stamped onto my character. Here’s my view of those extremes.

The Powerful Great Plains

My childhood home is located on a gentle rise on the flat landscape of western Kansas. It’s a borderland where the prairie grasses thin out and the high desert begins. Prickly pear cactus, devil’s claws and echinacea grow wild there, as do the spiky yukka plants with seed pods that rattle like snakes in September.

A great big, blue sky curves around you in every direction, touching the very same ground you stand upon. There’s something magical about that. Standing above the horizon gives you the feeling of being a giant and an ant at the same time.

If it’s a windy day, two of the most fundamental laws of physics are your constant companions, speed and force. When you’re in Kansas you lean into the wind. You hear its rhythm, smell its strong scents, and watch as it defies gravity to carry leaves away from trees horizontally, rather than vertically. The wind is amazing in Kansas, and when there’s a break in its velocity you notice it.

A beautiful shot of a whet field with a cloudy sky in the background at daytime

But there’s some benefits to that wind. Feeling that power blasting you in the face is energizing. It’s invigorating—life affirming. And you know you can always count on it, just as you can count on the sun burning up the ground beneath your feet.

The Beautiful Pacific Northwest

Twenty years ago, on my first solo excursion out of Kansas, I met a traveler who’d seen the world. As she and I became acquainted she sized me up, saying, “You don’t seem like you belong in Kansas. You seem like you belong in Portland.” I’m not sure how that played into my decision to move to the Rose City, but I ended up meeting my husband in Phoenix and together we moved back to his home state of Oregon.

It was at the end of October when we got to the Pacific Northwest and it was like moving from day into night. A persistent night that lasted until April. I remember the striking feeling I had the first day the sun shone after months of cloudy skies. I was walking across a parking lot and noticed my shadow following me, something I hadn’t seen in over a hundred days. It was like a visit from a long lost friend.

All that rain creates a lush, verdant landscape that resembles piles of fluffy green cotton. Mountains can be seen in every direction, and every so often a volcano’s peak will jut up far enough to pierce the clouds.

The mountain ranges of the Pacific Northwest tell a fabulous story of moving tectonics plates wrinkling up the landscape and causing volcanic eruptions that still threaten to change the topography millions of years after the first eruption.

Rivers cut through the terrain, formed by cataclysmic flooding from an ancient melting glacier. The rushing water digs deep trenches on its journey to the Pacific Ocean, filling up the valley floors and carving out spectacular gorges when it reaches the porous volcanic rock of the Cascade Range.

All this moisture provides an ample amount of fog that can take a familiar landscape and turn it into a mysterious land of intrigue and secrets. Things as great as mountains blur until they are simply graduating shades of grey, and well-traveled roads twist and turn into oblivion. It’s a silent, secluded world that encourages inward reflection and room for your imagination to flourish.

I’ve lived in the Pacific Northwest for more than twenty years now and I can tire of the seemingly endless days of darkness, but I still love this region. It’s beautiful in a way that is easily understood by the casual observer. The emerald valleys, steely-grey rivers, golden sunsets and abundance of rainbows make up the color palette of fantasies. And quiet moments spent in the shadows of clouds are a gift of time travel, taking me far into my imagination to reflect, to learn, and to create from this land’s endless inspiration.

But the part of me that grew up in Kansas continues to flourish inside my soul. The aliveness of a land where there is rarely ever stillness stirs up energy inside everything connected with it. It’s a beauty that is felt, as much as it is viewed. Visitors may miss the grandeur of that endless land if they spend their time passing through it inside a car. It’s a living, breathing, thriving beauty that’s fighting to survive against intense elements, and to truly know it you must experience it fully, not just look at it.

I have since moved further north into Washington State to a city on the shores of Puget Sound, finding the Siren’s call moving me closer to the Pacific Ocean where my dreams are free to roam and bloom.

I guess for me the combination of these places helps put balance in my extremes and keeps me centered in the middle where I feel most at home.

Category: Postcards From Near & Far