Kindness of Strangers

Tuesday, October 14, 2008

Maikael and I always take any opportunity to go on outings with other travelers. It’s more fun, it helps our budget, it opens us to new experiences and, most importantly, it keeps us sane. When Paul and Ishara began discussing a trip to Tirta Gangga and Sideman Road, we had no idea where or what these places were, but we said we were on board. Paul set about hiring a driver for the day ($30 for eight hours!), of which there is no shortage in Bali. Everyone you pass on the street calls, “Transport? Taxi?” as you pass by, some even pantomiming turning a steering wheel in case you are deaf or don’t speak English. The lazier ones half-heartedly prop up a sign on their knee as they rest on a stoop. One side reads, “Do you need transport (taxi)?”, and when you invariably say “no,” they flip the sign which reads, “Maybe tomorrow.”

We set off for Tirta Gangga; I had absentmindedly flipped through my Lonely Planet guide the night before and learned that it means “Water of the Ganges,” which I could only pray was cleaner than the real Ganges in India, and that it is a water palace. I didn’t know what a water palace was, but was excited to have two folks in our stead who had visited Bali multiple times between them and would knowledgeably create the itinerary for the day.

On our way we stopped at Goa Lawah, which Ishara kept referring to as The Bat Temple, but which I preferred to called The Bat Cave. As our van pulled into the temple’s parking lot, which was packed, we noticed a line of people, decked out in their Sunday best, snaking their way down the beach towards the sparkling water. A row of Crayola umbrellas bobbed along in the brilliant sunshine. There was obviously something special taking place today.

We wrapped colorful sarongs around our waists, mandatory temple garb, topped off with a bright yellow sash. The scene inside the temple grounds was festive and merry, not at all like the somber affairs that I usually associate with religious occasions. I stood in a shaded doorway watching groups of smiling Balinese gather for family photos. A gaping cave stood at the the front of the courtyard, where lines of people knelt and prayed before the mouth. Bats screeched and hung like coal stalagmites at the edge of the dark abyss. Incense loomed heavy in the air as parades of devotees wound their way around the courtyard, carrying baskets heaving with fruit and other offerings.

As we made our way through the scene, we noticed a woman who must have been the high priestess making blessings under a great thatched roof dais raised high above the crowds. Her scarlet hat was gilded with gold and topped off with a dazzling crystal; more crystals studded her finery, creating epaulets over her shoulder. She looked simply grand. As we admired the scene, the only non-Balinese wedged into the crowd, a woman caught my eye and placed her palms together in prayer. I did the same and nodded to her, preparing to take my leave. Suddenly the mass plopped to the ground, and the woman pulled me down with her. I realized that she had been asking me without words if I’d like to pray with the group.

We knelt on the ground, my batik sarong next to her lovely raspberry one. She smiled and led me through the prayer, the women next to us giggling as I bumbled my way through each step. First she handed me a square cup fashioned out of pale banana leaves and filled with wilting tropical flowers. She plucked a fresh one from the cup and placed it behind my ear, doing the same for Maikael who sat to her right. Spindly sticks of incense were passed through the crowd, and she instructed me to place mine over the flowers. We then grabbed bits of flower from the cup, waving them over the incense, and brought them to the tips of our fingers placed in prayer. The priestess rang a rhythmic bell as the crowd prayed in silence. I asked for peace and purpose, the same things I always do.

Between stages of the prayer she tried to talk to me, despite the language barriers. I said I was from America. I pointed towards my wedding ring, and then to Maikael, and everyone sighed a collective, “Ooooh.” Then it was the woman’s turn. She pointing towards my shirt, saying something in Bahasa that I didn’t understand, and another woman down the line leaned over. “Beautiful,” she translated. I was wearing a ratty old T-shirt, and she was wearing a lacy top that looked like delicate pink sherbet.

When the prayer ended, we were swarmed. “Where you from?” everyone wanted to know. Pictures were taken, and I shook the woman’s hand who had pulled us into the prayer. I’m not sure why she decided to include us, but I felt intensely grateful for the experience, and to her.

On the road to Tirta Gangga we encountered numerous processionals in multiple villages as people made their way to temple ceremonies. Traffic crawled to a stop to allow the parade to pass. Women expertly balanced towers of fruit of their head as they power-walked up steep hills, looking nonplussed. “This must be our lucky day,” I said.

We arrived to Tirta Gangga later that afternoon, which felt like stepping into the Garden of Eden. Huge pools of water criss-crossed the courtyard, each containing something beautiful. My favorite was the pool containing large stepping stones, where one can walk amongst ornate stone statues as gigantic koi swim underfoot. When we arrived kids were running on the stones, giggling like mad: can you imagine a water temple as your playground? At the center of the lush gardens sat a lovely emerald fountain, which spouted mist so fine that it looked as if the entire thing was swathed in soft light.

There was another ceremony occurring when we arrived, and a mass of people was crowded around the temple under the shade of an ancient banyan tree. We scurried up to the restaurant and grabbed a table to admire the ceremony from above. “Why all the ceremonies today?” we asked our waiter. “Preparations for the full moon,” he said. Within minutes the ceremony ended and the recessional snaked its way right in front of our table: we couldn’t have picked a better seat or a better time to be there.

On our way back to Ubud we ambled through Sideman Road, where terraced rice fields stretch as far as the eye can see. We traipsed through the rice paddies, forming a processional of our own, picking our way over the narrow green lanes. As the light began to fade, we came upon a field in which they were harvesting the rice. “I’ve never seen that before,” said Paul, a man who has seen his fair share of rice in traveling around the world so many times. We watched this field of workers, letting rice dance through their fingers as the day glowed amber.

The whole day – and my whole experience in Bali – was an exercise in remaining completely open to whatever may happen, and if I could take that back to my everyday life I’d be the better for it. I didn’t know anything about Goa Lawah. Tirta Gangga wasn’t on my agenda. I had no idea that we had planned our outing for such an auspicious day. In short, had I tried to craft such an experience on my own it never would have happened.

I constantly hear people talking about what a special place Bali is. Some call it “vibe.” Others call it “energy.” But whatever it is, there is something that keeps people coming back. It’s not uncommon to meet people who have been here 15 times, who come twice a year, who stay for six months. It’s just the kind of place that casts a spell over you. I’m really sad to be leaving today, to be released from Bali’s magic and all the wonderful people I’ve met here. But more than any place we’ve visited, I know I’ll be back.

Friday, October 10, 2008

The greatest benefit of our time in Bali has been starting the process of relearning what makes me feel happy. There is no agenda, and my days here are truly simple, guided by one question: what do you feel like doing today? I don’t think I realized until I arrived in Ubud how rote my life had become, how much I was doing out of obligation or mimicry, how out of touch with myself I had become. I feel like an infant who is relearning her way in the world. This trip has been a spiritual bootcamp. a slow breaking-down process that has finally bottomed out. Without any of the cues of my everyday life, I am forced to listen to myself more than I ever have before. I am beginning to see that the struggle of the first three months of this trip has been that daily process of looking to myself only to realize that I don’t know who I am: how can you rely on yourself when you don’t recognize yourself? The result was an overwhelming feeling of helplessness and pessimism. Bali has allowed me to begin filling myself up again, to remember who I am and what I enjoy about this world. I am slowly regaining confidence in myself and my choices through making simple, daily decisions based on what feels right and good.

I quickly decided that I wanted to spend my time in Ubud reconnecting with myself, and the great thing about this town is that it offers so many modalities for tapping into one’s self. Every storefront you pass advertises Balinese detox, herbal remedies, crystals, astrology, meditation, massage, yoga, baths – the possibilities are endless. Most of these treatments, which would cost an arm and a leg in the States, are so inexpensive in Bali that you’re not out much from trying something once. So Maikael and I have been running all over town trying different treatments, seeing what happens and what works best for us.

I wasn’t sure where to begin this so-called spiritual journey that I have decided to embark upon, so I started with massage, something I knew I enjoyed. Over the last week we’ve been poked, prodded, pummeled, washed, dried, fluffed, and perfumed before being sent back into the world. We’ve had a massage nearly every day while we’ve been in Ubud, ranging from $4 to $16. At Nur Salon we received treatments in small bungalows set amongst the greenery of a lovely family compound. As the cares of the world melted away I listened to, instead of a CD, nature’s soundtrack: chickens clucking outside, birds twittering on the branches above, the roll of thunder in the distance. I reclined in the stone tub, filled with tropical flowers and heavenly scents, and looked skyward through the fringe of the thatched roof and gazed on gathering storm clouds and ragged tree limbs. I was filled to the brim with pure contentment.

Maikael has always been interested in meditation, and had his first opportunity to join a class at the Yoga Barn. Of everything he tried this week, he felt this was the most effective treatment for him, and wants to continue with it when we return home. I have always been a devotee of massage, but am beginning to recognize the need for something more in my everyday life. I have visited astrologers and mediums three times in my life, and all three have stressed the importance of adopting a spiritual practice. (Two have specifically mentioned Kundalini yoga, something I would like to investigate when we return to Albuquerque.)

Shortly after we arrived, Ishara suggested a massage at Bodyworks and a session at Light Spirit with Tibetan bowls, both of which were guaranteed to get my blocked energies flowing. We were skeptical – particularly about the latter – but willing to give it a try. The massage at Bodyworks focused on triggering points down the body’s energy meridians, and when I emerged an hour later, I felt simultaneously relaxed and energized.

The next day we dipped into Light Spirit as dark descended over the slick streets, licked clean after the late afternoon downpour. Two young Balinese men lounged on great cushions, springing to action when the bells tinkled as we passed through the front door. We were placed on large divans set before a gigantic gong. A series of hand-hammered bronze bowls, looking as old as the world itself, were placed on various point on our body: hands, feet, stomach, back. A soft felt mallet struck the bowls, sending vibrations throughout our body as sound reverberated all around us. At first I didn’t feel much of anything, but I soon noticed a familiar, dull ache in my forearms. When have I felt this sensation before? I asked myself. When I used to do acupuncture, I realized, and I suddenly recognized this feeling as energy flowing through my body. As I lay quietly at the end of the session I felt a gentle tap on my forehead, and assuming it was the therapist, I flicked open my eyes. No one was there.

The next day I was sitting at Kafe, enjoying a particularly good panini, when my stomach started to toss, turn, and rumble. “Not Bali Belly,” I thought to myself. But then I remembered what Ishara had told me a few days earlier about the Tibetan bowls, that they release energy quickly and in sometimes unexpected ways. A friend of hers had been sick as a dog for three days after a session, and I couldn’t help by wonder if the same thing was happening to me. After one sick night I’m still not sure whether to blame it on suspect lettuce or those bowls, but I emerged from the whole ordeal feeling renewed and a little more in awe of the power of Bali.

Friday, October 10, 2008

I can’t remember how long I’ve been in Ubud, or when I’m leaving. I’m not even quite sure what day it is, unless I happen to glance at my watch – if I remember to wear it at all. I’ve never felt so out of touch with the ordinary patterns of life; and yet, our days here have quickly fallen into a comfortable routine.

We found Ubud Bungalows purely by chance, a miraculous feat given the sheer volume of accommodations here. We emailed seven hotels, and they were the first to respond, but it’s ended up to be the most fortuitous part of our trip to Bali. We quickly learned that the Bungalows, nestled amongst lovely tropical gardens, are home to countless longer-term guests. First we met Ishara, the dreadlocked-Australian who I am convinced is here to teach me something about my spiritual self. She’s already been to Bali twice this year, and usually stays in two-month stretches, splitting her time between multiple locations (including Hawaii and Vanuatu) as she continues on her spiritual journey, with Australia as her vague homebase. “But I’m homeless,” she says, simply and with a smile.

The three of us were lounging around the pool one day when a guy looking like Michael J. Fox approached. “American and Australian, right?” he asked. The four of us were soon in the thick of conversation, forming a circle in the pool as we debated life’s big questions. Paul has also been to Bali twice this year – Ishara and Paul missed each other by mere weeks, and began discussing all the mutual long-term guests they knew. Originally from California, Paul worked in Munich for eight years before giving it all up to travel around the world. That was 10 years and seven round-the-world trips ago. While Paul and Ishara are both “homeless,” Paul has structured his life quite differently. He travels in three-month blocks, returning to San Diego for a month before setting off again. He has been to nearly every corner of the globe, and if I ever had a question about getting to or traveling within a location, he’d be the first person I’d call. Paul is not a millionaire – through savvy travel, he lives a great standard of life abroad at what would be considered poverty-level in the US.

Our next-door neighbor is Andreas, a German man who left his engineering job behind 15 years ago to travel around the world. Before he stopped working, though, he took two months off every winter to travel. He now splits his time between India and Indonesia, his favorite places on the globe. He is a passionate supporter of India, but recommends you leave Calcutta after 10 days, lest you develop a permanent cough from the pervasive pollution.

I find it remarkable that we have met three such interesting people, who are each leading unconventional lives in three completely different ways, purely by chance (or is there such a thing?). They represent a subset of the ex-patriot community whom I had never considered: people who call nowhere in particular home. They are the ultimate global nomads. Prior to this trip I divided the world into two groups: people who live domestically and people who live abroad. I never considered the range of possibilities that existed on the spectrum between these two poles, and it has sparked all sorts of interesting possibilities as to how I might wish to structure my life.

We are a motley crew, with plenty of differences between us. Paul and Ishara could star in a new television version of The Odd Couple. “I’ve got great angels, tons of them,” said Paul to Ishara. “I just don’t believe in any of them!” And yet we all seem to be human magnets, unwittingly drawn to one another. I know there are other guests staying at Ubud Bungalows, but we all seem to miraculously converge upon one another at multiple points throughout the day. Most mornings begin over breakfast with Ishara and/or Paul, and can easily stretch into the early afternoon. The day often continues into the pool – we’re pretty sure there’s a vortex centered squarely over the water — where we trade everything from stock tips to travel advice, while debating world economies and spiritual philosophies in the next breath. If the world would bring its problems to the Ubud Bungalows Think Tank, I’m pretty sure we could bring about world peace within the week.

Despite the fact that there are dozens of restaurants in Ubud, we all somehow manage to end up in the same eateries at least once a day without planning to do so. Yesterday we lingered at Sagittarius for seven hours, as day drifted into night. Our radius of exploring Ubud grows smaller by the day: I have never been so busy doing nothing. But it’s been ages since I’ve felt so engaged, interested, stimulated, and, well, happy. The last time I remember feeling this free was when I lived in the dorms in college, where I had few obligations and nowhere in particular to be. I remember passionate, impromptu discussions springing up in the most unlikely of places, with the most unlikely of people, and I loved every minute of it. I feel a bit like I’m at Big Kids’ Summer Camp. Sometimes we’re so focused on having a local experience that we forget how much we can learn from fellow travelers; indeed, fellow humans. This is the joy of extended travel; having the luxury of time to engage with all sorts of interesting people without feeling riddled by guilt. It makes no difference that I have seen so little of Bali. I am getting exactly what I need out of each day.

Tuesday, October 7, 2008

I came to Bali – and to Ubud, for that matter – for all the wrong reasons.

When most people think of Bali they conjure images of expansive beaches, boozy iced beverages, swaying palm trees, and South Pacific views. While this is most people’s idea of paradise, I didn’t have much interest in this part of Bali which, while beautiful and relaxing, gets a little boring after a few days.

I was really after the cultural aspects of life here, which are rich and vibrant. Hindu-Bali temples greet visitors around every corner – even the smallest towns seem to boast multiple temples, and most family “compounds” have a personal altar in which the family can worship. Imposing statues of religious icons grin ferociously at you through gnashing, stone teeth, their bottom halves swathed in black and white gingham, looking more like something out of the Scottish Highlands than the tropics. Every household and shop readies small offerings of rice, placed on delicate banana leaves, throughout the day, a seemingly never ending task.

Spirituality is everywhere. There are temple ceremonies constantly, and we happen to be in Ubud for one of the biggest ceremonies of the year. We caught a temple procession our first evening in town; parades of women in traditional clothing balanced towering pyramids of rich fruit on their head on their way to the temple. Their ankle-length sarongs swished below their lacy off-the-shoulder tops as long, colorful sashes perched askew on their waists. Lines of men, wearing the typical gingham sarongs and breezy white tops, the cotton headdress tied neatly around their skulls, balanced large red umbrellas and banged ceremonial drums. All of this in the midst of rush-hour traffic.

I had planned to spend my time in Ubud taking all of this in, to understand the ins and outs of temple ceremonies, to visit countless religious sites, but upon arriving here I felt my interest diverted to the numerous spas and healing centers that line Ubud’s narrow avenues. I found myself pouring over lists of spa menus, wondering where I should go, what I should do, and how much I could cram into 10 days. Where was this coming from, I asked myself?

This trip has caused me to spend a lot of time with myself, and I’m sad to say that I don’t often like what I see. The Indian astrologer hit the nail on the head when he said, “You feel empty inside. People think you are fulfilled, but you are empty.” He kept saying it over and over again, empty, and the word reverberated and hung in the air like a loud bell that wouldn’t stop ringing. I am empty, and I’m not quite sure how to fill the hole.

I have tried for years to improve myself and my life in any way I knew how – from career changes to geographical moves – and still I feel empty. I can’t even remember what makes me happy anymore, and I am far enough into this trip and out of my everyday routines to see that most of what I do is out of habit, not choice. But not quite sure what I should do differently now, I find myself beset by a certain sense of helplessness. What’s the point of being here? What’s the point of going home? How will my life be any different then?

Maikael and I sat down yesterday on the lovely veranda at Ubud Bungalows where breakfast is served each morning. A few wooden tables were scattered under a great portico, lending a view down the tumbling hillside. Birds chirped happily, and small vases of tropical flowers, which would cost a fortune at your local florist, lounged casually in simple glass jars atop each table. We were surrounded my mossy stone walls and lush tropical plants, and yet I found myself slumped at the table.

A woman approached, dreadlocks piled atop her head, some of which were streaked electric blue, shocking pink, glaring lime, and bright purple. She was barefoot and beaming, and immediately began talking with us. I felt an instant connection to her. We learned that, after having worked in corporate Australia for most of her adult life, she decided to leave it all behind when she had a spiritual awakening. It took her five years to leave her job, but she eventually became a Reiki master and has been traveling on a spiritual journey the past three years.

We spent the next two hours talking about all manner of things, spiritual and otherwise, and I had a sneaking suspicion that I needed to hear what she had to say, that I had met her for a reason. Her message boiled down to this: you can keep striving towards discovering your true self, or you can give up and go back to the way things were. I suddenly realized that I had all but given up on myself and my life, given up any promise or hope that things could be different. I asked her what she was doing in Ubud for two months, which essentially amounted to spiritual healing. She suggested a number of different spas and treatments which she felt were beneficial for quickly becoming unblocked, and I immediately felt a surge of energy and excitement race through me.

It was then that I realized why I had come to Ubud. It had nothing to do with temples and everything to do with beginning my own healing process. I know I won’t be able to accomplish everything in the week I have left here, but I feel that it’s going to set me on the right path to at least begin the journey. For years I’ve followed someone else’s successful path in the hopes that I would garner the same results for myself, and growing defeated when it didn’t. I’m ready to make my own roadmap and embark on my own journey.

For those of you who are reading this and rolling your eyes and wondering if I’ve gone completely mad, New Age, or Santa Fe, don’t worry – deep down, I’ll always the slightly neurotic Elizabeth you know and love.

Tuesday, August 26, 2008

For the past six months, I’ve been harboring a secret obsession: to travel to Bhutan. I even wrote a post about it a few months ago. This all began when I read Eric Weiner’s The Geography of Bliss, in which I learned that Bhutan – a country I had never even heard of before – was profiled as one of the world’s happiest places. Rather than measuring its success as a nation by Gross Domestic Product, as most countries do, Bhutan instated a sweeping social policy to measure their worth by Gross National Happiness.

I’m not sure what exactly captivates me about Bhutan, but I have a few theories. The first is that Bhutan is one of the least-visited places on the planet. It wasn’t even open for tourism until the 1970s, and still today receives less than 10,000 visitors a year. I am quickly discovering that getting off the beaten path is a difficult thing to do, and that the world is becoming a highly homogeneous place. Bhutan was the last country in the world to receive television, a little over 15 years ago, but today I can access WiFi in a cave in rural Turkey! The opportunity to take in one the planet’s last frontiers is mesmerizing.

But there are other reasons, more deeper and compelling, that draw me towards Bhutan. I suspect it has something to do with the fact that I have been on a lifelong quest for happiness. It is an elusive thing for me, a mirage in the landscape of my life. Just when I think I’ve found it – making huge sweeping motions with my arms to hug it close – I find it’s retreated further into the distance. There is a sense that being able to observe one of the happiest places on a earth – a place that most people couldn’t locate on a map — might unlock some secret answer to my life that has been waiting for me. This might sound like a silly and naïve reason to travel thousands of miles to a place that I know virtually nothing about, but I can’t get Bhutan out of my mind.

We began discussing our trip to India, and what we would like to do there. One day, I found myself saying out loud, “I just want to go to Bhutan.” There is only one airline that serves Bhutan, and Delhi just happens to be one of handful of cities that services the only airport in the country. The biggest barrier is cost: in order to keep tourism to a minimum, the national government charges a flat rate of $200 per day per visitor to visit the country. The upside is that this fee includes a private guide for the duration of your stay (visitor are not allowed to tour on their own), all transportation, accommodations, food – basically, everything. A visit to the country must be contracted through a governmentally-approved travel agency, who will even process your visa for you.

It’s an expensive endeavor, about $4,000 total for two persons for one week. But the more we investigated what initially looked to be a harebrained scheme, the more we started to see that this idea might actually be feasible. With Italy out of the picture, a very expensive country, we’ve freed up some funds. It’s low season, so a trip can be booked on the fly. We are already going to Delhi. The weather is perfect in September. Rates are rising next year. Every other tour guide is named Karma. Bhutan is calling me.

We’ve decided to take the plunge, which is the scariest and most spontaneous thing that I’ve ever done in my entire life. We leave September 12, where a guide from Blue Poppy Tours will meet us at the airport for what promises to be the adventure of a lifetime. If you want to help us make this dream a reality, you can make a donation – no matter how small – to the Bhutan Trip “Donate” PayPal link (safe and secure, although you must have a PayPal account set-up) on our website. In return, we promise to share with you as much as we can about what can only be one of the most special and unique places in the world. If you can’t, then take a seat as a virtual stowaway as we take an upclose and personal look at Bhutan in just a few short weeks!

Friday, August 15, 2008

I’ve been in a bit of a slump lately. Maybe it’s homesickness and hot weather. Maybe it’s too little sleep and too many tourists. Or maybe it’s too many overnight bus trips, or too short of time in too many places. Whatever it is, I’ve been down in the dumps, wondering a little too often, “Why did I take this trip in the first place?”

We arrived in Pamukkale on Wednesday, fresh off the bus. We had bought a ticket from a reputable bus company and, at the last minute, were transferred to another company whom we had specifically avoided. As the doors to the bus creaked open, a wall of heat and a mob of touts assaulted us. “You need room?” “I think I supposed to meet you here and take to hotel.” “Yes, please. I have very nice place. Come see.” We scurried around the bus, trying to locate our backpacks while pushing through the din of the crowd. As we walked down the dusty road, drenched in sweat, we were pursued by touts on motorcycles, who zoomed to our side and then inched along to match our pace. How many different ways can I say no?

Near the end of our walk, I suddenly realized that we had booked the wrong days at our hotel in Goreme, our next stop. Unless I look at my watch, I rarely know what day it is; so much traveling the past week has left me feeling spun around like a pinata. Our hotel in Goreme was one we had secured with a deposit. It wasn’t a big deal in and of itself, but it was the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back. When we arrived at our hotel at the end of the road, I sat down on the bathroom floored and bawled.

With a full day of rest and the reservation fixed, we set out early the next morning to see the travertines. I’d been dreaming of this day for ten years, when I first saw a poster of Pamukkale on a faded posted in a Turkish doner kebap restaurant in Seattle. Thinking it was a field of snow, I remember I was shocked to learn that, not only was it rock, but that it was in Turkey. Even at 9:30 am the mercury was already rising steadily, and by noon the tour groups had arrived in full force, their sunburned bodies spilling out of the pools. The sun bore down hard. This was not how I had imagined this day unfolding ten years ago.

We returned to the hotel, where we started talking with a French woman, Cecile, whom we had briefly met over breakfast. She was going to the travertines at sunset, and wondered if we’d like to join her. We set off at 5:30 pm, getting to know each other better along the way. Cecile is a little younger than us, but spent three years working and traveling from Chile to Canada. She spoke no Spanish when she moved to Latin America, but is now fluent. She’s traveled all over the world, largely by herself, and makes a living as a documentary filmmaker in Paris. To me, she epitomized bravery.

When we arrived back at the travertines, it was a completely different experience. The sun had dipped low, casting soft shadows over the calcium facade that had appeared harsh and alabaster just hours earlier. The tour buses were long gone, replaced by clutches of independent travelers meandering their way to the top. We splashed our way through the cool pools, as ashen mud squished between our toes, discussing what travel meant to us. We all agreed that successful travel had little to do with the things you see and everything to do with the people you meet along the way. People like Cecile.

At the top, we bought beers and ice cream and scoped out an idea place to watch the sunset. The location was obvious: a terrace pool at the top, overlooking a huge valley. The pool was officially closed — the travertines suffered greatly from overdevelopment in the 1980s and 1990s, damaging many of them beyond repair – but it looked a little too perfect to resist. Maikael and Cecile hunkered down out of the sight lines of the many guards who tweet their whistles persistently at visitors who venture into restricted areas. I put down my camera, a conscious effort to take in the experience through my eyes rather than through my lens. Before long, the tangerine sun slipped behind the mountains, casting a citrus pall over the landscape. The pools twinkled in the waning light. I felt an irresistible urge to clap. I think we all must have had silly grins slapped on our faces; at least, that’s how it felt. It’s the most memorable sunset I can ever recall, as if we were at the ends of the earth. It had as much to do with the scenery as it did with the company. Why had I taken this trip? For these rare moments.

Within moments, the security guards galloped up the side of the hill on their mopeds, blasting their whistles. They had been waiting at the ready for the sun to set before breaking up the party. The spell broken, everyone reluctantly left the pool. The moon rose proudly behind us, a perfect white sphere, the travertines a rocky iceberg slicing through the azure sky.

We made our way back to town, happy as clams, so that we could meet our “special bus” to Goreme. The bus arrived just as we were saying our “goodbyes” to Cecile. Meeting her, I realize how much time I spend worrying about petty details that usually don’t matter. How I’m often so focused on worrying about the next potential pitfall that I forget to enjoy the experience that’s offered to me in this moment. If I’m going to make it through this trip, I need to take more risks and forgive myself for the mistakes.

In the end, the bus to Goreme was a total coup, not the disaster I had feared. We were a true caravan, eight travelers spread over thirty seats, with a very cool bus driver leading the way. It felt a bit like summer camp, and everything worked out as promised. Cecile said the most important thing you can bring with you when you travel is your intuition. It never fails.