tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-42174603626461696342024-02-21T14:49:34.731+08:00This End Up!The sordid tales of a global yogini. 1998-1999Rachel Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196197020015257649noreply@blogger.comBlogger93125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4217460362646169634.post-69996984493841909352010-04-27T04:11:00.011+08:002010-08-18T02:36:43.305+08:00This End Update!<div style="text-align: center;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana, serif;color:#FF6600;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><b>Visit Rachel at her new studio <a href="http://www.theyogabar.net">The Yoga Bar</a> in the heart of Cincinnati, Ohio
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsChXdIFha9ikgXNKo56mCBLAvAHXUvr9ZUucdH4BjWtTkcqCANIJe8CCk_uIZzB3P72arEooHHOuzq6FidxhkxWpftkuPo7PuoaDJSGeyTB3GapK_uWlpPpFczlHOvnYeK_7pjDd4gxM/s1600/Picture+4.png"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsChXdIFha9ikgXNKo56mCBLAvAHXUvr9ZUucdH4BjWtTkcqCANIJe8CCk_uIZzB3P72arEooHHOuzq6FidxhkxWpftkuPo7PuoaDJSGeyTB3GapK_uWlpPpFczlHOvnYeK_7pjDd4gxM/s400/Picture+4.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464551691001247154" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Yours truly living the dream in her new home of Cincinnati, Ohio
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<br /></span></div><meta name="Title" content=""> <meta name="Keywords" content=""> <meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"> <meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"> <meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 2008"> <meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 2008"> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:drawinggridhorizontalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:drawinggridverticalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> <w:dontautofitconstrainedtables/> <w:dontvertalignintxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:Cambria; panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin-top:0in; margin-right:0in; margin-bottom:10.0pt; margin-left:0in; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} a:link, span.MsoHyperlink {mso-style-noshow:yes; color:blue; text-decoration:underline; text-underline:single;} a:visited, span.MsoHyperlinkFollowed {mso-style-noshow:yes; color:purple; text-decoration:underline; text-underline:single;} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin-top:0in; mso-para-margin-right:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0in; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I spent October through December in magical Mysore, India, once again practicing in the home of Ashtanga yoga, this time under the graceful guidance of Saraswati. What a true gift to study under such a woman in a country where women as gurus are beyond a rarity. </span></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5JNYZUn-lRo9QerXjUs_TtI3CDIH7uQNWVoNOvJ8HMR_jAFLT7i7ezEDcUfNqphS5QgFbgDiOFubl9B3NYOSgbnJelQpdKenWotSRNR-llMm_I_Vnp9QwQbi7P357-jmS8iHxWZsQvlk/s1600/IMG_4754.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5JNYZUn-lRo9QerXjUs_TtI3CDIH7uQNWVoNOvJ8HMR_jAFLT7i7ezEDcUfNqphS5QgFbgDiOFubl9B3NYOSgbnJelQpdKenWotSRNR-llMm_I_Vnp9QwQbi7P357-jmS8iHxWZsQvlk/s400/IMG_4754.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464551427029970562" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:85%;">I knew when I returned to Mysore that my travels were winding down - I had decided to move to Cincinnati, Ohio (my hometown) and in a few months I would leave the home of my practice in India and once again become a full-time, U.S. resident.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha10QaPG7Ns7PFEu5tm__xqrXgniEVo7VTl7q3jmvM5QRY8oZOkraeaj6d1XlnKcMKZZ5IQRN-jmnhD9J-3hH2rA4Ghs02XGuLaxtrqKY0aNSnw_vDfVbLQe_QEH6TkLJx8Zy_D-8AmBk/s1600/IMG_5632.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha10QaPG7Ns7PFEu5tm__xqrXgniEVo7VTl7q3jmvM5QRY8oZOkraeaj6d1XlnKcMKZZ5IQRN-jmnhD9J-3hH2rA4Ghs02XGuLaxtrqKY0aNSnw_vDfVbLQe_QEH6TkLJx8Zy_D-8AmBk/s400/IMG_5632.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464551678515411810" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:85%;">I settled back into Mysore life quite quickly and contentedly, moving into a beautiful flat in the home of my Brahman/landlord Ganesh who not only sheltered me, but nourished me with frequent Hindu teachings and pujas. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ0S1BZMhot7UN1yt7ic3igZQmeS7XHnNfBvp2DNgU-xc9clDZKoD1F1AdooZAxSfG2ROtGPoj3_Q6Dkua8fcHawZvdEu8jUrIzZ8ZGlaMsc6KdPWugOGkC2k5lsQCYOLY17uWgnKa6VA/s1600/IMG_4968.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ0S1BZMhot7UN1yt7ic3igZQmeS7XHnNfBvp2DNgU-xc9clDZKoD1F1AdooZAxSfG2ROtGPoj3_Q6Dkua8fcHawZvdEu8jUrIzZ8ZGlaMsc6KdPWugOGkC2k5lsQCYOLY17uWgnKa6VA/s400/IMG_4968.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464551450679383618" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:85%;">The shala was blessedly unpopulated this time around and as such I secured a 4:30a.m. practice time which, (I won’t lie – sounded like cruel and unusual punishment at first, but…) I came to love. I took every chance I could to study beyond my asana practice, to explore India, and to experience new teachers. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjqx36rEvHGOUFvYRQh0KYGY37AArhclQCOZjBuFUDsWYb1fJHxJJwNeSquEYiN4Wi3O-Pg96SvlRFU0igLf0NW1gdAbUHxmurhwdJTuPG1A9wM-5vWwydDWip5zRco9_fQWDQu-C8K9E/s1600/IMG_5336.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjqx36rEvHGOUFvYRQh0KYGY37AArhclQCOZjBuFUDsWYb1fJHxJJwNeSquEYiN4Wi3O-Pg96SvlRFU0igLf0NW1gdAbUHxmurhwdJTuPG1A9wM-5vWwydDWip5zRco9_fQWDQu-C8K9E/s400/IMG_5336.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464551672654956914" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:85%;">In November a nasty cycle of illness began, which resulted in me contracting something really dreadful from a mosquito – this lead to a complete lapse in my Ahimsa practice (non-violence)… and a few Full Metal Jacket episodes of flying insect eradication on my part. I would like to blame this lapse on the fevers and lack of sleep, but truth be told I have never been able to reconcile the scientific or environmental benefits of those vile, buzzing, biting, virus-carrying creatures and just perhaps this was all the excuse I needed to let lose my inner destroyer – No offence to Shiva…. Om Namah Shivaya.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">This cruel mosquito-gifted ailment came with the added joy of… let’s call it a really powerful ‘cleansing cycle’. This ‘cleanse’ gifted me with hours of time on my squat toilet the true gift of which I now realize whenever my heels touch the ground in down dog or yogi squat.</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><span style="font-size:85%;">Decades of high heel wearing Achilles tendon shortening practice overcome by one month on the shitter in India. I do not recommend this method for you dear reader, if you are struggling to relinquish your heels as well, I say slow and steady wins that race.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Just as I started to mend from this experience I got hit by whammy number two. Perry. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL7D1N7vbSLimbEk-lFIG9LQVnWlIvSWSQjU_KgGFWmoFV8TqddfLQSY1dFbU9XpEijhh0MYOrYuSgrWK4oPkohNPo9-tKAvaXjegTqTNsz6p2nSNHa5wrm_krCuy59ADxLdo_WwisgHQ/s1600/IMG_4798.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL7D1N7vbSLimbEk-lFIG9LQVnWlIvSWSQjU_KgGFWmoFV8TqddfLQSY1dFbU9XpEijhh0MYOrYuSgrWK4oPkohNPo9-tKAvaXjegTqTNsz6p2nSNHa5wrm_krCuy59ADxLdo_WwisgHQ/s400/IMG_4798.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464551441048146258" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:85%;">Perry, as I affectionately refer to him, is the parasite that came to live in my digestive system and made me realize just how stinkin’ dirty India truly is. Perry led to trips number two and three to some of India’s finer emergency rooms and aryurvedic practitioners and also instilled a kind of germaphobia in me I never thought myself capable of. Suddenly, every glass of water was a life or death decision, every bug my mortal enemy and every prepared meal a game of Russian Roulette. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYl7Q2-DINQEBrn4qVAl3ZAs5cnzrUT4hMN56JBISZH6OL9EN79qwJcQbIXHPmyftGiVSlBReOGdlBZSDvZ_d5aRjaQ2UxnvorUBRaxKdy0PHK3QACXicXP5V26NKLR4Ctkxcb5hOYGUU/s1600/IMG_5081.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYl7Q2-DINQEBrn4qVAl3ZAs5cnzrUT4hMN56JBISZH6OL9EN79qwJcQbIXHPmyftGiVSlBReOGdlBZSDvZ_d5aRjaQ2UxnvorUBRaxKdy0PHK3QACXicXP5V26NKLR4Ctkxcb5hOYGUU/s400/IMG_5081.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464551455587560258" border="0" /></a></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><i style="">Special thanks here to Carla, Julian and my driver Apu – all of whom helped me immeasurably in my moments of need. And to my dear Liz… there may be no kinder gift than dropping off rolls of toilet paper to a friend in need in India.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">So reeling from three weeks of solid communion with my squat toilet I was more than ready for a nurturing trip to the US for the holidays. The promise of loving family and friends was so urgently needed that I chose to ignore the rumors of sweeping Indian visa reforms afoot. A few preparatory calls to various embassies and consulates left me secure enough that I could pop home for mashed potatoes and mistletoe that I happily jumped on a plane to Ohio. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXnMb8IZFWNJYgzxT_Ezh9y64HBeqDar7MeDiigrRGp7gpkIVHXVeEDHkJVCMRo_f8jHCVOZ7MWyTnjndROAvNITQAQb0xBrPj2TY0onbf9lOxwXnF_k1ic2lEBb4rj6tB6coN9UclE6I/s1600/IMG_5222.jpg">
<br /></a></span><span style="font-size:85%;">Skip ahead a few weeks when I should have been returning to India but was finally informed that short of a letter from the American Embassador to India himself… I was persona non grata in “Increadible India”. Seems while I was opening Christmas gifts and gorging (and purging thanks Perry you MF-er) on pumpkin pies… India decided that those of us traveling on multiple-entry, 10-year visas ought really to enjoy 60 days outside of the subcontinent between trips. This meant I was not allowed to return to India until February 8, two days before my originally scheduled departure date, the effective end to my yogic round-the-world trip and two months after my closest girlfriends were arriving in India to visit and travel with me. This is really bad, I thought, and boy was I right….</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXnMb8IZFWNJYgzxT_Ezh9y64HBeqDar7MeDiigrRGp7gpkIVHXVeEDHkJVCMRo_f8jHCVOZ7MWyTnjndROAvNITQAQb0xBrPj2TY0onbf9lOxwXnF_k1ic2lEBb4rj6tB6coN9UclE6I/s1600/IMG_5222.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXnMb8IZFWNJYgzxT_Ezh9y64HBeqDar7MeDiigrRGp7gpkIVHXVeEDHkJVCMRo_f8jHCVOZ7MWyTnjndROAvNITQAQb0xBrPj2TY0onbf9lOxwXnF_k1ic2lEBb4rj6tB6coN9UclE6I/s400/IMG_5222.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464551460205892754" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><i style="">Side Bar: LBM, AAA, KR, Sandra, Jelena and Nina – my heart truly broke to not see India through your beautiful eyes. Shelley, oh what could have been – Mysore got of easy me thinks ;) Another time my beloved sisters. <o:p></o:p></i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Sometimes momentum shifts sneak up on you and sometimes you see them far off in the distance with plenty of time to right your course before they hit. This one jumped me from behind, slipped a black bag over my head and set about immediately kicking me and Perry in the stomach over and over again. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">As I hung up my phone and affectively hung up all hope of returning to my beloved Mysore flat and half my wardrobe… standing in the parking lot of a diner in my hometown of Cincinnati, Ohio, I realized in an instant… <b style="">I am no longer what I label myself to be</b>. Rachel Catherine Roberts Global Yogini became Rachel… unemployed, home devoid, Ohio resident. It felt like I hit a wall going 100 mphs, and it sent me reeling for months.
<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyXCL4mEg_xOPPsNSwxM9KmqxOd3WsWNmMyYVrIHKuCV1iBf46wjfI9C-10l_JlGAShyphenhyphenWKTV8cME92QrMiphkPkzcC0qd7EDL90Sfmiu6WsewV8PlIv__tvr8Zi39eAPO3080FiMdgxpE/s1600/IMG_6714.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyXCL4mEg_xOPPsNSwxM9KmqxOd3WsWNmMyYVrIHKuCV1iBf46wjfI9C-10l_JlGAShyphenhyphenWKTV8cME92QrMiphkPkzcC0qd7EDL90Sfmiu6WsewV8PlIv__tvr8Zi39eAPO3080FiMdgxpE/s400/IMG_6714.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464551685795567346" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:85%;">Now it is April, almost May and I have transitioned to Rachel Catherine Roberts full-time yoga teacher, part-time writer/photographer, girlfriend, recommitted daughter, loyal, stable friend and fulfilled soul. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">There are so many lessons in both my travels and now in my stillness… so many I should probably write a book ;)</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Thank you all so deeply for the gift of an audience to share my journey with. Thank you for all the support and challenges you threw my way. Thank you for the gift of your practice and your patience.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Lokah Samasthah Sukhino Bhavantu – May all beings everywhere attain happiness and freedom! </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Be well, be wise and be joyful!</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Rachel</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">p.s. You can continue to follow me at <a href="http://www.thisendupyoga.com/">www.thisendupyoga.com</a> - I hope to see you on your mat sometime soon.</span></p> <!--EndFragment--> Rachel Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196197020015257649noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4217460362646169634.post-54374314180317906202009-08-17T22:15:00.020+08:002009-09-16T20:36:22.835+08:00Beetle Bedlam<div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);">Dear Readers:</span></span><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(255, 153, 0);">
<br /></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 153);font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" >I am busily working on my first non-fiction book, <span style="font-style: italic;">Yoga Drunk</span>. As such the frequency of posts here will likely suffer. Currently I am in the US teaching and leading workshops. In October I travel to Austria and then to India where I will remain for six months as I complete the book. </span></span></span><span style=";font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" ><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 153);">I thank you for your continued support and interest and promise to update this site as I am able and as my adventures warrant. If you need a fix, you can always follow me on Twitter (RachelRoberts). Until... be well, be wise and be joyful! - Rachel</span></span>
<br /></div><span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(255, 153, 0);">
<br />Rachel Roberts featured in <a href="http://www.travelandleisure.com/blogs/carry-on/2009/9/15/website-takes-readers-on-extreme-adventures">Travel & Leisure</a> article
<br />Read the Beetle Bedlam article on <a href="http://theaccidentalextremist.com/2009/08/beetle-bedlam-road-warriors/">The Accidental Extremist</a>
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<br />Check out the new site at <a href="http://www.thisendupyoga.com/">www.thisendupyoga.com</a></span></span></span>
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<br /><a style="font-family: verdana;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH87VVH-XFGfYQbncFA59qLS3toyiFLQDE_yBLVu9x60IFQtxdEXl7k0x1RrYaezveP9nk8cdjl2AHp1LmCpLNdmiX4aF3NqPJmli3gKpSROM0DOGyICbOLOrOBtJuoUxB2p-jbIxnlMc/s1600-h/IMG_0298.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH87VVH-XFGfYQbncFA59qLS3toyiFLQDE_yBLVu9x60IFQtxdEXl7k0x1RrYaezveP9nk8cdjl2AHp1LmCpLNdmiX4aF3NqPJmli3gKpSROM0DOGyICbOLOrOBtJuoUxB2p-jbIxnlMc/s400/IMG_0298.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5370938600222726450" border="0" /></a></span><meta name="Title" content=""> <meta name="Keywords" content=""> <meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"> <meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"> <meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 2008"> <meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 2008"> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:drawinggridhorizontalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:drawinggridverticalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> <w:dontautofitconstrainedtables/> <w:dontvertalignintxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:Cambria; panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin-top:0in; margin-right:0in; margin-bottom:10.0pt; margin-left:0in; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} </style> <![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--><span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;" >Croatia was never on my list of places to go. I simply knew nothing about it, so I did not know to hope to come. I can therefore say that I am here only because yoga brought me here and for that, among a million other things, I give immense gratitude for this practice.</span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYoBUixQkzdqtPbmSOThcwCpwgVVMg7d6KrUw3wZXqbNp3iuJ2QUppSbCbt4AVhohFtzsEOboWjt5cnVYEQkB0rnisBFPcy0BnhX286gqklw1pQDynyG1IDE1un5xB95wL00JLXJSSLCo/s1600-h/IMG_0769.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYoBUixQkzdqtPbmSOThcwCpwgVVMg7d6KrUw3wZXqbNp3iuJ2QUppSbCbt4AVhohFtzsEOboWjt5cnVYEQkB0rnisBFPcy0BnhX286gqklw1pQDynyG1IDE1un5xB95wL00JLXJSSLCo/s400/IMG_0769.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5370938622858654402" border="0" /></a></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdy7_vwBLZYkWJ5gs8HXJKfdBJy1S3DEIDhRrSGlvsmTbuHO7hq3CQctl21LXt-9Bk6LGWttZw8Am81DUTT62n3NzofMEe4rPFMQpQeeoIQ1lP6cKy8D8NHGZO2Bg3G3Zb6FMqk1l_VSA/s1600-h/IMG_0690.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdy7_vwBLZYkWJ5gs8HXJKfdBJy1S3DEIDhRrSGlvsmTbuHO7hq3CQctl21LXt-9Bk6LGWttZw8Am81DUTT62n3NzofMEe4rPFMQpQeeoIQ1lP6cKy8D8NHGZO2Bg3G3Zb6FMqk1l_VSA/s200/IMG_0690.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5370940803188923682" border="0" /></a>To say this place is pretty does not begin to scratch the surface. Hvar is surrounded by the kind of blue waters that you think only Photoshop or Koolaid mix can create. The stone beaches are like bleacher seating for the beautifully tanned and Speedo-clad bodies that lie on them all day, every day. And everything smells like lavender. Hvar is famous for it’s lavender products and they are sold everywhere resulting in the lingering scent that is strong enough to even win out over the sea of cigarette smoking tanners.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKgwKeOO_0bY-yGn3Rj58XRauNz8vgxzE269loJZlaZo388yEQyNMeKa0MMVvD6-e6pMKhf81khFVlVjQ8BUiZT_gGPJBRFTnLRTyT3axfnMly8smJbOb1lns51eeqk2alOsvKKINySgE/s1600-h/IMG_0865.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKgwKeOO_0bY-yGn3Rj58XRauNz8vgxzE269loJZlaZo388yEQyNMeKa0MMVvD6-e6pMKhf81khFVlVjQ8BUiZT_gGPJBRFTnLRTyT3axfnMly8smJbOb1lns51eeqk2alOsvKKINySgE/s400/IMG_0865.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5370938619302977602" border="0" /></a></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbMQ6STEP8ar6ukyWZo6hn_8d4tDCNL3eOk2PPattd5dmg-hHy-VbDRpJKJWpYlPlmZHYj76lmTj9c4duHKRNYJW39serlWTdG53pqTOUag1R_iRaSDBXiz0cYfi5JRQ0dnM0sHp2BwFI/s1600-h/IMG_0658.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 133px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbMQ6STEP8ar6ukyWZo6hn_8d4tDCNL3eOk2PPattd5dmg-hHy-VbDRpJKJWpYlPlmZHYj76lmTj9c4duHKRNYJW39serlWTdG53pqTOUag1R_iRaSDBXiz0cYfi5JRQ0dnM0sHp2BwFI/s200/IMG_0658.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5370940163637654690" border="0" /></a>This town is apparently THE place to be for the month of August and with no planning on my part I find myself in the heart of Europe’s biggest summer beach party. Every night here is a cacophony of motor yachts humming, techno music blaring, wine glasses clinking, and street performers singing love-lorne ballads in Italian, French, Croatian or English.
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_xsrOmANgh-OrK182zyTP_-4De_N2eZ2pyVhXl9m3KIbDfLHLI5Z27fPCnL6GUQbLRCktOtNXEoc9tqh51Vffrsxju1vPb22ntm0yXLR6BO2zVGlW4gTRKWBJJujA_KMe_eKEG8pXYL8/s1600-h/IMG_0575.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_xsrOmANgh-OrK182zyTP_-4De_N2eZ2pyVhXl9m3KIbDfLHLI5Z27fPCnL6GUQbLRCktOtNXEoc9tqh51Vffrsxju1vPb22ntm0yXLR6BO2zVGlW4gTRKWBJJujA_KMe_eKEG8pXYL8/s400/IMG_0575.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5370938603361525858" border="0" /></a></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Part of the real beauty here is that there are islands everywhere. The vistas are dotted with tiny rocky outcrops, just big enough for a channel marker, up to large, mountainous landmasses shaped like a young child would draw a plump-petalled flower, the spaces in between the petals each, in fact, a secluded bay with safe anchorages and heavenly bath water swimming holes.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXlEqPnRfBLfQYPt_eIpqtT5rF3bWlqEdyzIRSs22Qz4cAdJqdU6PBq0PkMOZ5s7q7rK86WqWglbm8qfoy6r36swdQ4zjrIt6nAgwyXNgQLttfp-j844odSSo3E5vn2zD8PcPnsqTQaPA/s1600-h/IMG_0912.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXlEqPnRfBLfQYPt_eIpqtT5rF3bWlqEdyzIRSs22Qz4cAdJqdU6PBq0PkMOZ5s7q7rK86WqWglbm8qfoy6r36swdQ4zjrIt6nAgwyXNgQLttfp-j844odSSo3E5vn2zD8PcPnsqTQaPA/s400/IMG_0912.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5370946932583200770" border="0" /></a>The island of Hvar is the biggest one around and I wanted to do some exploring, so a few days ago I rented a car. Because it is prime season here, I was limited to only one option for a car. A first generation VW Beetle, painted in sparkly purple and adorned with gold flames and a lions head. Seriously, this was my rental. Now of course I acknowledge that this car was three decades past its prime. Anti-lock brakes, power steering, a radio, these were of course luxuries I could not expect to have but there was more missing from the standard line-up of generally expected auto accessories.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho2yOBee65iUx_463VdojHrEblo4Wq8jDeINIOESL-DLQQ-MKDrcLLUp77_qIyIq47OEwKz1VDZBZdsztKDiA1uN6CVq-ee4KW9kbAT_WI3-aUKLuFVtaPDDfwhS3JluBRyljLBAYceAc/s1600-h/IMG_1281.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho2yOBee65iUx_463VdojHrEblo4Wq8jDeINIOESL-DLQQ-MKDrcLLUp77_qIyIq47OEwKz1VDZBZdsztKDiA1uN6CVq-ee4KW9kbAT_WI3-aUKLuFVtaPDDfwhS3JluBRyljLBAYceAc/s400/IMG_1281.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5370946968514885506" border="0" /></a>Upon being given the keys I was warned by the rental guy that I should probably go straight to the gas station as “the fuel gauge doesn’t work so who could know how much petrol is in the tank.” While approaching the gas station I figured out that braking was not a given either. Thankfully, it was a manual and I know how to downshift, so no huge problem, however it should be noted that to engage the clutch it was helpful if you could regularly leg press 100kilos. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHh-Hd1EUQ9eado4zXwm7QVFx1jQQkTmrUkv_TwbxYTFrfXOUsWhwB5uaahPHIG-cm-1RGjRdqnO6JaObhXn62OWBI1IOAA_k0oJqCBcMHa-6Du8sDQ86rEbVEqyjbYwFhYXDtwcvGPRU/s1600-h/IMG_1111.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHh-Hd1EUQ9eado4zXwm7QVFx1jQQkTmrUkv_TwbxYTFrfXOUsWhwB5uaahPHIG-cm-1RGjRdqnO6JaObhXn62OWBI1IOAA_k0oJqCBcMHa-6Du8sDQ86rEbVEqyjbYwFhYXDtwcvGPRU/s200/IMG_1111.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5370940819369813826" border="0" /></a>Also, no seat belt</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><span style="font-size:85%;">(not a huge problem since the human Velcro effect of sweaty skin on pleather made me feel secure in my oneness with this vehicle), no roof, no way to adjust the position of the seat, which was way too close to the rally-car after-market pedals and steering wheel, and most problematically it would turn out… no lights.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">At the petrol station I had a momentary hesitation where I realized that this car, (and I use that term loosely) was perhaps not going to make for a fun day and that if I were wise, I would return it and reserve a real, (manufactured in this century) car for another day. Of course I put this absurd thought out of my head and headed off for points unknown.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcgQw5aEki86bI1T5IiVG8OHEymmb8IvIAe4-N0OvVR7ulIrB6e7XxVxbDlPGpnjaN7ucflbmHIF1KRxgpw2qs2EUYr8i6aiQimelP9kSJqSxAVXZpRITyBp5LA_c2-o4eRu8eR5UiF-o/s1600-h/IMG_1058.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcgQw5aEki86bI1T5IiVG8OHEymmb8IvIAe4-N0OvVR7ulIrB6e7XxVxbDlPGpnjaN7ucflbmHIF1KRxgpw2qs2EUYr8i6aiQimelP9kSJqSxAVXZpRITyBp5LA_c2-o4eRu8eR5UiF-o/s200/IMG_1058.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5370940189016214562" border="0" /></a>First stop Stari Grad or translated – Old Town, a well-earned name as the place was founded way back in 385 BC. Here I strolled around snapping photos of various architectural features and stopping for a perfect breakfast. I am a big fan of breakfast, in fact it is my favorite meal of the day. Back when I had a ‘normal’ life, going out with friends for a leisurely weekend breakfast was something I truly looked forward to every week. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZeY1c7wz-Ch5zP0mDf-hkU6_WxgaATvCsPoENgOX7b7LGUoo01qn-BSwDTfp7UbD_fMqVcR_OO9PQqyL3PfnhUqlSuieN1doVf9Qmz3sMscTzFUaedW-GfIokBapZTaNT3Sdy_Igac0A/s1600-h/IMG_0387.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZeY1c7wz-Ch5zP0mDf-hkU6_WxgaATvCsPoENgOX7b7LGUoo01qn-BSwDTfp7UbD_fMqVcR_OO9PQqyL3PfnhUqlSuieN1doVf9Qmz3sMscTzFUaedW-GfIokBapZTaNT3Sdy_Igac0A/s200/IMG_0387.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5370940167631303122" border="0" /></a>As I travel, breakfast is often my longest and largest meal of the day. So I fancy myself a bit of an expert on this building block of nutrition. In Stari Grad I had a plate of perfectly fried eggs, topped with homemade cheese and local sea salt, served with a fresh from the oven baguette and the ripest tomatoes I may have ever eaten. This breakfast masterpiece was accompanied by a perfectly crafted cappuccino and it was by far the best meal I have had here. I figured I was off to a great start and that my day would thus be assured fabulousness.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">There are a couple other towns near Stari Grad that I had already visited so I decided to pass them by to get into new territory on the island. The lack of braking capacity on the VW started to concern me as the road left the oceanside and started inclining rapidly. As I wound round and round and up and up I started getting a tad nervous about my return trip as this was the only road available for both the outgoing and incoming journey. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6D4TE-EXtU-DcwHgZXkpBI7KKuv4hnY86Yvy-UgcBjUDDYAttcscGOvzD79nFH22h_Z4qjth8F3PagCaldL2JfJzpKYUZPPRAJjTtUcSqHAz50OUencYYUBBo_jUvoiekmvt75Ly8oGY/s1600-h/IMG_0836.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6D4TE-EXtU-DcwHgZXkpBI7KKuv4hnY86Yvy-UgcBjUDDYAttcscGOvzD79nFH22h_Z4qjth8F3PagCaldL2JfJzpKYUZPPRAJjTtUcSqHAz50OUencYYUBBo_jUvoiekmvt75Ly8oGY/s200/IMG_0836.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5370940178712676930" border="0" /></a>Here is where my FOMS kicked in. FOMS (Fear Of Missing Something) is a term coined by my friend Bob Daniels of Durango, Colorado and it aptly describes my normal state of propulsion. So as the same little voice in my head that had though perhaps I should return this grape colored lemon of a car was saying to me – <span style="font-style: italic;">Um Rach… Do you really want to descend this mountain in second gear, relying on what little remains of this things transmission to slow your plummet to the sea?</span> I kept crawling higher and higher, afraid I could be missing something amazing up ahead.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Finally, at a vista point I saw my future, more up and therefore more steep downs to come. I gave in to better judgment and turned around. I did stay in second gear the whole time and by about the 20th switchback I figured out that the bailing wire and duct-taped lever dangling below the steering wheel was in fact the horn, which added an air of safety to my entering the blind corners.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL8BGAQZA9iS8R1M_3ijSMpN_Mhu8sGY11MzqNLD4yOSNc9mUZx8h4oMbsIPpZm2RTog6X_og63F6zigz5kpW2Ho_vw-hWS-DPpauFVpceBwSWhcwZF_QVeqXzr8np2SKPSS1WWb8O3IQ/s1600-h/IMG_1059.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL8BGAQZA9iS8R1M_3ijSMpN_Mhu8sGY11MzqNLD4yOSNc9mUZx8h4oMbsIPpZm2RTog6X_og63F6zigz5kpW2Ho_vw-hWS-DPpauFVpceBwSWhcwZF_QVeqXzr8np2SKPSS1WWb8O3IQ/s400/IMG_1059.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5370946940035770674" border="0" /></a>Back at sea level I decided to head west instead of south. West was less mountainous looking so it seemed a safer bet. A few kilometers in and the western road started climbing as well but soon enough I got to a tunnel, which thankfully went through, rather than over the mountains. As it turns out this tunnel was carved by a crack-pot force of, I am guessing, sugar-high Oompah Loompas. I say this because the tunnel was very short and narrow, it wound up and down as well as side to side and it was pitch black. Like, can’t see your hand in front of your face, ink black.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">The tunnel is a one-way affair so cars queue up and wait for the entrance light to turn green gaining them entry into this very long and winding roadway. About 100 feet into the tunnel and I realized I should turn on my lights, as I fumbled with dials and levers the cars in front of me sped away leaving me with no way to see what was ahead of me, or for that matter next to me above or below me.</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><span style="font-size:85%;">No matter the combination of switches, levers or buttons I pressed no lights came on, not so much as a blinker. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfaAyx1Ezylm7HT3JhgZ4FC5tkVkoegzn-lkhHsxZKTnYjX3sAjgI4ipWv5jA5fCCqpiceBTwIGP6Aw9nLEREtrXA4KDx7OjWJdLsXFmXhD6bvnOnVbKAovOrWfnbQYJQir6SwPLgRSEE/s1600-h/IMG_1068.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfaAyx1Ezylm7HT3JhgZ4FC5tkVkoegzn-lkhHsxZKTnYjX3sAjgI4ipWv5jA5fCCqpiceBTwIGP6Aw9nLEREtrXA4KDx7OjWJdLsXFmXhD6bvnOnVbKAovOrWfnbQYJQir6SwPLgRSEE/s200/IMG_1068.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5370940817829928738" border="0" /></a>I navigated that tunnel solely on sonar and the very infrequent flickering of headlights from the SUV barreling down on me. If I could have found my purse and used my iPhone flashlight app I would have – this would have been a miracle. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb17EkLdxE209tPlrYTrnho6r0N7_O92_bNEAjNvZ2YG-iwsU1cAi7qXiItEltg5liuz-KhV9ydG1KXfoJjMFa0JWeBeCFFM3NAC_hf7bYKX6uCALLrL0sNfmDQ36ZvAXcHE2VNtoyseA/s1600-h/IMG_1316.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb17EkLdxE209tPlrYTrnho6r0N7_O92_bNEAjNvZ2YG-iwsU1cAi7qXiItEltg5liuz-KhV9ydG1KXfoJjMFa0JWeBeCFFM3NAC_hf7bYKX6uCALLrL0sNfmDQ36ZvAXcHE2VNtoyseA/s400/IMG_1316.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5370946955583788018" border="0" /></a>The 60 seconds or so that it took me to navigate that ink black birth canal of engineering mediocrity were among the most terrifying of my life. When I emerged on the other side I parked the car and got out to verify that I was still alive and that this hadn’t been some rabbit hole into oblivion for me. The worst part of course, was that I would have to go back through the tunnel because again, there was only one road.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">This is when the novelty of the aubergine-colored bedazzled bug fully wore off. I was spent, fried, frazzled and seriously considering abandoning this thing right there at the mouth of the tunnel. I managed to pull it together enough to drive down into the next town, where again I got out to test the steadiness of my legs and to try every McGuiver trick in the book to get a light on this car to work. Finally, I figured out that if I pulled out all the buttons and simultaneously pulled the windshield wiper lever forwards and down the driving lights would work, this was confirmed by a kindly gentleman in a brand new Audi who upon confirming that I had about a 30 watt bulb to get me through the tunnel, wisely sped off to avoid the likely coming fiery crash. </span><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><span style="font-size:85%;">This is how I made my return passage, one shaky hand on the wheel and the other white-knuckled onto the lever and my dying flashlights of headlights blazing about a two foot path in front of me.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp_0QuCd8OhhW3PXzdfK11c0EjuwMiS9UFq91u354U_TmsNckS-I1NJiGhKugQg_t5cP6Y_SJlVG_SNcFSt9I-JhJTK_doQ4VB2DDA1r52ve4mWiWx3wMg3psUgkaJBpC3Yik95sUoxRE/s1600-h/IMG_1072.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp_0QuCd8OhhW3PXzdfK11c0EjuwMiS9UFq91u354U_TmsNckS-I1NJiGhKugQg_t5cP6Y_SJlVG_SNcFSt9I-JhJTK_doQ4VB2DDA1r52ve4mWiWx3wMg3psUgkaJBpC3Yik95sUoxRE/s400/IMG_1072.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5370946947774227794" border="0" /></a></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">When I got back on the safe side of that pit of despair I said aloud to myself ‘I need a drink’. Now this is a phrase I try to avoid using. My alcohol consumption has a long-history of binge and purge periods, a fact that at times makes me think I should reevaluate my relationship with fermented spirits. So if the word <span style="font-style: italic;">need </span>enters into an alcohol-related conversation, especially a one-participant conversation such as this one, I see this as cause for reflection. However, in this instance, I approve 100% of the usage of this phrase and I affirm that I really did NEED a drink. Sadly, or maybe not, there was no place around to get one so I just kept driving.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOKfOk4Ml3qZYu83W1ByPO_KuzgJl8igNYs2fFvzCG96AWZGTalnibAJt6nMIebw0k-O18YOj9K5J4NTt8qOsyFqaav1hLF2MWWIlVUuf60XsyDJcHUtArjG0ePNhD3Y4DcFAgA6LrAtE/s1600-h/IMG_1220.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOKfOk4Ml3qZYu83W1ByPO_KuzgJl8igNYs2fFvzCG96AWZGTalnibAJt6nMIebw0k-O18YOj9K5J4NTt8qOsyFqaav1hLF2MWWIlVUuf60XsyDJcHUtArjG0ePNhD3Y4DcFAgA6LrAtE/s200/IMG_1220.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5370940826539853458" border="0" /></a>I abandoned my silly idea of exploring new parts of the island and went promptly to Vrboska. I had visited this amazingly charming town a few days before via the tourist bus, a safe, reliable transportation option that it irks me to say, cost me $88 less in cash, and one less of my nine lives, than the beguiling Beetle. When I had visited before it was a short trip of just about two hours and it had been limited to the city center. I took the opportunity to drive a flat road for a bit and ventured off to the beach. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Now’s a good time to point out that here on Hvar clothing seems to be very optional. Stores here that sell bathing suits have an over-abundance of tops and a serious shortage of bottoms, since everyone knows tops are an unnecessary accessory. Often it seems bottoms are over-kill as well. I mention this because when I found the beach it was located alongside a campground named, Kamp Nudist. You know I had to check this out. I mean if pretty much every other person is already naked, what on earth could camp nudist have to offer? The answer of course… naked activities. Naked windsurfing, speedboat rentals, vollyball, snorkeling, and bicycling. I will refrain from further comment on this delightful little quick-dry oasis, but I will make one generalization. This was the most cumulatively attractive and well-groomed group of people I have ever seen.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDP37P8VSFAziu0yT-Xwjx0RvXiCv8btks0Qo-Pt8CbMFM1csCWwAd0JRItwJwSHI-DtwuCpOCmR6wb_1SezmMf6WAlcDXAfyNdGhMop7ycEvw1BnP1f3C80z4eCugGrDC-bx2t1_keLg/s1600-h/IMG_1304.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDP37P8VSFAziu0yT-Xwjx0RvXiCv8btks0Qo-Pt8CbMFM1csCWwAd0JRItwJwSHI-DtwuCpOCmR6wb_1SezmMf6WAlcDXAfyNdGhMop7ycEvw1BnP1f3C80z4eCugGrDC-bx2t1_keLg/s400/IMG_1304.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5370938608792593778" border="0" /></a>After a few hours of de-stressing oceanside I opted to drive back to Hvar for the night giving myself plenty of daylight for the journey. I returned the car and told the rental shop proprietor of my concerns for the safety of others should he continue to rent this sparkly plum deathtrap. He took the keys, smiled from behind his twenty-something year-old eyes and simply said “lady, it’s like 35 years old… what can you expect.” I chose to let this last comment slide right by me, after all I am 36.</span></p> <!--EndFragment--> Rachel Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196197020015257649noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4217460362646169634.post-32352666911605517772009-08-05T17:07:00.008+08:002009-08-12T01:58:54.488+08:00Hvar-dly know ya.<span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 102);">Update: Check out the new This End Up Yoga site at <a href="http://www.thisendupyoga.com">www.thisendupyoga.com</a></span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkGc-idbLpEmHg_lvLdy4FTakwV2PzhnsOGOgO-OXTDfJ-P9Eqx3aYF9y6bXmweKdf34J3heqgOcS9M2rz_vB3k_V-jHFpkBHnGki7lYm79vyTXw6A9oyyVgXO0DPjOzYJF4LJigPk4b4/s1600-h/DSC03548.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkGc-idbLpEmHg_lvLdy4FTakwV2PzhnsOGOgO-OXTDfJ-P9Eqx3aYF9y6bXmweKdf34J3heqgOcS9M2rz_vB3k_V-jHFpkBHnGki7lYm79vyTXw6A9oyyVgXO0DPjOzYJF4LJigPk4b4/s400/DSC03548.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366407480256637922" border="0" /></a>My teachers Sandra and Marco sent me an email a few months ago asking if I wanted to Shantisit (watch their cocker spaniel Shanti) for the month of August. I said yes before I really knew any of the details. Free rent and the lure of the Croatian coastline seemed all the incentive I needed. This has turned out to be another one of those times, where through no planning on my part I have ended up at the perfect place at the perfect time.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJZe41a57Sc-iKR6JEs-Q68bDuS8KnsaeJch8jOQ1xx27ZdDA14mZsYBVSZTb4Dywn5Nezu7FxV4ZxG_NI4H7nGROrWLhyphenhyphenZsSp4pmZEPTWG9szUtRBmcbjW_mcD31fEBvQeHYaIYbMaWU/s1600-h/IMG_9847.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJZe41a57Sc-iKR6JEs-Q68bDuS8KnsaeJch8jOQ1xx27ZdDA14mZsYBVSZTb4Dywn5Nezu7FxV4ZxG_NI4H7nGROrWLhyphenhyphenZsSp4pmZEPTWG9szUtRBmcbjW_mcD31fEBvQeHYaIYbMaWU/s400/IMG_9847.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366407481198140466" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhU-KO7PcdGyqJQEWarnVzReW5cCsajTCjGmE9OJqWrmNMtCoE9sXGHKyaB9FNLhRFW6OPojAknIvkE7KmA9fmcns5Z_WxNifyrMQZSyK89pCGM_fdm4P47Sg_WwZ8svX0kcwRpo8xs0g/s1600-h/IMG_9844.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhU-KO7PcdGyqJQEWarnVzReW5cCsajTCjGmE9OJqWrmNMtCoE9sXGHKyaB9FNLhRFW6OPojAknIvkE7KmA9fmcns5Z_WxNifyrMQZSyK89pCGM_fdm4P47Sg_WwZ8svX0kcwRpo8xs0g/s200/IMG_9844.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366408645440832178" border="0" /></a>Shanti spends his summers on the stunningly beautiful island of Hvar on the Dalmatian coast and so it is here that we are spending our days tanning, swimming, writing and napping. Hvar is a medieval city, a fort looms above and fortress wall still surround the main part of town. All of the old world charm is still here, cobblestone streets, narrow alleyways, gated entrances, but mixed with the ancient is the new, or more specifically the Nuevo Riche.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGjyHOYuAs_uf_lPdWVizKKeQIjS8l9KcAF5Rhn-Gj_sSl99yApZbtTV-aeArozg55hwTNFYePz6Dj7omZg3mQLbxSRbUxK4MpGWTGSgMO45DJVKo8WFwpOmRsMjaSHMTVdvgB9LUkldQ/s1600-h/IMG_9898.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGjyHOYuAs_uf_lPdWVizKKeQIjS8l9KcAF5Rhn-Gj_sSl99yApZbtTV-aeArozg55hwTNFYePz6Dj7omZg3mQLbxSRbUxK4MpGWTGSgMO45DJVKo8WFwpOmRsMjaSHMTVdvgB9LUkldQ/s200/IMG_9898.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366410064127169106" border="0" /></a>Hvar is a playground for super yachts and the Louis Vuitton beach bag-toting crowd. Everyone here is beautiful and beautifully clothed, assuming they are wearing clothes. I am surrounded by six foot-tall supermodel types and naked overly groomed men.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4Y8xHIqQ5mOvY2Auc6vCcw9cEIMWo4xfA-oP6tSnv9jQBgy2uMiYHA-Oz8MXl33fC93Tp-Ux4RybafansXCLkXaH_HLd4aq4-g6pSL3Zgn96IeO1SnhleB2iChdpfsiRAdsj4l-2kQhA/s1600-h/IMG_0124.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4Y8xHIqQ5mOvY2Auc6vCcw9cEIMWo4xfA-oP6tSnv9jQBgy2uMiYHA-Oz8MXl33fC93Tp-Ux4RybafansXCLkXaH_HLd4aq4-g6pSL3Zgn96IeO1SnhleB2iChdpfsiRAdsj4l-2kQhA/s400/IMG_0124.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366408348932203954" border="0" /></a>There is definite agenda each day you are on Hvar. It begins around noon when everyone hits the beach. They all seem to be entered into some kind of competitive tan-off and try as I might, my Arian roots are betraying me. I cannot hang with the naturally olive-skinned crowd when it comes to tanning. Clothing is very optional and tan lines are almost non-existent.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBMGAX6IBJ6VjdKrHiBJlBOzlNSa2EuoZtqom2vqM0SrCMFRTWGULP6r23ZRFsUoUp6iwXMMzW7i3MztIY4uzLa7T-QPLwJB4TSDteTFhkHFRpX6s9dAfr16E4LrKjf5G-P-96kMlL9OM/s1600-h/IMG_9921.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBMGAX6IBJ6VjdKrHiBJlBOzlNSa2EuoZtqom2vqM0SrCMFRTWGULP6r23ZRFsUoUp6iwXMMzW7i3MztIY4uzLa7T-QPLwJB4TSDteTFhkHFRpX6s9dAfr16E4LrKjf5G-P-96kMlL9OM/s400/IMG_9921.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366408356546732354" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu81YRJQ1dAbT3e0D83Hxhtneg-09WW-ylOj8UwDZ9VlRsONKR0oEOtIU5a3WWJWnM2xj7OQcXrBvCnBbvOH4jO1nkoc6Ac56MZdBghavzMY-whQTHYCRpNaOso5nalH9OQ7_MgSEVx8I/s1600-h/IMG_0005.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu81YRJQ1dAbT3e0D83Hxhtneg-09WW-ylOj8UwDZ9VlRsONKR0oEOtIU5a3WWJWnM2xj7OQcXrBvCnBbvOH4jO1nkoc6Ac56MZdBghavzMY-whQTHYCRpNaOso5nalH9OQ7_MgSEVx8I/s200/IMG_0005.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366410068665337026" border="0" /></a>Late afternoon the crowds gravitate towards one of the beach-side discos for the first party of the day. From four until sunset the symphony of 80’s and 90’s techno pop is deafening. The Hvar vacationers are prepared for the transition from beach to dance club and they don bedazzled crepe cover ups and produce the latest shoe fashions, 4” heels or gladiator sandals, from their beach bags for the occasion. The transformation is mesmerizing and could give any Broadway quick-change artist a run for their money.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy7JXVsrqrWDV4tACxDBAUKd2AwNl0YDwHjqYm2RGcAqCFnuc2TlDi6CclZHpS4T2h7xQ0LxQUPGSABioQ3sLHhZRM85PS2wAFntFj0oskALD10DUjfBZafIIx0PA0ND_BR-j-5UZHGQM/s1600-h/IMG_0036.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy7JXVsrqrWDV4tACxDBAUKd2AwNl0YDwHjqYm2RGcAqCFnuc2TlDi6CclZHpS4T2h7xQ0LxQUPGSABioQ3sLHhZRM85PS2wAFntFj0oskALD10DUjfBZafIIx0PA0ND_BR-j-5UZHGQM/s200/IMG_0036.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366410052580836690" border="0" /></a>From sunset until 11pm I must assume that people nap and primp, because no one goes out to dinner before 10:30. Cocktail hour begins around midnight and the dance club built in the ruins of an old fortification opens around 2am.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8InemDNGFEDXkW20j4dB5znzECuU8iKOOD1B7bSAudFoaHL6P4hBeV2QLrbM3JrPa-RRoKvAvABa7RK3_SdBi0iXfo4ZyKHD8fy0JNk3tQGDMP_ZwHFaTV2PHtrRK_87g5uO-CPzCxVY/s1600-h/IMG_0066.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8InemDNGFEDXkW20j4dB5znzECuU8iKOOD1B7bSAudFoaHL6P4hBeV2QLrbM3JrPa-RRoKvAvABa7RK3_SdBi0iXfo4ZyKHD8fy0JNk3tQGDMP_ZwHFaTV2PHtrRK_87g5uO-CPzCxVY/s400/IMG_0066.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366408343030775938" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhofu-qHIOqXn5cpVPzAaepFNpx6pK0U_JMqwNirkPyqhvZs290DZRlPvAxpc0idlExIjF03HkJiWYK0YLgwPdOZgCFbEVJu1B_9yNyazZUDQHxZqBoTnslalWA8zQ5a-jJIK10Jg0kg7g/s1600-h/IMG_0057.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhofu-qHIOqXn5cpVPzAaepFNpx6pK0U_JMqwNirkPyqhvZs290DZRlPvAxpc0idlExIjF03HkJiWYK0YLgwPdOZgCFbEVJu1B_9yNyazZUDQHxZqBoTnslalWA8zQ5a-jJIK10Jg0kg7g/s200/IMG_0057.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366408641348525810" border="0" /></a>Again, I cannot hang. I feel old when I try to meet up with some of the other yoga instructors for dinner and drinks. They take pity on the grandma of the group and opt for the Hvar equivalent of the early-bird special, eating at ten. We begin cocktail hour at 11 and by 12:30 I have turned into a pumpkin sneaking away to the flat and a warm bed complete with my handsome cocker spaniel date.<br /><br />Even though I can’t keep the late night hours I have started sleeping in later and later. For most of my trip, regardless of time zone I woke up with the sun. Here, I often sleep until nine. I wake up, take Shanti for a walk, usually down to the water for a morning swim. Then I take advantage of having a kitchen at my disposal and make myself breakfast.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJoWNrK8R_qmuAfhInPSzaJFV3qf8los10C6b8_b6KGF_-jTM7aJa52Ncn8_eUcTnChQnPwoU9aLDbk57kzCLC1ykyCH98DYYBNBqHTiiCxMu8M2r-2TS5JhKAJC83A3vPU1NrvlHl4fs/s1600-h/IMG_0129.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJoWNrK8R_qmuAfhInPSzaJFV3qf8los10C6b8_b6KGF_-jTM7aJa52Ncn8_eUcTnChQnPwoU9aLDbk57kzCLC1ykyCH98DYYBNBqHTiiCxMu8M2r-2TS5JhKAJC83A3vPU1NrvlHl4fs/s400/IMG_0129.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366408351896318562" border="0" /></a>My afternoons are filled with tanning, exploring and writing. I have dedicated this month to writing a book proposal and so far I have been diligent, motivated and borderline obsessive in this endeavor.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC_mbrk84Pde_elnlEQw0o6na79LyhSs3g_igxLoT5lmJZyebBgzTlw6yqXdUUSGu8L_CRadD2q8Nj5Kb6ypVAJhXcgESYUExFX4j_Ld0uyWa7jXPtEGSUMo9LbEesg4O6ejbBIkeAkDQ/s1600-h/IMG_0192.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC_mbrk84Pde_elnlEQw0o6na79LyhSs3g_igxLoT5lmJZyebBgzTlw6yqXdUUSGu8L_CRadD2q8Nj5Kb6ypVAJhXcgESYUExFX4j_Ld0uyWa7jXPtEGSUMo9LbEesg4O6ejbBIkeAkDQ/s400/IMG_0192.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366407484262737266" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDINTQOuo5O79Lv8If80gFpzWK6oIJtj3mf8trfB8OMqzpStHrfKOjMRqU3QA5_t7deOv9R1Q2fucFjsPbWMJTOXjN9PpGhgBuOjG6wJ09Hf93NevGGsjJBFWskx4oJMU6bUXiyG5Y-gY/s1600-h/IMG_0038.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDINTQOuo5O79Lv8If80gFpzWK6oIJtj3mf8trfB8OMqzpStHrfKOjMRqU3QA5_t7deOv9R1Q2fucFjsPbWMJTOXjN9PpGhgBuOjG6wJ09Hf93NevGGsjJBFWskx4oJMU6bUXiyG5Y-gY/s200/IMG_0038.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366408639433788594" border="0" /></a>My teachers have a yoga space here and most nights I go to it, sometimes to lead a class but most often to take one led by their new crop of yoga teaching trainees. Getting to live and practice in their space, their energy is inspiring for me and I am loving the time on my mat.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVkLEu7-KgbG_dwURVT8ZeSpw6azTlaLIgdW6P1XoFc6rSBTH8gncXnRe8IUoVD0sA434TA56_rbQLfJka0VgCE6E5x2va8_nyp2C_f9_vpTFHIoDD_CoINpkZYRWjbL3_t63pZrLK8fc/s1600-h/IMG_0134.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVkLEu7-KgbG_dwURVT8ZeSpw6azTlaLIgdW6P1XoFc6rSBTH8gncXnRe8IUoVD0sA434TA56_rbQLfJka0VgCE6E5x2va8_nyp2C_f9_vpTFHIoDD_CoINpkZYRWjbL3_t63pZrLK8fc/s200/IMG_0134.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366410058274891554" border="0" /></a>When I left France I made a statement that I would get to Croatia and get back to clean living, no cheese, no wine, no more bottomless espressos, back to my ‘normal’ asana and meditation routine, etc. No such luck.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5O5EKf7WxfniBKEOTjwEgYAFkvuH2tJGghlBFQlX6CrUKvvGMljaNMbVDMFojX7Gs-xXeZp54z8oKn4-6hflhBQIWdi_yAUtqCl3EILiJJGCMHVQJ85Xcz81-ZCb8KJNQ9UeV4HKG1mM/s1600-h/IMG_9952.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5O5EKf7WxfniBKEOTjwEgYAFkvuH2tJGghlBFQlX6CrUKvvGMljaNMbVDMFojX7Gs-xXeZp54z8oKn4-6hflhBQIWdi_yAUtqCl3EILiJJGCMHVQJ85Xcz81-ZCb8KJNQ9UeV4HKG1mM/s200/IMG_9952.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366410058735175266" border="0" /></a>Because I never bothered to research where I was spending August, I didn’t realize that I am on an island famous for its wine production and in a country whose national foods seem to mirror those of Italy and France: pasta, pizza, baguettes, formagio, gellato. And my beloved Italian-born teacher Marco of course has an Espresso machine in the flat, which I am powerless to walk past without firing up.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh25Tz0cJEHgmE4l7czBMGWkPZTs4OpErQg0mvvi8eN4sFj_D5Oi60p-JDZbu_ZjEBHpgc11d4fAJxVxhBgMxUFH7J1OmsahFTnn8BWdFgyZCAG48xXAp8VD3l4d7zb541bCZIy9LAQqmo/s1600-h/IMG_0174.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh25Tz0cJEHgmE4l7czBMGWkPZTs4OpErQg0mvvi8eN4sFj_D5Oi60p-JDZbu_ZjEBHpgc11d4fAJxVxhBgMxUFH7J1OmsahFTnn8BWdFgyZCAG48xXAp8VD3l4d7zb541bCZIy9LAQqmo/s400/IMG_0174.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366408359250587554" border="0" /></a>Never one to go against local customs I have been eating pizza most days and making nightly stops at the local wine bars. I am an international ambassador for good, if not necessarily the yogi ideal.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0LyaOFkPw6J_7bMLAXBnCtUXTmUIyCRmvs5UGrGVA81AD1WHwdEXtObU2UzI9ihrbM9eCRsbXLCfCxn56tdTSKDupSYO0cA_x_b47hZLyEf_P-7YfAzgb39pFhlsI6tdxJsPDwHoHvgI/s1600-h/IMG_0071.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0LyaOFkPw6J_7bMLAXBnCtUXTmUIyCRmvs5UGrGVA81AD1WHwdEXtObU2UzI9ihrbM9eCRsbXLCfCxn56tdTSKDupSYO0cA_x_b47hZLyEf_P-7YfAzgb39pFhlsI6tdxJsPDwHoHvgI/s400/IMG_0071.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366407483925988034" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsHGAtXPwUwQ9Okpb0Zg-B9wVtvpm5DA6NQODLQmtALjrji0sO0xy8lxZbi0FrmUvYjKtmpjGG5i8o2s-rD7ixFFsxqVTq4wJDX8LsAKXLQB03RPotct8EjX3rP5Ov585NwhGrsdn6iZ0/s1600-h/IMG_0083.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsHGAtXPwUwQ9Okpb0Zg-B9wVtvpm5DA6NQODLQmtALjrji0sO0xy8lxZbi0FrmUvYjKtmpjGG5i8o2s-rD7ixFFsxqVTq4wJDX8LsAKXLQB03RPotct8EjX3rP5Ov585NwhGrsdn6iZ0/s200/IMG_0083.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366408642991056466" border="0" /></a>Hvar is a cultural haven as well as a hedonistic one. There are frequent outdoor concerts held in the sacristy of an ancient convent, I attended my first Sunday night, a jazz quintet. The Piazza is filled with musicians each night and local artisans set up kiosks featuring their paintings, hand made lace and lavender creations.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikLs7GEkrqglr3Dp8e4cVQRRuBiW7TfkzxIu8l-3mHlmEvLQePbV-gMZeGEifJE07QR-hCAmGUtOdNk1_1XdTD1qnM-NgpMGoCQFcNEi4F2E514xy_8OyKqEXgSuvEAV9RB7j-VxW85n0/s1600-h/IMG_9924.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikLs7GEkrqglr3Dp8e4cVQRRuBiW7TfkzxIu8l-3mHlmEvLQePbV-gMZeGEifJE07QR-hCAmGUtOdNk1_1XdTD1qnM-NgpMGoCQFcNEi4F2E514xy_8OyKqEXgSuvEAV9RB7j-VxW85n0/s400/IMG_9924.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366407485840470210" border="0" /></a>All in all it really is pretty much heaven. The town is dripping with European charm and entertaining locals, the water marvels the most beautiful blues I have ever seen and there are no bugs. I repeat… no bugs. In the ten days I have been here I have suffered not a single mosquito bite. I may never leave.Rachel Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196197020015257649noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4217460362646169634.post-23283775676904078202009-07-31T05:48:00.010+08:002009-07-31T18:11:46.702+08:00Champagne Dreams<font style="font-family: georgia;" size="2">
<br /></font><font style="font-family: georgia;" face="trebuchet ms" size="2"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2PY2i_JDDUdyUVzfkSHFENnqRW-nnNWlS7ErTs2aI-gga87zqOWJenunijCni0M7g3iYS7PK_WUHT8BBA2IBqzRWGtOfOAhGvkeeWG5g4QJ41bwJl1LtI6dH1rjwcKwXt7reVzYDTROQ/s1600-h/IMG_8599.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2PY2i_JDDUdyUVzfkSHFENnqRW-nnNWlS7ErTs2aI-gga87zqOWJenunijCni0M7g3iYS7PK_WUHT8BBA2IBqzRWGtOfOAhGvkeeWG5g4QJ41bwJl1LtI6dH1rjwcKwXt7reVzYDTROQ/s400/IMG_8599.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364373952563945890" border="0"></a>
<br /></font><meta name="Title" content=""> <meta name="Keywords" content=""> <meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"> <meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"> <meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 2008"> <meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 2008"> <link style="font-family: georgia;" rel="File-List" href="file://localhost/Users/rachelgoddard/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip/0/clip_filelist.xml"> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:drawinggridhorizontalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:drawinggridverticalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> <w:dontautofitconstrainedtables/> <w:dontvertalignintxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Courier New"; panose-1:2 7 3 9 2 2 5 2 4 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;} @font-face {font-family:Wingdings; panose-1:5 2 1 2 1 8 4 8 7 8; mso-font-charset:2; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:0 0 65536 0 -2147483648 0;} @font-face {font-family:Cambria; panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin-top:0in; margin-right:0in; margin-bottom:10.0pt; margin-left:0in; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} /* List Definitions */ @list l0 {mso-list-id:777797493; mso-list-type:hybrid; mso-list-template-ids:127841054 -1821871748 67698691 67698693 67698689 67698691 67698693 67698689 67698691 67698693;} @list l0:level1 {mso-level-start-at:2; mso-level-number-format:bullet; mso-level-text:-; mso-level-tab-stop:none; mso-level-number-position:left; text-indent:-.25in; font-family:Cambria; mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";} ol {margin-bottom:0in;} ul {margin-bottom:0in;} --> </style> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria;} </style> <![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <p style="font-family: georgia;" class="MsoNormal" face="trebuchet ms"><font size="2"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLoAIHz68Q0elVZ1jQ8AdHKmfhEvb0Z-oebBmWLvvLDFX4l7NyfR2jy9D1LrQ4yX7jD9gFfg7LToXc6KSNJ4q5SXgPhQPSBsizwinXkAaABeauV-PUbYhYnRZU8JSRkFnKUDk33_VTWGk/s1600-h/IMG_8665.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLoAIHz68Q0elVZ1jQ8AdHKmfhEvb0Z-oebBmWLvvLDFX4l7NyfR2jy9D1LrQ4yX7jD9gFfg7LToXc6KSNJ4q5SXgPhQPSBsizwinXkAaABeauV-PUbYhYnRZU8JSRkFnKUDk33_VTWGk/s200/IMG_8665.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364375077683563938" border="0"></a></font><font size="2">A student from the last retreat I did in Bali offered us her Paris flat for the week. Martina’s beautiful home was the most amazing gift! To have an apartment in the city, complete with kitchen, lift and satellite feed of Le Tour, was beyond anything we could have asked for. From</font><font size="2"> </font><font size="2">Martina’s flat we set out daily to explore Paris’ sights and gastronomical delights.</font></p><p style="font-family: georgia;" face="verdana" class="MsoNormal"><font style="" size="2"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgDsMGJUWfy4ALRx1i8OXXzuEzjXP8VkGuxp_5ZsGByf_YhC7AU5vXYsexaB1Sv2vqVVQ8DJ3yt6yE2_Zof3jGJIbJ7uxXp0UlbTnaXHF3MbO2Pwe53Nl0Pek2SI7PVLL6jDyLqBg3LTo/s1600-h/IMG_9141.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgDsMGJUWfy4ALRx1i8OXXzuEzjXP8VkGuxp_5ZsGByf_YhC7AU5vXYsexaB1Sv2vqVVQ8DJ3yt6yE2_Zof3jGJIbJ7uxXp0UlbTnaXHF3MbO2Pwe53Nl0Pek2SI7PVLL6jDyLqBg3LTo/s400/IMG_9141.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364374389309426258" border="0"></a></font></p> <p style="font-family: georgia;" face="verdana" class="MsoNormal"><font size="2"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_cWSmuoR9ik-cksJG2KVd97r4WHHL0UEbc1X7bGoYvbcsVFwkcM1mbOoAm6v3hCO2qRJYYjwtDlo8aEZmr9EHf6Pxm3IUmf84xx5OeCg6nWnL3twghHMNyiUdZUsCtaVcIM97Fsonv30/s1600-h/IMG_8606.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_cWSmuoR9ik-cksJG2KVd97r4WHHL0UEbc1X7bGoYvbcsVFwkcM1mbOoAm6v3hCO2qRJYYjwtDlo8aEZmr9EHf6Pxm3IUmf84xx5OeCg6nWnL3twghHMNyiUdZUsCtaVcIM97Fsonv30/s200/IMG_8606.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364375074857265762" border="0"></a></font><font size="2">Kristin only had one full day in the city before her return flight to Denver. On that day we must have covered ten miles of landmarks, the Lovre, Notre Dame, Sangre de Criste, Eiffel Tower, the Champs, on and on. The next morning at an ungodly early hour I hugged my dear friend goodbye, put her in a cab and went promptly back to bed. Two hours later I got a text.</font></p> <p class="MsoNormal" face="verdana" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: -0.25in; font-family: trebuchet ms;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><font size="2"><font style="">-<font style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal;"> </font></font><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0fSoW74DZqBCQMpf_0Tbpg6EYU_tvvSaiDgx4bxm9jVZXNOz-ZeLaHA6_gdkTempCIks8o8fXR6aii_KtpVSn8rKBeuiU-26AphKiw-2T_ddXbJcTnrLgF0Il38BDtqiU_KNSmqW9dhU/s1600-h/IMG_8684.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0fSoW74DZqBCQMpf_0Tbpg6EYU_tvvSaiDgx4bxm9jVZXNOz-ZeLaHA6_gdkTempCIks8o8fXR6aii_KtpVSn8rKBeuiU-26AphKiw-2T_ddXbJcTnrLgF0Il38BDtqiU_KNSmqW9dhU/s200/IMG_8684.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364376597691542386" border="0"></a></font><font size="2"><font style=""><font style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal;"> </font></font></font><!--[endif]--><font size="2">U won’t believe this. Don’t have a seat on the flight – Expedia f-ed up.</font><font size="2"> </font><font size="2">Next is not until Fri, so might as well stay 2 Sun. B back in 30.” </font></p> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" face="verdana" class="MsoNormal"><font size="2">Well as Kristin’s wise uncle once told us “when life gives you lemons… throw them out and buy a bottle of champagne.”</font><font size="2"> </font><font size="2">So we did.</font></p> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal" face="trebuchet ms"><font size="2"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzdFWYJitRNio5TpQKrYXqYiwMD8FvrWJkYxo8Cd10hfu9HdQ8llF_DlyPVMpmz-jLcEagNmv3F7zBZTbifpkjkofY-eXwPh3qlWprv1DHaA8mZ0T7Ebs1wE-MeAG4Bwjy1g220gG1On8/s1600-h/IMG_8915.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzdFWYJitRNio5TpQKrYXqYiwMD8FvrWJkYxo8Cd10hfu9HdQ8llF_DlyPVMpmz-jLcEagNmv3F7zBZTbifpkjkofY-eXwPh3qlWprv1DHaA8mZ0T7Ebs1wE-MeAG4Bwjy1g220gG1On8/s200/IMG_8915.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364375086965093202" border="0"></a></font><font size="2">The next day we hired a car and headed off for the Champagne region. The car was not available until 2pm, but no worry our first stop was to be a small town with Champagne in its name, just a short two-hour drive from the city, so we would be toasting by 4:30 at the latest. </font></p> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal" face="trebuchet ms"><font size="2">We arrived only to find no champagne, no grapes, no bottles, nada, only yet another cathedral which we obligingly explored. After about an hour we found our way to the tourist info office and learned that we needed to go 40 minutes back the way we had come to a town called Epernay, the home of Avenue de Champagne.</font></p> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal"><font style="" size="2"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikvdOYYN6al22r6Jh_m0XbkT8AX-FjC2vFJjfjzUaI4PsYYb8fY4NjW2KyGTuGjZAgO9YObGq6f8H029wQrF_iyv2BSZc1xnXX5_iyWKL_3KXMHhqdomBI_owVVyvfpzQIOBCo7JPuCtg/s1600-h/IMG_8787.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikvdOYYN6al22r6Jh_m0XbkT8AX-FjC2vFJjfjzUaI4PsYYb8fY4NjW2KyGTuGjZAgO9YObGq6f8H029wQrF_iyv2BSZc1xnXX5_iyWKL_3KXMHhqdomBI_owVVyvfpzQIOBCo7JPuCtg/s400/IMG_8787.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364373959481490994" border="0"></a></font><font size="2"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAsvte_mmMONN40aeJWJlrwYAe_3RF1QJxCUA8Sm-KMUOTRyy3GsUdhi3mPh4ZsGcfk_mQkWFlwP8WyrsSm2LJH0EE42pKjcDiaukG7ONug98lyR6Iy0c3sK9JVKZEI2-z_ztAREjmW5c/s1600-h/IMG_8775.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAsvte_mmMONN40aeJWJlrwYAe_3RF1QJxCUA8Sm-KMUOTRyy3GsUdhi3mPh4ZsGcfk_mQkWFlwP8WyrsSm2LJH0EE42pKjcDiaukG7ONug98lyR6Iy0c3sK9JVKZEI2-z_ztAREjmW5c/s200/IMG_8775.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364376601268597234" border="0"></a></font><font size="2">When we arrived on Champagne Avenue it was already close to 7pm and all the Champagne houses were closed. Signs announcing Moet and Dom Perignon mocked us from above sealed doors. The only open bar we could find boasted Heineken umbrellas and dozens of beers on tap. </font></p> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal" face="trebuchet ms"><font size="2"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHTWuF-FWbAHxxYpeniYvdD3KDKBLrWSPXL5nrPl3r9BT2DhMiy64Y7jp5VYcw_7oB_RHfKMCZ3qa1HO2eCc9xlfwvajvPxhVaOnAvn1ISKWH1SfKkaFsFV_7YIEJ9MrBT1F3qpS7XwgI/s1600-h/IMG_8798.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHTWuF-FWbAHxxYpeniYvdD3KDKBLrWSPXL5nrPl3r9BT2DhMiy64Y7jp5VYcw_7oB_RHfKMCZ3qa1HO2eCc9xlfwvajvPxhVaOnAvn1ISKWH1SfKkaFsFV_7YIEJ9MrBT1F3qpS7XwgI/s200/IMG_8798.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364375080155197570" border="0"></a></font><font style="" size="2">Parched we found a wine store and bought a split to wet our whistles.</font><font style="" size="2"> </font><font style="" size="2">We walked into the center of town and popped the cork. I went to lift the bottle to my lips when I spied a man staring at me with a look of absolute horror. He came over and told us that it was unacceptable to drink like this and told us to stay put for a moment. </font></p> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal" face="trebuchet ms"><font size="2"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcQ1xswbeKPhPpjD5cFbXBsU6czwuhOosRlvEDpjdO-H-8cPxupoYrvnRMjfWkoUp8bdj0yPFvDHllUA-c_NpIOMWtY87KcqNZ6QpC7qAV0FoRuwW1p3KkPa_eRqhHuNcV5Oaooghd9Ts/s1600-h/IMG_8808.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 160px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcQ1xswbeKPhPpjD5cFbXBsU6czwuhOosRlvEDpjdO-H-8cPxupoYrvnRMjfWkoUp8bdj0yPFvDHllUA-c_NpIOMWtY87KcqNZ6QpC7qAV0FoRuwW1p3KkPa_eRqhHuNcV5Oaooghd9Ts/s200/IMG_8808.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364376602948344754" border="0"></a></font><font size="2">Unsure if I was about to be arrested for public consumption I waited. Henri returned with two champagne glasses from his flat. He gave them to us to keep as a souvenir and made us promise to never again defile his country’s nectar of the gods in such a hedonistic manner. We promised.</font></p> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal" face="trebuchet ms"><font style="" size="2"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyIolyHuobD3b8JRkkiKbjdrCVk_9zkUkAhaMW2ubmeq5fpOEDSnugiIj4-TIuvlte6mqzdDamiYZRlXqwWKc2CQrp7J-4GYtblNAPgdTT4sad_4IQ_KBG6-8TJo3ORr-IKowiO0fP-n0/s1600-h/IMG_8944.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyIolyHuobD3b8JRkkiKbjdrCVk_9zkUkAhaMW2ubmeq5fpOEDSnugiIj4-TIuvlte6mqzdDamiYZRlXqwWKc2CQrp7J-4GYtblNAPgdTT4sad_4IQ_KBG6-8TJo3ORr-IKowiO0fP-n0/s400/IMG_8944.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364373963261432354" border="0"></a></font><font size="2"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiloxzrIxISVGEZdA1awiAAKzCmkjr2405VDdbHJN1nsACp20vlzihOcpTw0pp5yYLBmH74-J9V7yQ_VDiCL4O1v_aWpo-EyB5mQl2XUKewd9MFz6MzgcPlR2Fwt8D3Fg-XQkknx_b8qY/s1600-h/IMG_8835.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiloxzrIxISVGEZdA1awiAAKzCmkjr2405VDdbHJN1nsACp20vlzihOcpTw0pp5yYLBmH74-J9V7yQ_VDiCL4O1v_aWpo-EyB5mQl2XUKewd9MFz6MzgcPlR2Fwt8D3Fg-XQkknx_b8qY/s200/IMG_8835.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364376608759091970" border="0"></a></font><font size="2">The ensuing hours we my absolute favorite in France. Our car plodded on back to Paris and along the way we visited a local winemaker's house bought three bottles and kept going. At the most beautiful part of the evening we stopped at a solitary church and cemetery where we took hundreds of soft-lighted photos of ancient headstones backed by vineyards of champagne grapes. The past and the future intrinsically entertained. Those who originally planted the vines, now resting among them for eternity. </font><font style="" size="2"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFBM5L8-SpH7YpOtFzhrdO997sK0jr3HFR-Y8V1NOy5DL61ayj59oLbstO_8dPYeabKh1y2nESD6ynz14MZSKnYd31Bvd31UxZlFe3Fjvq00DSVvdJ4gu0E_S6wnn2YAA6Rhixejg4t4k/s1600-h/IMG_9044.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFBM5L8-SpH7YpOtFzhrdO997sK0jr3HFR-Y8V1NOy5DL61ayj59oLbstO_8dPYeabKh1y2nESD6ynz14MZSKnYd31Bvd31UxZlFe3Fjvq00DSVvdJ4gu0E_S6wnn2YAA6Rhixejg4t4k/s400/IMG_9044.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364373968513075762" border="0"></a></font></p> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal" face="trebuchet ms"><font size="2">It was a truly amazing day and one I will not soon forget.</font></p> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal" face="trebuchet ms"><font size="2"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY7Jv5ymNhdO03oy0IhJYslqByX9oHBvNELiInzEZBsmck2v1D7PrlaHsx-zWmwNI69AporZLGaWeux2yCGIM0ZjS3gYWPBRA8584Scfa_HTwaxtt7rUC3M-GvZyD70v5qWjKo6UhGt3A/s1600-h/IMG_9205.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY7Jv5ymNhdO03oy0IhJYslqByX9oHBvNELiInzEZBsmck2v1D7PrlaHsx-zWmwNI69AporZLGaWeux2yCGIM0ZjS3gYWPBRA8584Scfa_HTwaxtt7rUC3M-GvZyD70v5qWjKo6UhGt3A/s400/IMG_9205.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364374388108209490" border="0"></a></font><font size="2">Over the course of the next few days we visited Versaille, the Grande Palace, the Petit Palace, more cathedrals, more landmarks, retail stores we could not afford, bistros we barely could and then we took a whole day to stay indoors, watch the Tour and an entire HBO series. That day was fantastic too. While it may seem wasteful to while away a whole Parisian day indoors, the truth was we were beat.
<br /></font></p><p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal" face="trebuchet ms"><font style="" size="2"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgW1fNQjT4kRiDPwxkzPtL-snhfIe-svYekdHXZJ5mHCjKCqkH773Jq7vCEtMhSMbah8XeYovFV-fmQZQDOOdhGx2sqOlqdeKehqY0TRHDThOeqllA5xjkG97oeBIbvhvrw9QRJ9kXX1k/s1600-h/IMG_9252.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgW1fNQjT4kRiDPwxkzPtL-snhfIe-svYekdHXZJ5mHCjKCqkH773Jq7vCEtMhSMbah8XeYovFV-fmQZQDOOdhGx2sqOlqdeKehqY0TRHDThOeqllA5xjkG97oeBIbvhvrw9QRJ9kXX1k/s400/IMG_9252.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364374393098158114" border="0"></a></font></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><font size="2"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcz1_C_rKa0Ke9B5noEIKdk_8OtrI-TzPRtqcYvLEgUAjMUz0oW3QBfRFye5fJSQU4ifLxvQU3Q58tlPVWW_JWEKKdYyB_fZZXef-RBOJDqSQ3bMmHeMy7ZHDJO7G18dd6OwXyaYpAUNM/s1600-h/IMG_9000.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcz1_C_rKa0Ke9B5noEIKdk_8OtrI-TzPRtqcYvLEgUAjMUz0oW3QBfRFye5fJSQU4ifLxvQU3Q58tlPVWW_JWEKKdYyB_fZZXef-RBOJDqSQ3bMmHeMy7ZHDJO7G18dd6OwXyaYpAUNM/s200/IMG_9000.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364552803528323042" border="0"></a></font><font size="2">Saturday we moved to Roberto’s hotel to await his arrival. A nightcap with him and a quick sleep and it was time for Kristin to leave me for real.
<br /></font></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><font size="2">
<br /></font></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><font size="2"><i style="">KR –<font style="font-weight: bold;"> Best. Vacation. Ever.</font> Love you and I will celebrate with you anywhere, every year.</i></font></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><font style="" size="2"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh36_3FNRSAsnpAaHN8vL42UHAzu_Cc7gIDymmNGfSpNRZ452Fqpcjvun2mIMPQq5-LEUltkYGbdQmEpBDMDog10-XNdog1lKifiQ8SPgiB3dNwfjQKUwQ9cmkJ3Xp6mK-qx_pLuwIPQ1s/s1600-h/IMG_8570.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh36_3FNRSAsnpAaHN8vL42UHAzu_Cc7gIDymmNGfSpNRZ452Fqpcjvun2mIMPQq5-LEUltkYGbdQmEpBDMDog10-XNdog1lKifiQ8SPgiB3dNwfjQKUwQ9cmkJ3Xp6mK-qx_pLuwIPQ1s/s400/IMG_8570.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364373951713762018" border="0"></a></font><font size="2"><b style=""><font style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);">TDF</font></b></font></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><font size="2"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-5HvdBxV4eyG0eOqD_NovMKDX7TOJpe3P48j3yuaeWyJQBa1Af3BkxbGpIseWZIqmMJYXftol694JJYAZQXxuKr2TWiVOjElWmYpg4O4jmnveuUtYndHC5KkyYPkATUkl95jFsBNopxA/s1600-h/IMG_9440.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-5HvdBxV4eyG0eOqD_NovMKDX7TOJpe3P48j3yuaeWyJQBa1Af3BkxbGpIseWZIqmMJYXftol694JJYAZQXxuKr2TWiVOjElWmYpg4O4jmnveuUtYndHC5KkyYPkATUkl95jFsBNopxA/s400/IMG_9440.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364551850779129906" border="0"></a>
<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihdtgdh0IsZgr8v1lirXytrKbXviWMv4pAvYfliI88ivvzS9D3xYdAni4zcz0tuXkZmc3FE1m019p5G0LrGEzNRP-zv0yUR7boxPVAvkP1cslwKfMZtxhi17xPKGiypw2k6V2o9jUMNoE/s1600-h/IMG_9805.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihdtgdh0IsZgr8v1lirXytrKbXviWMv4pAvYfliI88ivvzS9D3xYdAni4zcz0tuXkZmc3FE1m019p5G0LrGEzNRP-zv0yUR7boxPVAvkP1cslwKfMZtxhi17xPKGiypw2k6V2o9jUMNoE/s200/IMG_9805.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364552798294821298" border="0"></a></font><font size="2">I had never even heard of road biking or the Tour until maybe ten years ago. By that time though, I was already good friends with Roberto. And so my path to Paris had already begun to unfold. We were friends for probably an entire year before I really figured out who he was to cycling fans. I remember that day vividly. Roberto and I were walking down Main Street in Durango, Colorado on our way to lunch when a nice, sane-enough-looking man in his thirties came running across the road to us, he fell to his knees and started prostrating to Roberto, all the while yelling “Bobke, Bobke you’re the man!”</font></p> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" face="trebuchet ms" class="MsoNormal"><font size="2">I stood there a bit on the bewildered side. Once prostrating man had paid his cycling penance, Roberto resumed our forward progression. I stopped and asked him to please explain. </font></p> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" face="trebuchet ms" class="MsoNormal"><font size="2"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhbyOaYLVbVzRetZWTDIekHLbDa6KvsHYs0rod1nzRbHCHiv5wbSVdpl21dRdGHaqkerhVeoSWseP7xbvI0A_XuVSnwtNZcAH0Rf0shWOma4cgP38oW7YW1mIU8qpcSOaG6RwhuAhjxCw/s1600-h/IMG_9711.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhbyOaYLVbVzRetZWTDIekHLbDa6KvsHYs0rod1nzRbHCHiv5wbSVdpl21dRdGHaqkerhVeoSWseP7xbvI0A_XuVSnwtNZcAH0Rf0shWOma4cgP38oW7YW1mIU8qpcSOaG6RwhuAhjxCw/s200/IMG_9711.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364564076661917570" border="0"></a></font><font size="2">That is how I learned that my friend, neighbor and standing Thursday dinner date was kind of famous. This revelation did little to alter our friendship, as I was not into cycling at the time and already regarded Roberto as part of the fabric of my life, pauper or prince made no matter to me. Then a year later he started commentating for the network that covers the Tour and so obligingly as one good friend wanting to support another, I upped my Comcast Cable plan to include the obscure sports channel he was working for and so began what was once a fleeting fascination and is now bordering on fanaticism.</font></p> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" face="trebuchet ms" class="MsoNormal"><font size="2">Since then, there was only one year where Roberto did not go to France to announce the race for the entire US, that year he sat on my couch in Durango and commentated the Tour, right there in my living room, for the benefit of just myself and my father who happed to be in town. I remember marveling at how he could possibly know that the white and red polka-dotted speck hundreds of feet below the helicopter camera was a cyclist much less some Eastern European man with a multi-multi-syllabic last name who was killing it up the mountains. </font></p> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" face="trebuchet ms" class="MsoNormal"><font size="2">From that day I dare say I was hooked on le Tour and even more enamored of my dear friend. Not because of ‘who’ he is to Tour fans, but because I got to see him in person doing something he is really, really good at.</font></p> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" face="trebuchet ms" class="MsoNormal"><font size="2"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik-SHI3FZ6qxB22VOt3loz1D_bUqkXKiAXaoV_gm5cNL8e99HwDzRwrlkdiEiyA_VKvzXAnmsQbKHE8dAYPqi_7jJ3wGc-ElSkXklxuJJwKbCogdbqIOCDKjEHF9CQ20yYBSq4oVCWcCU/s1600-h/IMG_9505.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik-SHI3FZ6qxB22VOt3loz1D_bUqkXKiAXaoV_gm5cNL8e99HwDzRwrlkdiEiyA_VKvzXAnmsQbKHE8dAYPqi_7jJ3wGc-ElSkXklxuJJwKbCogdbqIOCDKjEHF9CQ20yYBSq4oVCWcCU/s400/IMG_9505.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364551868944418226" border="0"></a></font><font size="2">About five years ago Roberto started inviting me to tag along with him to France. At the time I was subjected to a woefully inadequate two weeks of vacation time per year and really couldn’t envision myself here. But that all changed in 2008. I came here last year for a week and now I am sitting on a rooftop in Paris, watching the minutes tick by before my guest pass allows me access to the Champs where I will watch the final stage of the 2009 Tour.</font></p> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" face="trebuchet ms" class="MsoNormal"><font size="2"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ97Cqb79FlDDczmAVRhZxRUQqCy6TGFKD9zvBFjt4ytFdoXtmwTQhN6Y-mYfDgQyhvB-ywuOw9tSbCT0KxyVqgEm1LrXLTvG2S2w07P21JW70fTuKupYkQPj8a-TsSsQxfT0D_3J7N-E/s1600-h/IMG_9258.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ97Cqb79FlDDczmAVRhZxRUQqCy6TGFKD9zvBFjt4ytFdoXtmwTQhN6Y-mYfDgQyhvB-ywuOw9tSbCT0KxyVqgEm1LrXLTvG2S2w07P21JW70fTuKupYkQPj8a-TsSsQxfT0D_3J7N-E/s400/IMG_9258.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364551846979117266" border="0"></a></font><font size="2">For the last three weeks I have used the, ‘but I am going there!” card to overrule the television choices of my parents, strangers in sports bars, and those hosting me in their homes. This last week in France I subjected poor Kristin to my audible rantings at the live BBC radio feed’s inability to perfectly sync up with Eruo Sports TV programming and the official Tour site’s live blogging.</font><font size="2"> </font></p> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" face="trebuchet ms" class="MsoNormal"><font size="2"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUo7B3kkshDugBjdwmOV3ZZ1ZAEe6EHITzTptwg-5fYGrb1TK8tQ8c837pTHheqAe9JlTSe-FYEgpXWeM7VDYRoJ1JUhSdCmE9eZ1p6dpTxpocLkGckOI_OdJTTDUf2RGxd5v4FRK3yEc/s1600-h/IMG_9708.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUo7B3kkshDugBjdwmOV3ZZ1ZAEe6EHITzTptwg-5fYGrb1TK8tQ8c837pTHheqAe9JlTSe-FYEgpXWeM7VDYRoJ1JUhSdCmE9eZ1p6dpTxpocLkGckOI_OdJTTDUf2RGxd5v4FRK3yEc/s200/IMG_9708.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364552795384331330" border="0"></a></font><font size="2">In an attempt to help her gain interest and thereby assuage my guilt from keeping her indoors, I would commentate for her. I’d tell her why being number one or 21 or 51 was important, what the different jerseys signified, what category climbs were and so on. From the helicopter shots I would say things like, <i style="">third one back in white… that’s Hincapie he’s only worn the yellow jersey once before, so he is going to give it all he’s got… there he goes, </i>or “<i style="">Schleck’s going to go again… See told you</i>”</font></p><p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal"><font size="2"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdcY4iEh9e8Jy9AZ2MTdRsw1YOQ6nroalUcIZd6pVgx984pdmFct0wbgR3aORzX6azP6Q1xGgUlGPUXyFfIsey2RO9lYVS87-8W-jf1zMBPQtetOxMSLT61VMyjCQhrYaMB700Tn58oVc/s1600-h/IMG_9333.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdcY4iEh9e8Jy9AZ2MTdRsw1YOQ6nroalUcIZd6pVgx984pdmFct0wbgR3aORzX6azP6Q1xGgUlGPUXyFfIsey2RO9lYVS87-8W-jf1zMBPQtetOxMSLT61VMyjCQhrYaMB700Tn58oVc/s400/IMG_9333.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364551860354946754" border="0"></a></font></p> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal"><font size="2">Basically, now I acknowledge that I am a fan in the truest sense. I love this event, I honestly think it is the most amazing sporting event we have going. And my absolutely favorite part of le Tour de France happens in a few short hours. When the race is over.</font><font size="2"> </font></p> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal"><font size="2"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivivZf7GYly_UGlyFpGT2e3AyRzZ3etYRMM8YsYzZU8onq4i6f2d41uABsKDSAMU6ojew9KuMo4d92xaylmfaanf0e0ZvgDv5Ptgv-sW18YkPx55A-1ZAFpidJNAFIZNBZKT9m73Po1X0/s1600-h/IMG_9778.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivivZf7GYly_UGlyFpGT2e3AyRzZ3etYRMM8YsYzZU8onq4i6f2d41uABsKDSAMU6ojew9KuMo4d92xaylmfaanf0e0ZvgDv5Ptgv-sW18YkPx55A-1ZAFpidJNAFIZNBZKT9m73Po1X0/s200/IMG_9778.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364552799956037298" border="0"></a></font><font size="2">After the awards are doled out, each team does ‘victory’ laps around the Champs. Can you imagine what that must be like? Twenty-one days, something like 80 hours in the saddle, countless hours of preparation, strategizing, abject suffering and then whe it’s all over, to be riding with your teammates, knowing what you just accomplished, cheered on by thousands… whether you are wearing the <i style=""><font style="" lang="FR">Maillot Jaune</font></i> (overall winner) or the <i style="">Lanterne Rouge</i> (last place), you are a bad ass who has accomplished something only the most select few can ever dream of.</font><font size="2"> </font><font size="2">And I applaud you all. </font></p> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal"><font size="2"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz-NV2DYy8jMMPsbq05cMQimfJn9Qs-mBgUd8iuHQzJ-7Q49K4qWqFK_YCQLC5LUTYtzb_ZpJM3LhS8lnYSKzhPUkS-NGO05Uinn1nEYf5JcqraTrEBym8DYB523cXn_Y7aDv5Liefxf4/s1600-h/IMG_9397.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz-NV2DYy8jMMPsbq05cMQimfJn9Qs-mBgUd8iuHQzJ-7Q49K4qWqFK_YCQLC5LUTYtzb_ZpJM3LhS8lnYSKzhPUkS-NGO05Uinn1nEYf5JcqraTrEBym8DYB523cXn_Y7aDv5Liefxf4/s200/IMG_9397.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364564086954899570" border="0"></a></font><font size="2">As I sit for hours in different corners of the world meditating, trying to obtain single-minded focus I often think about all the other paths to Samadhi. For many, and I dare say for all of these riders, exercise, physical endurance is their path,. I can’t imagine that when you are climbing up a beyond category mountain stage there is much room for the monkey mind to intrude. I can see the yoga in it, I see the <i style="">Tapas</i> the meditation and maybe that is why I so love this sport!</font></p><p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal"><font size="2"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5SF7s2HhtunHeSv-6_w0YeRSXLCnq5iGUXbPVx937gqMsUoUp5ycK7akLk705wUIavzjf0nrsrPex5vtRXqd4VNReiZ9SiKl8OdOdMGoMcvWrCVahfv3SZ3MMbuIeX_kBNk0-hnGpeu4/s1600-h/IMG_9801.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5SF7s2HhtunHeSv-6_w0YeRSXLCnq5iGUXbPVx937gqMsUoUp5ycK7akLk705wUIavzjf0nrsrPex5vtRXqd4VNReiZ9SiKl8OdOdMGoMcvWrCVahfv3SZ3MMbuIeX_kBNk0-hnGpeu4/s400/IMG_9801.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364551865997634674" border="0"></a></font></p> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal"><font size="2"><o:p> </o:p></font></p> <!--EndFragment--> Rachel Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196197020015257649noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4217460362646169634.post-70890471153873780012009-07-30T17:53:00.015+08:002009-07-31T04:26:41.136+08:00Eat. Drink. Busker.<meta name="Title" content=""> <meta name="Keywords" content=""> <meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"> <meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"> <meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 2008"> <meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 2008"> <link style="font-family: verdana;" rel="File-List" href="file://localhost/Users/rachelgoddard/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip/0/clip_filelist.xml"> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:drawinggridhorizontalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:drawinggridverticalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> <w:dontautofitconstrainedtables/> <w:dontvertalignintxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:Cambria; panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin-top:0in; margin-right:0in; margin-bottom:10.0pt; margin-left:0in; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} </style> <![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi64-2ueXIcsVhYKOtsI2kxyAW6CHp1_fiKBNzyM9hKoz7uDxQdusMI3edyovjWhIzsIGO7pVR1HYgCA9-4mUgxqMtYj_9BHyEy27PEHuo9jRRTtVcQKHNNN0iJy38MJPRUfe2miNGpJUA/s1600-h/IMG_7451.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 212px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi64-2ueXIcsVhYKOtsI2kxyAW6CHp1_fiKBNzyM9hKoz7uDxQdusMI3edyovjWhIzsIGO7pVR1HYgCA9-4mUgxqMtYj_9BHyEy27PEHuo9jRRTtVcQKHNNN0iJy38MJPRUfe2miNGpJUA/s400/IMG_7451.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364197272614686722" border="0" /></a>The Biagetti family reunion took place in a small region of Italy about two hours south of Bologna and twenty minutes from the coast. It was like stepping back into a simpler time where families ate together every night, meals lasted three hours and no one was in any hurry to move on.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRHTCWxAe9-xmej_u1xi2qF6RwkDSBMsQj0TwrOiAymLmx-CD0NWO1gfh_jA61IjMYN4SLsdZurf6OAfTHZCQW4Ms0JAoNiZdcZl4ieoJOdV-58B3tS_pbIgi3ipyzYUvnZsVA0CLmc5E/s1600-h/IMG_6949.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRHTCWxAe9-xmej_u1xi2qF6RwkDSBMsQj0TwrOiAymLmx-CD0NWO1gfh_jA61IjMYN4SLsdZurf6OAfTHZCQW4Ms0JAoNiZdcZl4ieoJOdV-58B3tS_pbIgi3ipyzYUvnZsVA0CLmc5E/s200/IMG_6949.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364199530305288418" border="0" /></a>The Biagetti family is large in numbers and mammoth in heart. For four days we ate, we laughed and we lounged poolside at a ridiculously gorgeous villa that slept the 17 of us Americans who had come to Italy and hosted the 30 others who would stop by throughout each day. On the mornings that I was not weighed down too much by pasta, pizza or Rose, I awoke to do my practice on a patio overlooking sunflower fields and lavender bushes. It was a dream.
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNJ8_tZW4-vZ_e_ynGap-3Pup-bK4yXTSCb9RAHccONAQt57Sf0PBtclowND6HTaC5-TSm1moq9rP-zPcP5DumoXZWrZ1HUbA5PhuZWgQk0NpApFD7Q1YcI1Il85QgmXSrNMTvDv6EdWY/s1600-h/IMG_7563.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNJ8_tZW4-vZ_e_ynGap-3Pup-bK4yXTSCb9RAHccONAQt57Sf0PBtclowND6HTaC5-TSm1moq9rP-zPcP5DumoXZWrZ1HUbA5PhuZWgQk0NpApFD7Q1YcI1Il85QgmXSrNMTvDv6EdWY/s200/IMG_7563.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364200293939013634" border="0" /></a>Kristen and I have birthdays one day apart (which is a big part of why I am here at all), also her cousin Libby and I share our birthday, so with three people turning older during the week we had plenty of cause to celebrate. The villa we all stayed in is owned by a man named Ercole (Italian for Hercules) who along with being an Italian Innkeeper is a famous florist – he does the flowers for Vanity Fair’s annual Oscar party among others. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb5djTywa58qXAZQiH_XR0VGipbBvwO1R40riHhWaWcBilETKGPNl-OdKq1rjIzh82ECtaVu0yHve1-7oqFRI3tCmPSGs7-ufFknw3w6vB6pE600HoAKlHx9RPVZAqPvdDwRyb8BuLFN0/s1600-h/IMG_7538.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb5djTywa58qXAZQiH_XR0VGipbBvwO1R40riHhWaWcBilETKGPNl-OdKq1rjIzh82ECtaVu0yHve1-7oqFRI3tCmPSGs7-ufFknw3w6vB6pE600HoAKlHx9RPVZAqPvdDwRyb8BuLFN0/s400/IMG_7538.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364197267193252834" border="0" /></a></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWLvMC9ej3XREkzeqm49UfpEwh30lqaumWVRHmivIUIg-KATyY7dzT_qXINeOhQR0VRko-01RNRKmanY7LboYMLmxVUBNMc2BRYvgXdd5nrRyoLBPE2i2pGfXYeb750Ck2DAU3A05LbEc/s1600-h/IMG_7618.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 160px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWLvMC9ej3XREkzeqm49UfpEwh30lqaumWVRHmivIUIg-KATyY7dzT_qXINeOhQR0VRko-01RNRKmanY7LboYMLmxVUBNMc2BRYvgXdd5nrRyoLBPE2i2pGfXYeb750Ck2DAU3A05LbEc/s200/IMG_7618.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364200298786198850" border="0" /></a>So on this birthday, my 36<sup>th </sup>, Libby’s 17<sup>th</sup> and Kristin’s (let’s call it) 29<sup>th</sup>, Ercole the florist to the stars decorated a heavenly confection for us girls and then he graciously provided most of the entertainment for the night. As Kristin’s Aunt Lisa perhaps put it best, "Ercole is such fun you find yourself wanting to make sure he like you.” </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Kristin and I asked to be his floral assistants at next year’s Oscars. I’m afraid we might not have conveyed this desire strongly enough, but you never know where the two of us might turn up.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjia8k1Nt4ZZ1iSBNFnUlCs6fdxrPBOA-NTRFuRRzwhhWCDQPU-pIdWJOOgNLj4hMy0U2XwtOPHM0YR98lDX780Jkkb8YDQvJ1ry1IbZ9lPnhk8beZQxS-cD1oAW0q1mtVRdg69xaU-rVc/s1600-h/IMG_7626.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjia8k1Nt4ZZ1iSBNFnUlCs6fdxrPBOA-NTRFuRRzwhhWCDQPU-pIdWJOOgNLj4hMy0U2XwtOPHM0YR98lDX780Jkkb8YDQvJ1ry1IbZ9lPnhk8beZQxS-cD1oAW0q1mtVRdg69xaU-rVc/s400/IMG_7626.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364197277325913906" border="0" /></a></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnHIRZpHDtuIDdOVRco4bWR_mwWu1p-xcbVYARFuxCiwKRXqh_DG-lt40S6HXFOmhfIHw6AOszS6njL8Efw65D7Xj3i6EoUVwVQR-HE8GBr9bI0uBcez8QiffpCXJQ_uEiR0mIB49t0xo/s1600-h/IMG_7020.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 160px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnHIRZpHDtuIDdOVRco4bWR_mwWu1p-xcbVYARFuxCiwKRXqh_DG-lt40S6HXFOmhfIHw6AOszS6njL8Efw65D7Xj3i6EoUVwVQR-HE8GBr9bI0uBcez8QiffpCXJQ_uEiR0mIB49t0xo/s200/IMG_7020.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364199535487706850" border="0" /></a>The four days that I spent with the Biagettis were so filled with love that I can barely convey how overwhelmed I was to be with them all. Italy has always been special to me, I am a chunk Italian myself and each time I arrive in this country I feel instantly happy and grounded. This time I realized part of why that is, Italy is love, it is all heart and passion and comfort. Ciao Bella Italiano.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhprCvqB5oR3xroFE4N83TQmu4erK8n0CKFAIrW6Jv5hJ3vhkt2_YAGR23q-jZRc5S3kqAi2cJU2EJUfngECAUdnFzjRiWpGxxUArc6BmPBE1oU4UIjN1iHJG5CFpLfdmNTPVGBmE5q0lw/s1600-h/2009-07-13+at+04-20-54.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhprCvqB5oR3xroFE4N83TQmu4erK8n0CKFAIrW6Jv5hJ3vhkt2_YAGR23q-jZRc5S3kqAi2cJU2EJUfngECAUdnFzjRiWpGxxUArc6BmPBE1oU4UIjN1iHJG5CFpLfdmNTPVGBmE5q0lw/s400/2009-07-13+at+04-20-54.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364198663788689794" border="0" /></a></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLhyphenhyphenSiSJ6EBhUpJgspaowngiuRxXLR9k897liMsxwZfOIc-VanFlK10tNwFPfUw5KZqXxNjydC5tDDFRgPykYSodNrv5jfbDDsiLWRAAhTiLjKrUfUkI1xg4BKvWBXK88s3XhOxBvJK2s/s1600-h/2009-07-13+at+07-56-55.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLhyphenhyphenSiSJ6EBhUpJgspaowngiuRxXLR9k897liMsxwZfOIc-VanFlK10tNwFPfUw5KZqXxNjydC5tDDFRgPykYSodNrv5jfbDDsiLWRAAhTiLjKrUfUkI1xg4BKvWBXK88s3XhOxBvJK2s/s200/2009-07-13+at+07-56-55.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364200281205401522" border="0" /></a>Then we were on the move again, off to Spain, likely the only new country for me on this leg of my travels. Neither Kristin nor I had ever been to Barcelona before and what better reason to visit.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-Zhrg3t7MLeR_QYPdCvYIipsgxRSPGhieIpfYGYZiE6NjvaDar83-YZzm1JmVLvjsKMEojxi_KqS2a-diMUMriY9hkGJ2BG228dA2BQydQjI18FEeHaefaML_eHoaOUsur-auB4pv8iA/s1600-h/IMG_7755.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-Zhrg3t7MLeR_QYPdCvYIipsgxRSPGhieIpfYGYZiE6NjvaDar83-YZzm1JmVLvjsKMEojxi_KqS2a-diMUMriY9hkGJ2BG228dA2BQydQjI18FEeHaefaML_eHoaOUsur-auB4pv8iA/s200/IMG_7755.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364201757679612034" border="0" /></a>Leading up to this trip Kristin was deep in planning for her time in Africa and I was moving my base from Colorado to Ohio. Because we were both so tied up with other tasks we never really did any planning beyond Italy – other than buying plane tickets. This has proven to be really fun, in that we have no expectations so when we stumble on Cathedral Sagrada Familia four blocks from our barely-researched-yet-perfect-for-us hotel, we smile and think of ourselves as leading charmed lives. Then some days we get hopelessly lost, spend a small fortune we could have avoided if we had invested in a guidebook and generally make international arses of ourselves.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAUOzGjXV7ZomhloPdwKYelbxj71_lsm_OTmSqBBgOGADEE73mchfRH8hlXG6wJ7jXcPOvyXH3Zzo4Inn8QnV9-0HV4KnmIAhlpF0QZBFh44aYFFQcdG4cHI8RKHFpoqeovrsHrY0ehIo/s1600-h/IMG_7738.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAUOzGjXV7ZomhloPdwKYelbxj71_lsm_OTmSqBBgOGADEE73mchfRH8hlXG6wJ7jXcPOvyXH3Zzo4Inn8QnV9-0HV4KnmIAhlpF0QZBFh44aYFFQcdG4cHI8RKHFpoqeovrsHrY0ehIo/s400/IMG_7738.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364198655573118578" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN30k2wCM8hdz_WFwvCxNNGM74njm1eblQxyurD-_Pc31bvoQxwf-q8XYF9q0rYCjj8Y4JkkGdYQ2WEf947qGeElMaOTe-KVJOszbGwwi1E1Qj_iBgjrMji9mFQwoxIdN4RW4CyZZgplc/s1600-h/IMG_7790.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN30k2wCM8hdz_WFwvCxNNGM74njm1eblQxyurD-_Pc31bvoQxwf-q8XYF9q0rYCjj8Y4JkkGdYQ2WEf947qGeElMaOTe-KVJOszbGwwi1E1Qj_iBgjrMji9mFQwoxIdN4RW4CyZZgplc/s200/IMG_7790.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364201298380323522" border="0" /></a>While in Spain we followed in the footsteps of architect Antoni Gaudi whose macabre textural style compelled us from one building to the next and finally to the surrounding the home where he lived for twenty years.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3qMT1UpiRzwySp0Gox-tt-DCiW22otMjS5AofJqw0jUT58uvocCSovlkgbgHZGNaHt3Tq5nm0hsZtb7Y_g1cfmVAS8wFA1aoxEt3UB23K_pRB9YSkKdFOU4SHprTdvcsRXYpY0xT9_mY/s1600-h/IMG_8002.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3qMT1UpiRzwySp0Gox-tt-DCiW22otMjS5AofJqw0jUT58uvocCSovlkgbgHZGNaHt3Tq5nm0hsZtb7Y_g1cfmVAS8wFA1aoxEt3UB23K_pRB9YSkKdFOU4SHprTdvcsRXYpY0xT9_mY/s400/IMG_8002.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364198650821384194" border="0" /></a></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKVnJnmxsK1hF_NPNgxjMXhePohXTca6Ekg5ZL0NztbsJz-zLPAbxLZlUMPQ5wcTWzUzaSHp-jpsupItsABeAGR1PI8Yoxt5an6gcP7E7W8T8v37MxeoVd01mye8iNV8MCPZcM9n8wvww/s1600-h/IMG_7520.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKVnJnmxsK1hF_NPNgxjMXhePohXTca6Ekg5ZL0NztbsJz-zLPAbxLZlUMPQ5wcTWzUzaSHp-jpsupItsABeAGR1PI8Yoxt5an6gcP7E7W8T8v37MxeoVd01mye8iNV8MCPZcM9n8wvww/s200/IMG_7520.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364200289439776402" border="0" /></a>Each day in Spain we would get up at some very civilized late-morning hour and then pretty much just randomly head out, blissfully unknowing of what we might stumble upon. Of course this method of travel comes with mixed levels of success. The stumbling approach led us to a market where to “save money” we decided to eat at a stall, which we assumed would be cheaper than a sit-down restaurant. That lunch ran us about $60, which was decidedly more than the previous day’s sit-down lunch. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">But all-in-all the stumble approach treated us well. When you don’t know what to expect… you have no expectations so you are often pleasantly surprised.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWTB0nMpY-A_sF6tnCWQyGzT2fOPt-tDNz5rCTlMhg8FfFjrK3peyrGCt8U6I_uYOlnrU9K_p60tECoIeJx9P6nfb0zd09fnedrMBrGFD_ogyqXuw-8bBviEZz-LqZhIlXge937gDosN4/s1600-h/Picture+1.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWTB0nMpY-A_sF6tnCWQyGzT2fOPt-tDNz5rCTlMhg8FfFjrK3peyrGCt8U6I_uYOlnrU9K_p60tECoIeJx9P6nfb0zd09fnedrMBrGFD_ogyqXuw-8bBviEZz-LqZhIlXge937gDosN4/s400/Picture+1.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364198644103629698" border="0" /></a>One night we stumbled out way past dark. We had a beer here, a glass of vino there until finally we tripped right into a very short man who looked like he was impersonating Prince, assuming Prince ever wore red sequins and rode a flower-covered bike. Prince Jr. led us to our final bar of the night where two very drunk Irishmen bought our drinks because, exactly a year before, I had visited their home town of Letterkenny (thanks cousin Shannon for that one). </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">High off free booze we stumbled home past street performers of every shape and size. Kristin calls them Buskers, a new term for me but one she says is widely used. Men and women laden with latex paints, oil-based makeup and non-breathing fabrics mime, mimic and dance their way to Euros from the passersby. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdyPA1OMv3mpPVbR-NOEkLUaJju-0HbPXYatqI2kk53FplKudmOndFcG9HbxIf7EQwbMlJhwRq_t7H8k7miuvOuPp8MjyHbDBFBwPWDOTOG8JdrNTNkkV9P40iTRgxt61fw4rt1e1jODc/s1600-h/IMG_8040.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdyPA1OMv3mpPVbR-NOEkLUaJju-0HbPXYatqI2kk53FplKudmOndFcG9HbxIf7EQwbMlJhwRq_t7H8k7miuvOuPp8MjyHbDBFBwPWDOTOG8JdrNTNkkV9P40iTRgxt61fw4rt1e1jODc/s200/IMG_8040.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364201745849012050" border="0" /></a>Earlier in the day on La Ramba, a.k.a. Busker Row, I saw a man wearing just a black Speedo walking down the street, odd because there is no beach there. People were staring at him gape-mouthed and upon further review I realized his Speedo was actually a tattoo. Some quick deduction and I screamed “Kristin! Look at that man!” upon which we began chasing after him cameras at the ready. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6fOy6Ij9_E4zVpEQGbz25QXzd-AFAGTgJR08EU8Rotuy2YWTAvdk4EwBPBhNhkoEm1RRTAaN4a_Se_8Et5B-MdYo7DOGzdUJxfcz61o-cdA-WjIQDr4hUh-E-zFH-ocjPdDPFkRU3ZHQ/s1600-h/IMG_8055.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6fOy6Ij9_E4zVpEQGbz25QXzd-AFAGTgJR08EU8Rotuy2YWTAvdk4EwBPBhNhkoEm1RRTAaN4a_Se_8Et5B-MdYo7DOGzdUJxfcz61o-cdA-WjIQDr4hUh-E-zFH-ocjPdDPFkRU3ZHQ/s200/IMG_8055.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364199544135251362" border="0" /></a>The crowd in front began parting, women gasped, men looked dejected and once we rounded the bend we saw why. He was HUGE. I mean like… good luck finding a woman who would think that was a good time HUGE! And not only that but he was entirely tattooed – entirely! </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEFGWRIusMUJwWgjYjdoXfeA0nCUCmQvnoSxzw5YLcv4LmP59I7dCQy7DI0mli-FG1KFuhoG2cCc-Pvs7Pq4YzvwJFsxZ9ZQUjEnhwX7xv8VQIpOd6f8dvvJr5Sc8IeR5qq7pfOT_YXbs/s1600-h/IMG_7730.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEFGWRIusMUJwWgjYjdoXfeA0nCUCmQvnoSxzw5YLcv4LmP59I7dCQy7DI0mli-FG1KFuhoG2cCc-Pvs7Pq4YzvwJFsxZ9ZQUjEnhwX7xv8VQIpOd6f8dvvJr5Sc8IeR5qq7pfOT_YXbs/s200/IMG_7730.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364201309609756434" border="0" /></a>Not really sure how to segue smoothly here so I will move on to a topic not related to size but rather to eyes. I fell deeply in love with Spain, yes because it is beautiful and because Barcelona is so cosmopolitan and historic at the same time, but mainly I fell in love with Spanish men. (Elephant man mentioned above, notwithstanding.)
<br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUdg-MW2pNFqdWZ5qwp2w3g9Lnlg-rr04QXyl9-FFr52lV4KEdDR9rv73U699no1YAnu5vLWPAENr52enuTYeA6ogoLXrwQjV1IZOPKek9-NHqJEk6RKKAYAEp5emMK3aa7kP2w8eva-w/s1600-h/IMG_8072.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUdg-MW2pNFqdWZ5qwp2w3g9Lnlg-rr04QXyl9-FFr52lV4KEdDR9rv73U699no1YAnu5vLWPAENr52enuTYeA6ogoLXrwQjV1IZOPKek9-NHqJEk6RKKAYAEp5emMK3aa7kP2w8eva-w/s400/IMG_8072.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364197281227064482" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb7EhGaYgwV9N0gMM39Ard84L9ema7nf3uKy7K3jxzgtevh6Z-IhWcMw8aJAl9LQu5al_GkW_z5c08SqombZ2Zej5oMg6plLmN4Hgw-ayH68VWIANMf7CC9YG0q91pR6nLQdcE0xtXdSc/s1600-h/IMG_8036.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb7EhGaYgwV9N0gMM39Ard84L9ema7nf3uKy7K3jxzgtevh6Z-IhWcMw8aJAl9LQu5al_GkW_z5c08SqombZ2Zej5oMg6plLmN4Hgw-ayH68VWIANMf7CC9YG0q91pR6nLQdcE0xtXdSc/s200/IMG_8036.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364201294027019010" border="0" /></a>If I love Italy because of its people’s hearts, I love Spain because of its people’s eyes. Tall, thin, mocha-complexioned men with hazel eyes are everywhere. I was actually uncomfortable in the presence of so many truly beautiful men. And sadly, not since the Gay Pride Parade in Chicago have I been so attracted to so many men I stand zero chance with before. At least, the memory of all of those beautiful creatures will fill my dreams for a while.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">To rebound from the night out with mini-Prince we boarded a train to the beach. Forty-five minutes from Barcelona we got off along with about 5000 other people and crowded onto the mile of sandy beach dotted with rental chairs, topless women and gay men. It was a perfect day of rest and recovery. Tanned and detoxed we left ready to continue our journey.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaeFKc71yheXUCV1SK6La_hblonecoA-ulRiX1qpgUQkHXubZ9wjHqtCpOidMZEqkGn5cup7JrBXSe9Ms4lXjVfzeYNW25ujkCZwSM4_uJufQhwLMrczYbXfc-5FcbstzYvkfWW_dYpdo/s1600-h/IMG_7933.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaeFKc71yheXUCV1SK6La_hblonecoA-ulRiX1qpgUQkHXubZ9wjHqtCpOidMZEqkGn5cup7JrBXSe9Ms4lXjVfzeYNW25ujkCZwSM4_uJufQhwLMrczYbXfc-5FcbstzYvkfWW_dYpdo/s400/IMG_7933.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364198658915103378" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0cws7ToEKjYi4WIDNWE2JXgQBJibsAyeH8vB6x_7-MhclT5WsdFK2Of-4b7OvHNBU3uQ0pdukyIfclWJ4dHGLyj1kYly5eTi7M3Whqwx4H-riy6cFD2f0myU2lRB6QyIW6YdYC0J3r7E/s1600-h/IMG_7511.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0cws7ToEKjYi4WIDNWE2JXgQBJibsAyeH8vB6x_7-MhclT5WsdFK2Of-4b7OvHNBU3uQ0pdukyIfclWJ4dHGLyj1kYly5eTi7M3Whqwx4H-riy6cFD2f0myU2lRB6QyIW6YdYC0J3r7E/s200/IMG_7511.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364199543382316946" border="0" /></a>And just like that another four days had gone by. Kristin and I took advantage of my last visit to a Red Carpet Club (before my card expires, and I am regulated back to general seating), in the Barcelona and then the Madrid airports on our way to our final destination together… Paris.</span></p> <!--EndFragment--> Rachel Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196197020015257649noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4217460362646169634.post-41681711388954290122009-07-22T20:58:00.007+08:002009-07-22T21:53:04.629+08:00Roma<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0QPuMhaplwldrnzLvJM2Wcrp_Hjd-WioHCKkJMqwnNNPg5eL9s_j1X9r717qvht5y8iNQPH-mchcWmlDMxyoBIsWXGwRqjT47vmfMqTBDAmLcQJoGzMFS1cbgRlgs0DTfZ6C_SOLEdQA/s1600-h/2009-07-11+at+17-49-41.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0QPuMhaplwldrnzLvJM2Wcrp_Hjd-WioHCKkJMqwnNNPg5eL9s_j1X9r717qvht5y8iNQPH-mchcWmlDMxyoBIsWXGwRqjT47vmfMqTBDAmLcQJoGzMFS1cbgRlgs0DTfZ6C_SOLEdQA/s400/2009-07-11+at+17-49-41.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361268522627016690" border="0" /></a>My dear, dear friend Kristin invited me almost a year ago to come along for her family reunion in Le Marche, Italy. I accepted immediately as I am prone to do at invitations that include dear friends, fine food and free lodging. The week-long reunion quickly ballooned into a full on European vacation, which will culminate in four countries, more bottles of sparkling rose than I care to count and about 10lbs more of me to love.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZC7DhL5Wg6AlSljJaipRwYzPeCJpyyr3JPmXADw9jtuQWasXVjMRIRpeoBtJIR-gyDnTAlnYSrdWzDg8GLiPGEQ20pmPBhpwRogKNVUhaQFF7yD8YeQLwCgddTDYVDTvs_hc7xJvm3wc/s1600-h/2009-07-11+at+16-50-07.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZC7DhL5Wg6AlSljJaipRwYzPeCJpyyr3JPmXADw9jtuQWasXVjMRIRpeoBtJIR-gyDnTAlnYSrdWzDg8GLiPGEQ20pmPBhpwRogKNVUhaQFF7yD8YeQLwCgddTDYVDTvs_hc7xJvm3wc/s200/2009-07-11+at+16-50-07.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361269288410758882" border="0" /></a>After six weeks stateside, I may never have been more excited for a flight than I was this time. Not to knock my homeland, but I was ready to get out of the U.S. and to get back to my 'normal' routine of sherpa-ing my load and moving every few days. Go figure, last post I was saying how worn out I was from this pattern and now I long, LONG for it.<br /><br />Upon landing in Rome I found my way to my perfect shoebox of a hotel room three blocks from the Termani train station and engaged in that loveliest of European traditions, the afternoon nap. I woke up, raring to go, at 3:30 p.m. and started speed touring my way through the city. Fountains, Basilicas, Piazzas and then… THE Coliseum.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgekad8xT1exzOKhMvsp65lO9ri-Psj1aaDpYuTitrTooV0TcDHzSq485ntO14k9DnMUrmpXFCvy20w-2UTrgxsc3zSGiM3kZKMr2MLwb2zR6mppie6yeqsjvqwQYSM8Y95EWsLZPPY5mk/s1600-h/2009-07-11+at+19-08-45.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgekad8xT1exzOKhMvsp65lO9ri-Psj1aaDpYuTitrTooV0TcDHzSq485ntO14k9DnMUrmpXFCvy20w-2UTrgxsc3zSGiM3kZKMr2MLwb2zR6mppie6yeqsjvqwQYSM8Y95EWsLZPPY5mk/s200/2009-07-11+at+19-08-45.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361269626357379570" border="0" /></a>Wow – until you see it in person you cannot imagine the power of that place. During my travels, I stop frequently to marvel at the steps that led me to be somewhere at a particular time, but when those moments happen at the foot of history, it is especially powerful.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdfNhbshFa9J1mdjAVSR74M2yQJxOGQtOrNHzCW9SJYhC7TqCjA34WNXWWwkvHrcNP26-rYIJeNy08xqN_RwQ1Q2Cz-AQ6d6NJ28DBHZYSu_oophyphenhyphenU4fxbqsMTMSC8ZPZrpuo-BhISKp0/s1600-h/2009-07-11+at+18-29-00.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdfNhbshFa9J1mdjAVSR74M2yQJxOGQtOrNHzCW9SJYhC7TqCjA34WNXWWwkvHrcNP26-rYIJeNy08xqN_RwQ1Q2Cz-AQ6d6NJ28DBHZYSu_oophyphenhyphenU4fxbqsMTMSC8ZPZrpuo-BhISKp0/s400/2009-07-11+at+18-29-00.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361268524742184498" border="0" /></a>I have been ridiculously fortunate to see some of the true wonders of this world, Angkor Wat in Camobdia, calfing glaciers in Alaska, orangutans in the wilds of Borneo and the magnificent Grand Canyon to name just a few, but there is nothing that for me could compare with seeing Rome.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy4zkW024wH4Nldl1aOMtp1aspoxlD3Sx9lACvYH3JGOjAmF1Tw0yFO7kqHljuVpE3wdMB1NI6OkJgceNneZdutzyv8aYpyl0xF8wu97ZMjNXBX4jJ9MsMBSpyzvKUiK6U9Nlr5MuGi-s/s1600-h/2009-07-11+at+19-33-18.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy4zkW024wH4Nldl1aOMtp1aspoxlD3Sx9lACvYH3JGOjAmF1Tw0yFO7kqHljuVpE3wdMB1NI6OkJgceNneZdutzyv8aYpyl0xF8wu97ZMjNXBX4jJ9MsMBSpyzvKUiK6U9Nlr5MuGi-s/s400/2009-07-11+at+19-33-18.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361268527481727394" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrMUdoUK_U7D1ES-HD7Oh9-5HocSXKq-_4FFixYr0TlKzhg5Eh2E3OCkv_aRkPiBgtpE_uJEMh77meEl4sy-po3AemhyFzINVC0889EaXJeqCdz06u2DujM-s1RALbZ8V4X2SI31xuaEw/s1600-h/2009-07-11+at+18-26-59.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrMUdoUK_U7D1ES-HD7Oh9-5HocSXKq-_4FFixYr0TlKzhg5Eh2E3OCkv_aRkPiBgtpE_uJEMh77meEl4sy-po3AemhyFzINVC0889EaXJeqCdz06u2DujM-s1RALbZ8V4X2SI31xuaEw/s200/2009-07-11+at+18-26-59.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361269296132882274" border="0" /></a>I took three years of Latin in high school and really the only thing that stuck was the word for Roman road: iter. This has actually proved very useful in solving the occasional crossword puzzle, but other than iter (and the ability to identify root words in a myriad of Latin-based languages), I’m afraid my teacher Mrs. Uhl would be sorely disappointed in my retention. But on this day, to walk along an iter in front of the Colusieum affected me greatly.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8TyYvsxfXKM__-bDGrymT-P9gL819iYqDlHiCoKoSL3q7UIkWCdYEgMiD16TP_gGtl-lTgzqq8O07D4QXdKullsCrRNxm9bKPgNxZhGRPMNJC6Rj_0VLzM-knZ1OHrGbgefBbodsy080/s1600-h/2009-07-11+at+19-06-20.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8TyYvsxfXKM__-bDGrymT-P9gL819iYqDlHiCoKoSL3q7UIkWCdYEgMiD16TP_gGtl-lTgzqq8O07D4QXdKullsCrRNxm9bKPgNxZhGRPMNJC6Rj_0VLzM-knZ1OHrGbgefBbodsy080/s400/2009-07-11+at+19-06-20.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361268525307630498" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-xWQpCbvyOASe4SrBxA5A1G5MVkAAKSyB8VcCVt-9IBzPBNVddejQtBhZxBNRjY0Jn-UWRK-h3bCi24avVQB8OwmSjfTPvmKL7o9rLuHaEaBFfNEXxe3fkJRJytDU8EcC2qulO_mzkt4/s1600-h/2009-07-11+at+19-25-48.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-xWQpCbvyOASe4SrBxA5A1G5MVkAAKSyB8VcCVt-9IBzPBNVddejQtBhZxBNRjY0Jn-UWRK-h3bCi24avVQB8OwmSjfTPvmKL7o9rLuHaEaBFfNEXxe3fkJRJytDU8EcC2qulO_mzkt4/s200/2009-07-11+at+19-25-48.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361269630979139602" border="0" /></a>Back in New Zealand my camera took about ten nasty falls, which finally resulted in its demise. Over the last year I have been traveling with a Sony Cybershot – that’s it, just a pocket snapshot camera for the 15,000+ photos I took. I did this on purpose, I did not want the weight or stress of an SLR and I knew I could take good enough photos even with a point and shoot, but with the death of the Sony came the overwhelming urge to buy a full kit. And that is exactly what I did.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJaMzdR55fsP3PXiZ4L0LX2Zzl0yCdw9z39IV3m48D9mflpYuRiAilN37jtQubZyfxvDIwtvPI2f_u8UftLU2xCB7Y54IR2parBibwRJbAXefw9xg8p7Yax0fJeb90jF-Zvu1UlUC7A2M/s1600-h/2009-07-11+at+18-20-03.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJaMzdR55fsP3PXiZ4L0LX2Zzl0yCdw9z39IV3m48D9mflpYuRiAilN37jtQubZyfxvDIwtvPI2f_u8UftLU2xCB7Y54IR2parBibwRJbAXefw9xg8p7Yax0fJeb90jF-Zvu1UlUC7A2M/s200/2009-07-11+at+18-20-03.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361269295920797618" border="0" /></a>As I strolled through the Forum at dusk, greedily snapping photos with my new big shot camera, I fell back in love with photography. No detail escaped my lens, hundreds of frames ticked by until the twilight was gone and it was time to move on.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs56j9oxsyZYCWhsiOu4rDjJnvy8gHRx03-rYuqTOAU2uaQR-RzvM9ZcuAFddsTF0R8MiaRf1ZxREQknpkMh7iiXokgBx4u5gKpBYYdvpo0v942N8Ecmmn41Q447UzKVAqi3KYVLylNyQ/s1600-h/2009-07-11+at+18-30-32.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs56j9oxsyZYCWhsiOu4rDjJnvy8gHRx03-rYuqTOAU2uaQR-RzvM9ZcuAFddsTF0R8MiaRf1ZxREQknpkMh7iiXokgBx4u5gKpBYYdvpo0v942N8Ecmmn41Q447UzKVAqi3KYVLylNyQ/s200/2009-07-11+at+18-30-32.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361269621351148546" border="0" /></a>Among the ruins of the Forum, passing ancient columns and headless sculptures, I began to sense just exactly how shiny and new I am; a particularly nice feeling to have three days before my 36th birthday. It was an amazing day and I capped it off by eating at a street side café near my hotel, where I unabashedly stared at passersby.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje0zx0CanY8gdYQEnore3woF-gcMVYPZ1oEni6zwHSrVNQOmma6VKVt2ZCsb-MJ_3rD11W61hfXQkOPnww2bSopN0O8_dZ9sRWKMyr1PpHSYNxsH_awgXVboXIcek_TzHq9GLhK7KB5OE/s1600-h/2009-07-11+at+11-49-06.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje0zx0CanY8gdYQEnore3woF-gcMVYPZ1oEni6zwHSrVNQOmma6VKVt2ZCsb-MJ_3rD11W61hfXQkOPnww2bSopN0O8_dZ9sRWKMyr1PpHSYNxsH_awgXVboXIcek_TzHq9GLhK7KB5OE/s400/2009-07-11+at+11-49-06.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361268521339329314" border="0" /></a>The art of dining alone is a fine one. Most solo diners opt for distraction tactics, a book or magazine, nowadays many can be seen dissolving into their Blackberrys or iPhones, but none of these can hold a candle to the real joy of solo dining – gawking. I now gawk openly, sure I may bring a journal and I might even pick up its accompanying pen from time to time, but staring is what really tops off a good meal.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzHi8GpUAQGttjbIsPaoHGmLEtAz9gq0x9HtBvu7jeWaHLtM2AzWROlvAgayf4QJjqQZWhaPEJEb5srs0jpGKnuonJMaFXGV8hU5vze7OZ-y3lx9FSNcfgCDvw05tR0ijh5bD8VqGXfmI/s1600-h/2009-07-11+at+18-41-55.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzHi8GpUAQGttjbIsPaoHGmLEtAz9gq0x9HtBvu7jeWaHLtM2AzWROlvAgayf4QJjqQZWhaPEJEb5srs0jpGKnuonJMaFXGV8hU5vze7OZ-y3lx9FSNcfgCDvw05tR0ijh5bD8VqGXfmI/s200/2009-07-11+at+18-41-55.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361269300235043010" border="0" /></a>I watched the waiters yell something I could not understand with words, but their amazing repertoire of hand gestures and tonal inflections made it look like a scene straight out of Goodfellas. I can only assume one must have said something negative about the other’s Mama, something nearing a capital offense, but just tasteful enough to spare his life.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD_OjemNPrakbgXxZWx08GI4rhf7BTcfvOu4p9zRiPv2RrkE29GRFyK7hqVKLOvQnR3AbwVkKouD3dH9xlXug-lnfexYSQCf9K6yk0yzboSe2YceoqJbCQD9tjTRRAP4QO2_Qgh7Eg6MU/s1600-h/2009-07-11+at+19-32-58.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD_OjemNPrakbgXxZWx08GI4rhf7BTcfvOu4p9zRiPv2RrkE29GRFyK7hqVKLOvQnR3AbwVkKouD3dH9xlXug-lnfexYSQCf9K6yk0yzboSe2YceoqJbCQD9tjTRRAP4QO2_Qgh7Eg6MU/s200/2009-07-11+at+19-32-58.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361269631950682770" border="0" /></a>I watch young beautiful couples too in love to keep their hands to themselves, middle-aged women cracking themselves up from within the walls of some long-forgotten private joke, walking fashion models and faux paus, a parade of sensible shoes, fanny packs and ball caps peering up only momentarily from their Lonely Planets to check a street sign and then plod onward. I loved them all equally.<br /><br />Weeks before Kristin and I had arranged to meet at the small hotel near the main Termani train station. In the interim she had been in Africa with a group called <a href="http://www.heartforafrica.org/">Heart for Africa</a>, which provides aid to women and children in Kenya among other places. Due to the remote nature of her trip we would not be able to confirm that either of us had arrived in Rome according to plan until she showed up at the hotel.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXC8pvdp-XFQUw_VwPmtmvh75RNYuImTMNrRJoGb4-IZ2GkRzpLutPdgV-fMiUXkwj4h8jxiFLKn7zlB-KaCtX286F0tq9pEqufKUGUbTBDcBxftHYMlEwBPzh17TqxEnkAiyIW0jreYE/s1600-h/2009-07-11+at+18-33-02.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXC8pvdp-XFQUw_VwPmtmvh75RNYuImTMNrRJoGb4-IZ2GkRzpLutPdgV-fMiUXkwj4h8jxiFLKn7zlB-KaCtX286F0tq9pEqufKUGUbTBDcBxftHYMlEwBPzh17TqxEnkAiyIW0jreYE/s200/2009-07-11+at+18-33-02.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361269626123945906" border="0" /></a>It always amazes me, in this day and age of cell phones, emails, Tweets and so on, when a date set weeks before and not confirmed 48-, 24-, 12- and 2-hours prior actually pans out, but sure enough around 10 am July 12, 2009 Kristin arrived just as we had planned.Rachel Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196197020015257649noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4217460362646169634.post-45579531520372392052009-07-12T14:39:00.008+08:002009-07-12T16:02:30.333+08:00A Year Ends. A Year Begins<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLw7c7mYTf5OSbw_oOIQxAiKjoq-p6iYfthk0qj7y4l8iHg7p4RpCVxPT8b-WU2KTdkL-hu8IhwCGZEgINmpk9kCKXN6HSiIkLJs_KmPR3BLSf9Mv_nU6gnzgph6uu_vDp3v38B7sfb_0/s1600-h/DSC03515.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLw7c7mYTf5OSbw_oOIQxAiKjoq-p6iYfthk0qj7y4l8iHg7p4RpCVxPT8b-WU2KTdkL-hu8IhwCGZEgINmpk9kCKXN6HSiIkLJs_KmPR3BLSf9Mv_nU6gnzgph6uu_vDp3v38B7sfb_0/s400/DSC03515.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357461493910166050" border="0" /></a>As my time in New Zealand began to wind down I realized that I was a bit on the crispy fried side. A year of solid travel, a new place every few weeks (often every few days), countless conversations that required years worth of back stories to complete and the constant sense that I couldn’t completely rest because change was right outside my hotel room door, weighed on me. So that last in week in NZ, I stayed mostly to myself. Just me and my Campa van.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6apjcKVOoZsSsJmNoZdmBemn7yyq932zh7JqsEeARTtwtQ-EojfQM1aPkp3gPd7OXASEVkr4d4tii282POumoWpofB8m4tdXojjh4wEoNjEdYiJiB9MDBG0J8EwWoYhiZbWFunOo6Pqo/s1600-h/Rachel.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6apjcKVOoZsSsJmNoZdmBemn7yyq932zh7JqsEeARTtwtQ-EojfQM1aPkp3gPd7OXASEVkr4d4tii282POumoWpofB8m4tdXojjh4wEoNjEdYiJiB9MDBG0J8EwWoYhiZbWFunOo6Pqo/s200/Rachel.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357472534508312834" border="0" /></a>I wasn’t rude, if someone addressed me I returned the greeting, but I wasn’t my normal engaging, outgoing self either. And somewhere in that week I stopped writing.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhalMFBqtsfm454eEMbm-qFs38kk2RdGZSXZ-zsL9de_fKEhviifLq7lgb0FXJ08-8Ayp7_AJpx_jkBXiQYFZBi5M_ejvB8EZXrR-F09WswCUM-cV9OZY3eLTE1tdtaFBtOLEet2g0tqSQ/s1600-h/IMG_6369.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhalMFBqtsfm454eEMbm-qFs38kk2RdGZSXZ-zsL9de_fKEhviifLq7lgb0FXJ08-8Ayp7_AJpx_jkBXiQYFZBi5M_ejvB8EZXrR-F09WswCUM-cV9OZY3eLTE1tdtaFBtOLEet2g0tqSQ/s400/IMG_6369.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357477204537808818" border="0" /></a>I got back to the US and settled into a low-level state of culture shock. Sure I am used to completely changing cultures, currencies, languages and alcohol contents in the snap of a finger, but the U.S. is different. This is of course not news, we Americans pride ourselves on being different – in fact we founded our country on this basic principal… <span style="font-style: italic;">one Nation, indivisible in our individuality</span>.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhosPwRhVnFDnywhUgRqdTjKRo2fYQyTALLJXUYMgJprCvHHqHakWL7MnZ_nXsd1SR2A5sb8xsSQMyRWpntq9DCX64BmYK5TeGpuiNQUVui7umoqsxMuTW1gbjh0olLif2HjAuUL3Y5W4g/s1600-h/DSC03509.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhosPwRhVnFDnywhUgRqdTjKRo2fYQyTALLJXUYMgJprCvHHqHakWL7MnZ_nXsd1SR2A5sb8xsSQMyRWpntq9DCX64BmYK5TeGpuiNQUVui7umoqsxMuTW1gbjh0olLif2HjAuUL3Y5W4g/s400/DSC03509.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357461505371127794" border="0" /></a>Maybe it is the palpable fear caused by the economic situation, or the depression associated bleak job forecasts, or the death and subsequent media saturation of all things King of Pop. Or more likely it isn’t you (my fellow Americans) that are making me feel this way, but rather it is the reality that despite all that has changed about me this past year, when I hit American soil the overwhelming urge to eat something deep fat fried and drink cosmos while watching a television show about New Jersey housewives is so compelling that I put down my yoga mat and my traveling altar, belly up to the Comcast beast or new ‘IT’ club and revert directly back to ‘That Girl’.<br /><br />Now don’t get me wrong… That Girl is a good time! She wears 4” heels as a trademark. She flaunts her yoga-toned ass in the $300 jeans she once thought she could not live without. And, she can out-caddy, out-crass, and out-last most of her contemporaries, but she’s like a new puppy…she’s fun, cute and entertaining, but after a while you are like, “alright, enough chewing things up, grow up and mellow out already!”<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSlT22kN2OJklo485BI5Yl0kaawsIJ8bUTeX1rSC-a-ca-mW-VuTGkTwJJmgKiBjx0zmSkZGM4hQ4stjK_Sc9ailGYhNCpCgVOg2drpmF8mdxwZgxTvN6gh6WhugtI8hXwrRpkvoehB48/s1600-h/IMG_5990.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSlT22kN2OJklo485BI5Yl0kaawsIJ8bUTeX1rSC-a-ca-mW-VuTGkTwJJmgKiBjx0zmSkZGM4hQ4stjK_Sc9ailGYhNCpCgVOg2drpmF8mdxwZgxTvN6gh6WhugtI8hXwrRpkvoehB48/s200/IMG_5990.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357466834522191154" border="0" /></a>This is the constant state of push and pull I feel myself struggling with when I come <span style="font-style: italic;">‘home’</span>. On the one hand I am yogi Rachel, I’m calmer, I’m more secure and self-assured and I am willing to freely share all that I have learned. On the other hand, I am all the things I value less in myself in larger doses than when I am traveling, and perhaps this is the real crux of the issue.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBw7d1EB0Hl3skvyo_hrHS3baOjJKfCeUb4ziyUZBfMpmEp5wmj47DgAg0VoUSto9CMJ1MsSHGxY5Nwg-D4sxMB_AIq8pNpbcCoCNmsvSgQ9W3Gg-3t4p-oHsBsR0NNi3PSPFzFYeAIHo/s1600-h/IMG_5899.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 160px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBw7d1EB0Hl3skvyo_hrHS3baOjJKfCeUb4ziyUZBfMpmEp5wmj47DgAg0VoUSto9CMJ1MsSHGxY5Nwg-D4sxMB_AIq8pNpbcCoCNmsvSgQ9W3Gg-3t4p-oHsBsR0NNi3PSPFzFYeAIHo/s200/IMG_5899.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357466824698110130" border="0" /></a>Can I be who I want to be in the US or am I, and therefore those I come in contact with, better off if I am a full-time wandering gypsy? Abroad I am ridiculously, joyfully productive. In the US I sleep in, I watch Le Tour de Frace nonstop, I plan my days around meals rather than my practice. You get the drift.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-9_JWUFheFFzVwzKlZ_Y0ZUu6M5VrDwAryV1Vj57zQbF8HRrEnyrV7D5iZgBKgFCRKSSPdB-8xtGBdUUL0ZDctDxjEhdk_OzgPdvOgzc3ZvnZkZ5W79QBX-NZ-Z_2EpRTsmWN_uoYN7M/s1600-h/IMG_6577.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-9_JWUFheFFzVwzKlZ_Y0ZUu6M5VrDwAryV1Vj57zQbF8HRrEnyrV7D5iZgBKgFCRKSSPdB-8xtGBdUUL0ZDctDxjEhdk_OzgPdvOgzc3ZvnZkZ5W79QBX-NZ-Z_2EpRTsmWN_uoYN7M/s200/IMG_6577.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357477844733388290" border="0" /></a>So rather than dwell on this, I decided to allow myself to embrace these habits while I was home. I accept that while I am in the US I am different than when I am abroad and that’s okay, it’s great in fact – it is genuine. The US has become my vacation destination, the place where I can take a few days or weeks off from the full-time job of improving myself.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcZ0wS1tm_W0rO2P1VJeeMr-wQUkI6iqRiWEFnlLuhmYXtE6LKUaGzulWFwv56xX0xkR7skCDBObUUBTWKdUs07guA0HPaswZXFns9S8IF1NskIG5osO0o_EKh2kcCmIp72WywiQW-pPo/s1600-h/IMG_5994.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcZ0wS1tm_W0rO2P1VJeeMr-wQUkI6iqRiWEFnlLuhmYXtE6LKUaGzulWFwv56xX0xkR7skCDBObUUBTWKdUs07guA0HPaswZXFns9S8IF1NskIG5osO0o_EKh2kcCmIp72WywiQW-pPo/s200/IMG_5994.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357466844207890322" border="0" /></a>While ‘home’, I realized a few other things. Firstly, that I spent the last decade plus of my life striving to be one of the guys. In sports, in my career, in drinking prowess, in pretty much every aspect, (albeit in 4” heels and $300 jeans). This year, I became one of the girls again. I reconnected with all of my best girlfriends and forged new sister-hoods for the first time in years. Ironically enough, as I shed the heels and the hot rollers, I became MORE feminine.<br /><br />I also realized that I don’t need a ‘<span style="font-style: italic;">home</span>’. Coming back to the US was in large part a necessity because the time had come for me to re-establish my base in such a way that I could really begin thinking of traveling as a lifestyle and not a ‘gap year’. My best friend/ex-husband had very kindly housed all of my worldly possessions over the year, allowing me to mentally still claim Colorado as my home – actually to still claim his home as my own, but it was time to remove the ghost of me from his domain. So like all 35 year-olds aspire to do, I moved <span style="font-style: italic;">‘home’</span> to Ohio.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCxOJsbizSd8z1J4ZVab5TX6PET6BelSGxbB6XwxgIqFSkc2Jdf4C3C_5KQ3gck04tzs_4prcqFGFJVGFQxPvqZwpUCjUTvm5FIGnINjJW9jSN8gi_HDcknFNTE070-nVaBrcdL9H54iU/s1600-h/IMG_5923.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCxOJsbizSd8z1J4ZVab5TX6PET6BelSGxbB6XwxgIqFSkc2Jdf4C3C_5KQ3gck04tzs_4prcqFGFJVGFQxPvqZwpUCjUTvm5FIGnINjJW9jSN8gi_HDcknFNTE070-nVaBrcdL9H54iU/s400/IMG_5923.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357465364115311970" border="0" /></a>After a few wonderful weeks in Colorado my beloved father flew out to keep me company as I loaded all I still hold claim to, into a U-Haul for the 24-hour drive from Aspen to Cincinnati. Memorable moments surrounding this journey include the heartbreaking final severing of all things marriage-related in my life (best friend relationship notwithstanding) and a traffic stop in Illinois where the K9/Drug patrol separated me from my U-Haul and father while asking me questions like:<br /><br />Are you trafficking drugs?<br />A: No, my substance abuse councilor father up there frowns on such things.<br /><br />Are you transporting guns? No? You don’t hunt?<br />A: I am a vegetarian yogi.<br /><br />Have you ever smoked Marijuana?<br />A: Uh, yeah… who can honestly answer no to that?<br /><br />According to my father there are a few people left who can actually answer no (knock me over with a feather) and in his opinion the proper response to that final question is “my answer is NO.” I blame Satya- the yogic non-lying rule for this lapse on my part.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifBzIrXx7ltd9KisYIbY3dDa1uHRrnte8TeWVipHCBRe_2l6qIL9TdTE-fGzde-8nIiXV25L6V7_-ZJH-sIKMisHIwBkfKzZmeS1xpeW5P34AJ9fVVPIFGyk_k4jHj_uRNdd1coMDJJng/s1600-h/IMG_6092.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifBzIrXx7ltd9KisYIbY3dDa1uHRrnte8TeWVipHCBRe_2l6qIL9TdTE-fGzde-8nIiXV25L6V7_-ZJH-sIKMisHIwBkfKzZmeS1xpeW5P34AJ9fVVPIFGyk_k4jHj_uRNdd1coMDJJng/s400/IMG_6092.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357465374445260370" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq4bKKP_IZFA4Ei7qdvDbl2sImS6jck2ocMzkJNKMqjmE8xYht_tAMyQFeE_D87utZtmfN8gDrvuQ4VkjuAdMey0aphUh9fveG-StO2X3wANwAUHEUYVTQPyfmbLrxsVoJH66RNA8rE9k/s1600-h/IMG_6485.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq4bKKP_IZFA4Ei7qdvDbl2sImS6jck2ocMzkJNKMqjmE8xYht_tAMyQFeE_D87utZtmfN8gDrvuQ4VkjuAdMey0aphUh9fveG-StO2X3wANwAUHEUYVTQPyfmbLrxsVoJH66RNA8rE9k/s200/IMG_6485.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357472530054466738" border="0" /></a>Two days of unpacking into my parent’s basement and it was time for another road trip. This one to all the U.S. summer vacation staples. Cleveland, Ohio - home of my beloved grandmother. Detroit, Michigan – where I had the honor of leading a workshop with my Mysore sister Shelly. Chicago, Illinois – Cousin Shannon and her husband Craig (of Ireland and my 35th birthday fame) and Angie (life-long friend and famed for her recent visit to Bali).<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgegrVdwfliTkSI4JynMde8YRczxAtlBJCu2iXRG07MVogzV-wZdxiNGkGRflgLCjNR4uqHOWKDoigJH5HSX8z6-_eZzgPp7cctmOj84B9-6kcZLkxbNCGeS1mkKYKlKJLWw58eSWeCj_8/s1600-h/IMG_6526.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgegrVdwfliTkSI4JynMde8YRczxAtlBJCu2iXRG07MVogzV-wZdxiNGkGRflgLCjNR4uqHOWKDoigJH5HSX8z6-_eZzgPp7cctmOj84B9-6kcZLkxbNCGeS1mkKYKlKJLWw58eSWeCj_8/s400/IMG_6526.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357465382717362930" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiWYIQFBnCOMMCgGQAde1jH_S33LMux2_9XVEvcw-qnpcJp5jlLJkyCuIUqxtxDfIJPyNWDQMX6kPusU6PzEu7svVB1coT1gVHVNM2P0HIE9er5BORtfaR3ujYrf2Jh7V8sZGIIWCfpT8/s1600-h/IMG_6477.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiWYIQFBnCOMMCgGQAde1jH_S33LMux2_9XVEvcw-qnpcJp5jlLJkyCuIUqxtxDfIJPyNWDQMX6kPusU6PzEu7svVB1coT1gVHVNM2P0HIE9er5BORtfaR3ujYrf2Jh7V8sZGIIWCfpT8/s400/IMG_6477.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357465381587134034" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwbZVdcBBUpvqQe5bVhTGxa3553y-u96fnP-6U8DzgvKhC6Vlyti8fn-QTAgtXWMuGeOVJieWzp9x-MGoe08LMvfyBMdWEtk67Xd11b7AsfBBB5coqTwLMH7gXw29LW7MvN8kU6hSAkbE/s1600-h/IMG_6229.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwbZVdcBBUpvqQe5bVhTGxa3553y-u96fnP-6U8DzgvKhC6Vlyti8fn-QTAgtXWMuGeOVJieWzp9x-MGoe08LMvfyBMdWEtk67Xd11b7AsfBBB5coqTwLMH7gXw29LW7MvN8kU6hSAkbE/s200/IMG_6229.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357466849658763378" border="0" /></a>And then it was back to Ohio for the finale before heading out for year two on the road. Last weekend I attended a high school reunion of sorts. No monumental round numbers here, just the very infrequent event of many of our group being in town at the same time. The parade of people I have not connected with since the early 90’s was staggering and comforting. Among all these old friends, mostly women, it hit me... I am again, one of the girls. I LOVE being one of the girls.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx_XyL1pYb6vYNKSM3np-7UFodD3t-DwBoKWSLqWhYDbcUn5o0Z3JdRXSqEWavmdxB3k1xj-n2cBlhUIIPlYYAQhMy4QmLoMbEWwi-R8SAiuaj5uXdN1evAhlnvuDGPCsKsXrn6yTJE1Q/s1600-h/DSC03277.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx_XyL1pYb6vYNKSM3np-7UFodD3t-DwBoKWSLqWhYDbcUn5o0Z3JdRXSqEWavmdxB3k1xj-n2cBlhUIIPlYYAQhMy4QmLoMbEWwi-R8SAiuaj5uXdN1evAhlnvuDGPCsKsXrn6yTJE1Q/s400/DSC03277.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357461485129036418" border="0" /></a>Now I set off again, year two or just my normal state of being however you'd like to look at it. The plan for the next nine months is as follows:<br />July and August - Italy, Spain, France, Croatia<br />September - USA<br />October through February – India<br />March - Bali<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPXwZMhffsfivhq2UFbN_5XBFrWIv8EcPeo3TEJc8vOE1HpDYyG3_hjWTxZHqgTlc9jS3yiU2WKQ-NduORm9cAO8e8qMhKjEZKneWF4zR_VRtuSqx56FHFPMdU_C3jz_N6oZkhCcyeUjs/s1600-h/IMG_5937.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPXwZMhffsfivhq2UFbN_5XBFrWIv8EcPeo3TEJc8vOE1HpDYyG3_hjWTxZHqgTlc9jS3yiU2WKQ-NduORm9cAO8e8qMhKjEZKneWF4zR_VRtuSqx56FHFPMdU_C3jz_N6oZkhCcyeUjs/s400/IMG_5937.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357465368392711714" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1zaD-U-73aA1-Xn3g4HpIOH301fb-MSJ-l2ZGfrxwQt7sQzzHqZkQkf6HYbYHzI6CypkSzz03xsSA-xH1wVINfN3a-sGSkNlswxMams80X2JZ7iMbQ2zcDtoeuWGwL-ajctTwi2Fl_fo/s1600-h/DSC03455.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1zaD-U-73aA1-Xn3g4HpIOH301fb-MSJ-l2ZGfrxwQt7sQzzHqZkQkf6HYbYHzI6CypkSzz03xsSA-xH1wVINfN3a-sGSkNlswxMams80X2JZ7iMbQ2zcDtoeuWGwL-ajctTwi2Fl_fo/s400/DSC03455.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357461498336667202" border="0" /></a>Rachel Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196197020015257649noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4217460362646169634.post-74814617879880978892009-05-26T12:57:00.014+08:002009-07-05T23:42:43.266+08:00I Heart N-ZED!<span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 0);">Update: I am in the US through July 10 and then headed off on the road again. Lots to post, but due to a computer failure, time with friends and family and real-life administrative tasks, I am woefully far behind. Will work to post here very soon. Until then... be well, be wise and be joyful :)</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzSJLcLmi4LC9akRHylxy6gbhB5-BKK_7S0bM7iHMj11aINkElELlsL_LAYZiYjgvjSzB1jY16EnEihwlS4T4GjhGgF0EM_IQjDHBfORH8-l5gVYZDLjbY9wvIemFzY8RaB-EHTt-vW_Y/s1600-h/DSC02816.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340001898861705538" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 400px; cursor: pointer; height: 300px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzSJLcLmi4LC9akRHylxy6gbhB5-BKK_7S0bM7iHMj11aINkElELlsL_LAYZiYjgvjSzB1jY16EnEihwlS4T4GjhGgF0EM_IQjDHBfORH8-l5gVYZDLjbY9wvIemFzY8RaB-EHTt-vW_Y/s400/DSC02816.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Things took a decided turn for the better my last few days in Australia. I had some beautiful practices at the local Ashtanga studio, shared some amazing meals with friends and marveled at the speed and efficiency of DHL and Visa. Once I was solvent again I began relax into the flow of Sydney.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOVH0H06Sfof4ZqcYKJ82TgH6aqoRv5-W6iZCzph0c9Uu8YBZNvsHRw59ZicF7bOdnnqPx6MWDT48Y1ElseiIb6_HVuMrjj4xOM0X49bFQwwgUzTBjuTn_sz95q1nbNMiSmfobeKzLyS4/s1600-h/DSC02623.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339992747281422322" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 400px; cursor: pointer; height: 300px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOVH0H06Sfof4ZqcYKJ82TgH6aqoRv5-W6iZCzph0c9Uu8YBZNvsHRw59ZicF7bOdnnqPx6MWDT48Y1ElseiIb6_HVuMrjj4xOM0X49bFQwwgUzTBjuTn_sz95q1nbNMiSmfobeKzLyS4/s400/DSC02623.jpg" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3BAfhG8UG_SQV3hN9Q4CcXBnLwZqrgZ3izExDzDMOpaU_Tx5AYt8scFcjlC03yN2CQfX5xFp-IXUzHqbLGGHUx3LzhB1Yw-gdqz8XF4frcnVO8hGIcvwOlU-4GmtREUdTPYS2GvZ25Mc/s1600-h/DSC02597.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339994391886178370" style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; width: 200px; cursor: pointer; height: 150px;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3BAfhG8UG_SQV3hN9Q4CcXBnLwZqrgZ3izExDzDMOpaU_Tx5AYt8scFcjlC03yN2CQfX5xFp-IXUzHqbLGGHUx3LzhB1Yw-gdqz8XF4frcnVO8hGIcvwOlU-4GmtREUdTPYS2GvZ25Mc/s200/DSC02597.jpg" border="0" /></a>After a really special farewell dinner with Tors overlooking the Sydney Opera house it was time to venture on to New Zealand, likely the last country before my return to America. Somewhere over the Tazman Sea I realized things were really starting to look up. A clerical error had botched my request for a vegetarian meal and the crew felt so badly that I might not eat that I was treated to first class, where the meal was tuna tartar and a selection of fine cheeses.<br /><br />Upon landing in New Zealand I sauntered up to the rental car agent with great trepidation. My whole plan, what little of it there was, hinged on me getting a rental car. I filled out the paper work and waited for the agent to ask for my license… when she did I figured my goose was cooked, but in New Zealand they will accept a copy of your license if you are unable to produce the original and because I used to be smarter… I had stored a copy of it on my computer for just such an occasion. I have access to money and a car, there is no stopping me!<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYYH4VCH-R7t22TzAX_SVvFKx4n5hCcyq7TEPzqMzIzYIBMnE9tq4ZVzXKMZiO6ten01Ds2la0oyrU-GXor5MUTnM8rO8_p5QPTfzXvt54ArlFaQCvqL1OiBT28mV7OGFsjtgGTDf-WqY/s1600-h/DSC02665.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339992756852428866" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 400px; cursor: pointer; height: 300px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYYH4VCH-R7t22TzAX_SVvFKx4n5hCcyq7TEPzqMzIzYIBMnE9tq4ZVzXKMZiO6ten01Ds2la0oyrU-GXor5MUTnM8rO8_p5QPTfzXvt54ArlFaQCvqL1OiBT28mV7OGFsjtgGTDf-WqY/s400/DSC02665.jpg" border="0" /></a>Now, as I write this entry I am sitting in my rented Campa (actual NZ spelling) van (traded for the original rental car and $5 more per day) which is parked in the most beautiful campground I have ever been to. I am meters away from the beach. Between the ocean and me is an estuary teaming with native birds and small fish, followed by sand dunes and a barrier of seashells, many as big as my hand.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-01r9upRVbPOVyBtH8zCXQSu6qGSS7mTLn1Lp28IC1E1qVp54Bxoc4iqHuJ0BPFYbOpgekjVme2aNn7q8Anq6WfvbCsoxil9I8ZLEKJR0W0ZO6gpsIK0RRgLp2gkORD3WShkBGVhMDTY/s1600-h/DSC02824.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340001905650617330" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 400px; cursor: pointer; height: 300px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-01r9upRVbPOVyBtH8zCXQSu6qGSS7mTLn1Lp28IC1E1qVp54Bxoc4iqHuJ0BPFYbOpgekjVme2aNn7q8Anq6WfvbCsoxil9I8ZLEKJR0W0ZO6gpsIK0RRgLp2gkORD3WShkBGVhMDTY/s400/DSC02824.jpg" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRMv4yX_TQEXsflMs0h8QLPp-V-xKGba8tc-dh_7XQGJ8opnlWDpmnU2PUoKcI1nBcxHs_yBdBCIiEvLbUv35udL6x6JeAJLV1ZBf50CnzobT3mOPs30_y2KYwxvgqG7g2UKqpekOE0Dw/s1600-h/DSC02844.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339994834348645538" style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; width: 150px; cursor: pointer; height: 200px;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRMv4yX_TQEXsflMs0h8QLPp-V-xKGba8tc-dh_7XQGJ8opnlWDpmnU2PUoKcI1nBcxHs_yBdBCIiEvLbUv35udL6x6JeAJLV1ZBf50CnzobT3mOPs30_y2KYwxvgqG7g2UKqpekOE0Dw/s200/DSC02844.jpg" border="0" /></a>All day it had been absolutely pouring down rain (or ‘pissing’ rain as they say here), but when I got here, the skies parted for the sun to set. The light when I took my first stroll on the beach could not have been more perfect. It was the kind of light you wish you could live your whole life in and that savvy clothiers should use for their dressing rooms.<br /><br />After the clouds reclaimed the sky I headed into the very small nearby town to get some dinner. The only place open on Monday nights is an Asian/European/Fresh Fish combo joint. I had my choice between Cambodian curry, Indonesian Nasi Gorang, a choice of items served on French baguettes or any fresh seafood delight, golden dipped and deep fat fried, that I could imagine. It was like an edible outline of this last year’s journey.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGPP1dZOwL4vDg8rb2L0SB56VwvhZgBXJU1fbJvidtXgPyyc6AhnBki-kg9c3MX_Winhpe0yB32AcrmWthZPoW8ZPRPeWbAtS9S5X82dG8D5Vcd177-xULUUPNdKYxRV0anz1iGL-3Kas/s1600-h/DSC02656.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339994400306133794" style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; width: 200px; cursor: pointer; height: 150px;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGPP1dZOwL4vDg8rb2L0SB56VwvhZgBXJU1fbJvidtXgPyyc6AhnBki-kg9c3MX_Winhpe0yB32AcrmWthZPoW8ZPRPeWbAtS9S5X82dG8D5Vcd177-xULUUPNdKYxRV0anz1iGL-3Kas/s200/DSC02656.jpg" border="0" /></a>I opted for a variety of fried delicacies, fish, crab, oysters and green-lipped muscles which I am intermittently snacking on as my greasy fingers type away. Estoy contento!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzGkAqBQC9Gon5mEgiTz-7w_BlgIIciK89X2bdRitlky1GEpYYN03Pk6JGXm-bLAuxsYus1TIESTjuNdMQy3f0Kp97PAElklcDDg43iysHBvxRpmJnSBv1IMUNgqFDWeZfw0WmgrEVOig/s1600-h/DSC02809.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339994824356148114" style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; width: 200px; cursor: pointer; height: 150px;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzGkAqBQC9Gon5mEgiTz-7w_BlgIIciK89X2bdRitlky1GEpYYN03Pk6JGXm-bLAuxsYus1TIESTjuNdMQy3f0Kp97PAElklcDDg43iysHBvxRpmJnSBv1IMUNgqFDWeZfw0WmgrEVOig/s200/DSC02809.jpg" border="0" /></a>Today was my first day truly alone in a really long time. I know no one here and while I stopped many times in the few miles I covered today, I was decidedly non-engaging to those whom I encountered.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrwNBQRT23vwNweFsMEjjeBOU22zyDckT7bg6p1enkHpv0Oy0d80QC9kncd3F__flF51M0yyUzV5SEBgXV-3lWMG2QdCnMR8S5uwIri5rJnQrf8bbBx-iRKomjib4WZQLoJnx2yhNhUvw/s1600-h/DSC02818.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339995382057796434" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 400px; cursor: pointer; height: 300px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrwNBQRT23vwNweFsMEjjeBOU22zyDckT7bg6p1enkHpv0Oy0d80QC9kncd3F__flF51M0yyUzV5SEBgXV-3lWMG2QdCnMR8S5uwIri5rJnQrf8bbBx-iRKomjib4WZQLoJnx2yhNhUvw/s400/DSC02818.jpg" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizt8AwOPoh-NvZ6smLEMxFmk5amRk9vD8rpW2c4ppUpqLuzSiKnZpmVb_9f3sB0pyHfD7wQIvZS0mKk68jl0WxCD8O7JDBardMkqGU0w_yUtm5DWMyFL5_rLOcV8Q_jcTuRA7pIDs0Ou0/s1600-h/DSC02801.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339994828036400610" style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; width: 200px; cursor: pointer; height: 150px;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizt8AwOPoh-NvZ6smLEMxFmk5amRk9vD8rpW2c4ppUpqLuzSiKnZpmVb_9f3sB0pyHfD7wQIvZS0mKk68jl0WxCD8O7JDBardMkqGU0w_yUtm5DWMyFL5_rLOcV8Q_jcTuRA7pIDs0Ou0/s200/DSC02801.jpg" border="0" /></a>Between here and my origin, a mere 60 kilometers away, I visited a cheese shop, a tea house, a winery and a sheep farm where I bought the softest and most beautiful sheep-skin throw which will forever remind me of this gorgeous day.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPQ3RLHPAbQXs_DzI0Sym2fYiqTgkWazAvnMg6nJ4BlKdD2lL0veYfoyWyhlZs8xaLNHb5NDXgD-s0XGs-SuMqhU6EYENXZ5yQfFlbQ2g_eWhYI1h5YCdYyHJVv-DkUM7TaP4EA8QGBM4/s1600-h/DSC02653.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339994397782250610" style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; width: 200px; cursor: pointer; height: 150px;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPQ3RLHPAbQXs_DzI0Sym2fYiqTgkWazAvnMg6nJ4BlKdD2lL0veYfoyWyhlZs8xaLNHb5NDXgD-s0XGs-SuMqhU6EYENXZ5yQfFlbQ2g_eWhYI1h5YCdYyHJVv-DkUM7TaP4EA8QGBM4/s200/DSC02653.jpg" border="0" /></a>Since I am in New Zealand in the winter, the off-season, I am blissfully alone on the roads, campgrounds and at what might otherwise be bustling tourist stops. This is the perfect place and time for me to spend a week in solitary meditation – my kind of meditation, the kind where I am surrounded by beauty and safely all alone. I am in solitary nirvana.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOhzCDPJcxAwuWSx55-rjZoYKrFr6xG5yKqVptKGELqMBHj96wlgEptMEpbK969vNltCaENsPEf_17P0oSjcXcXzy8CkvE6oBA-26tLThIzPCZ56puVOHypFFXDrHSUgMz__GQ5V1Ytis/s1600-h/DSC02756.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339993630821910450" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 400px; cursor: pointer; height: 300px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOhzCDPJcxAwuWSx55-rjZoYKrFr6xG5yKqVptKGELqMBHj96wlgEptMEpbK969vNltCaENsPEf_17P0oSjcXcXzy8CkvE6oBA-26tLThIzPCZ56puVOHypFFXDrHSUgMz__GQ5V1Ytis/s400/DSC02756.jpg" border="0" /></a>Prior to this blissful reality I enjoyed three days of guided touring through another part of New Zealand’s north island. At the teacher training I did in Bali this past March, I met a lovely woman named Nicky who graciously introduced me to her friend Owen. Owen lives in Auckland and is a fellow Ashtangi and he offered to show me around.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6Mxx_edle71Gda5qto0dDSWXbawcfuuqFZzI5bTaTxwEF5C9gYFRx2CBEM3gHvxhiMvs6BAA6fozBkrr2nQ5sjfK_HKU8-zsP3IFvAlJYovkkt9OW3I9204bSdhUVq5C1GNiCChoaX08/s1600-h/DSC02684.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339994405718017730" style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; width: 150px; cursor: pointer; height: 200px;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6Mxx_edle71Gda5qto0dDSWXbawcfuuqFZzI5bTaTxwEF5C9gYFRx2CBEM3gHvxhiMvs6BAA6fozBkrr2nQ5sjfK_HKU8-zsP3IFvAlJYovkkt9OW3I9204bSdhUVq5C1GNiCChoaX08/s200/DSC02684.jpg" border="0" /></a>My first night in Auckland, Owen picked me up and took me to his weekly African Drumming class where I got to play for the first time in my life. It was fantastic! The drumming circle meets in the sanctuary of an old brick church, the acoustics and energy of the place are really beautiful, but I must admit I was a bit distracted by how cold it was. No worries, I thought, it is just an old church, that’s why there is no heating.<br /><br />Afterwards we went out for a fantastic Indian dinner and again no heat so I relied on the curry and chai to keep me warm. During dinner I jokingly commented on the lack of heating and asked what New Zealand had against ductwork, Owen informed me that most places don’t have indoor heat. A fact further proven to me when I returned to my hotel to find that the staff had kindly put a space heater in my room. Having spent most of the last year in tropical clinates, my cold weather gear was limited to one pair of jeans, one wool shirt and a couple pairs of socks.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9BasIs7z2yju7Nvf_5EyUWusSo0QGZW-hwnH7nb66tEO_AwRukRreUdecldH5Q4KPhHVTmaUW7HLdYF7d6RUHpDAh-bzbK3Fa0o6VjpB9-Xz2mZjakhfBSYjfzKGG3SI5mtIUUtaGehg/s1600-h/DSC02744.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339993623937393394" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 400px; cursor: pointer; height: 300px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9BasIs7z2yju7Nvf_5EyUWusSo0QGZW-hwnH7nb66tEO_AwRukRreUdecldH5Q4KPhHVTmaUW7HLdYF7d6RUHpDAh-bzbK3Fa0o6VjpB9-Xz2mZjakhfBSYjfzKGG3SI5mtIUUtaGehg/s400/DSC02744.jpg" border="0" /></a>The next morning I bought a fleece jacket, then Owen and I headed east to the Coromandel Peninsula. We drove past gorgeous beaches with fishermen coming back from their day’s labor, through mountains given added depth by low-lying clouds and past field after field of cows and sheep. That first night we stayed with Owen’s sister Ruth, her husband Ben and their two lovely daughters. They were so kind and inviting that I really couldn’t help but fall instantly in love with them all.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiue4rLCYZco8eIUFoysEszhlY3cKDJOOYu8GskdBelRAVQwZSzqz_ZujSccxbGGkFuG6pZVbQPGgRUCWc_9PYanaH3y2q8ATtxfYo_wAwuMfd0C93jhBqmHN_YlHEPAq3taEQH6BWjyBE/s1600-h/DSC02706.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339995104854411314" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 400px; cursor: pointer; height: 300px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiue4rLCYZco8eIUFoysEszhlY3cKDJOOYu8GskdBelRAVQwZSzqz_ZujSccxbGGkFuG6pZVbQPGgRUCWc_9PYanaH3y2q8ATtxfYo_wAwuMfd0C93jhBqmHN_YlHEPAq3taEQH6BWjyBE/s400/DSC02706.jpg" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh53WmGtlvbtz9gJ9J44JbkDPNgXwabSXJQkAQxEoX8UIZsoaH1wPp5mxb1i6Y9p0vw1xFcQvJ3miHcCjdNCibYeNv6rMMKc45FdEofvksQjjsbI-vz3rKID02QxBCTlXqS7T0Hd4MTF54/s1600-h/DSC02677.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339994402722461714" style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; width: 200px; cursor: pointer; height: 150px;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh53WmGtlvbtz9gJ9J44JbkDPNgXwabSXJQkAQxEoX8UIZsoaH1wPp5mxb1i6Y9p0vw1xFcQvJ3miHcCjdNCibYeNv6rMMKc45FdEofvksQjjsbI-vz3rKID02QxBCTlXqS7T0Hd4MTF54/s200/DSC02677.jpg" border="0" /></a>The next day we headed south stopping at Cathedral Cove Marine Reserve, a series of teal blue bays bordered by blonde rocks intricately carved out by the ocean. Then we ventured on to Hot Water Bay.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_5LU-CpvKHfG1tlVFSW3d5KbAJfuvHmi4olPLWUKRI81-aY57yk2siRCwQSnSxudydv78vxVYRjM7LpAU2LQtkxs2MySg6CPWkMyGAOCJ0CluAiOsISzZVEV1HGikPAZ38y_0v9HLGvY/s1600-h/DSC02740.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339993618978005586" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 300px; cursor: pointer; height: 400px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_5LU-CpvKHfG1tlVFSW3d5KbAJfuvHmi4olPLWUKRI81-aY57yk2siRCwQSnSxudydv78vxVYRjM7LpAU2LQtkxs2MySg6CPWkMyGAOCJ0CluAiOsISzZVEV1HGikPAZ38y_0v9HLGvY/s400/DSC02740.jpg" border="0" /></a>If you surf this might be your idea of Nirvana – a beautiful right break coming into a mile-long white sand beach and if you get cold while surfing, no bother, just come ashore and dig a hole in the sand where hot natural spring water gurgles up and fills the hole for you to bathe in. Sadly our timing was a bit off and the high-tide prevented us from getting to experience the soaking part, but the view more than made up for it.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWGx-yol3pZgSX5J7SlmGAh7ZogEGqcjPTfoQ0dodfcTuIuwQY4oWYrFl_IwW2sOcTFKVwEgss8ZuPJkVvsjBHZZkw4c4MjkWVZ15oT_7pNTB7SWEPmdOr8Zg_lfSmXsO7eD1OO2SKn-8/s1600-h/DSC02753.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339993629750276722" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 400px; cursor: pointer; height: 300px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWGx-yol3pZgSX5J7SlmGAh7ZogEGqcjPTfoQ0dodfcTuIuwQY4oWYrFl_IwW2sOcTFKVwEgss8ZuPJkVvsjBHZZkw4c4MjkWVZ15oT_7pNTB7SWEPmdOr8Zg_lfSmXsO7eD1OO2SKn-8/s400/DSC02753.jpg" border="0" /></a>We spent the night at Prana, a private retreat center near Ohui that features rustic accommodations in old campers. We are talking 1950-60’s campers, complete with real faux-wood paneling and 50 years of mildew build up. It was so very ME! The next morning Owen and I each found a perch overlooking the ocean and had our own meditations enhanced by a steady stream of dolphins swimming past us. After that, we had an Ashtanga practice together on the retreat center’s stage before heading back to Auckland.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFp5mjP0RPpybTH-EnVi18-JCVytowEdSGz_NpjGx1c4AGUFdP4ZjhQI027KpNesoSyjvSAHZCmXFQgnyTZqfzLctRgOuvQOCegqjDKm8np7DXKtBmwLhLwcQ7Onm-tf1lWjlrCe-ZVIw/s1600-h/DSC02776.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339995112484305010" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 400px; cursor: pointer; height: 300px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFp5mjP0RPpybTH-EnVi18-JCVytowEdSGz_NpjGx1c4AGUFdP4ZjhQI027KpNesoSyjvSAHZCmXFQgnyTZqfzLctRgOuvQOCegqjDKm8np7DXKtBmwLhLwcQ7Onm-tf1lWjlrCe-ZVIw/s400/DSC02776.jpg" border="0" /></a>Once back in the city Owen saw me off and I hit the road solo. Having this camper is such a treat for me. In case you didn’t know, I traveled once before for more than a year in a truck camper and it was the happiest year of my life up to that point. That time though I was with my best friend/ex-husband and his spirit is with me very strongly now as I sit in this camper, half a world away.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilxl1Ez6L85iSYgXgkufQsajTcn6QD_ORKULn9WXkwxSvn-RKVAHQSQFW2Qm-yqYH3-B_FDhKmTo6esAyKf0zT7DKB7Cn6P-5TfH8geEaJ-MLQ2nQ2__KXQODJrXgp21Z_9V-Khl_1L70/s1600-h/DSC02835.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339995388707839362" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 400px; cursor: pointer; height: 300px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilxl1Ez6L85iSYgXgkufQsajTcn6QD_ORKULn9WXkwxSvn-RKVAHQSQFW2Qm-yqYH3-B_FDhKmTo6esAyKf0zT7DKB7Cn6P-5TfH8geEaJ-MLQ2nQ2__KXQODJrXgp21Z_9V-Khl_1L70/s400/DSC02835.jpg" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh65wwqDPY5ib0dowGFaqD7InlAl7zZtTapdowk4S-EML07ZtNF2tunMP16wbKQTxU1MawgomDQhfOQ6HF7Z7cphA-IvnnDlURU6BCGRflb_Ejs-M44mbIbtgflVXLAXiNcaJepSlDxDEA/s1600-h/DSC02782.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339994830203063602" style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; width: 150px; cursor: pointer; height: 200px;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh65wwqDPY5ib0dowGFaqD7InlAl7zZtTapdowk4S-EML07ZtNF2tunMP16wbKQTxU1MawgomDQhfOQ6HF7Z7cphA-IvnnDlURU6BCGRflb_Ejs-M44mbIbtgflVXLAXiNcaJepSlDxDEA/s200/DSC02782.jpg" border="0" /></a>This time alone in the ‘campa’, I am acutely aware of the changes that have happened for me in this last year. Eleven months into traveling the world through yoga and I am different. I am stronger, less self-conscious, more whole and I'm filled with unending gratitude.<br /><br />I am well, I am wiser and I am joyful!<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu0cNhN1WqPX1s_sTdgm2eNZYW41M1n8WW2tJoV_O8wEPs8nkQ5BC2NUMrjtdM2tdb4tZQBlP0OyGTBD7N9_oAwiN94LfvRIxM4zOykdB47QtNVsKaX6Qn5Mcd3DtuePV-sKSOmFNq6Mw/s1600-h/DSC02733.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339992760967689586" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 300px; cursor: pointer; height: 400px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu0cNhN1WqPX1s_sTdgm2eNZYW41M1n8WW2tJoV_O8wEPs8nkQ5BC2NUMrjtdM2tdb4tZQBlP0OyGTBD7N9_oAwiN94LfvRIxM4zOykdB47QtNVsKaX6Qn5Mcd3DtuePV-sKSOmFNq6Mw/s400/DSC02733.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(255, 102, 0);"><span style="font-style: italic;">Lokah Samasthah Sukhino Bhavantu </span>– May All Beings Everywhere Attain Happiness & Freedom</span><br /><br />The past few days have been so photo worthy that I offer up these additional images.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2ISMFNlrI7PzwtiJnz_dL8qtnNp-XBMym5W3JIMnHNA0nJz-x8OWW0nvBPONtAID1RrVXBpuR0UXubfT413HsNsnUSyloF3evi6lMRQbSiYv-qjCH0xnFbrj16EIzRxqKB_Kx-cVfuS8/s1600-h/DSC02860.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339995391066183986" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 400px; cursor: pointer; height: 300px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2ISMFNlrI7PzwtiJnz_dL8qtnNp-XBMym5W3JIMnHNA0nJz-x8OWW0nvBPONtAID1RrVXBpuR0UXubfT413HsNsnUSyloF3evi6lMRQbSiYv-qjCH0xnFbrj16EIzRxqKB_Kx-cVfuS8/s400/DSC02860.jpg" border="0" /></a>My private beach at Waipu Cove<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwxzqJZjolQIOz8VcUahtduV8GkvW39f_OH_h4taD4mJeAPU1tZdNvOZu4JOtS865Ddb0AcNLVUAVcg2fp174nTAzMCmjfsDoHMYuKB1iCMkvKa2ZEQ2KFVruZhWIF-EJ1c3pICA-19Us/s1600-h/DSC02832.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339995386121731314" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 300px; cursor: pointer; height: 400px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwxzqJZjolQIOz8VcUahtduV8GkvW39f_OH_h4taD4mJeAPU1tZdNvOZu4JOtS865Ddb0AcNLVUAVcg2fp174nTAzMCmjfsDoHMYuKB1iCMkvKa2ZEQ2KFVruZhWIF-EJ1c3pICA-19Us/s400/DSC02832.jpg" border="0" /></a>The Waipu Cove Estuary<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1IcCkIBmsuwbXpBCOCgr24eXlzku9pFoHzoe3eC_ikPzU8Rh4ZUPJDM7Ak-PcaxTcpj7ocTfP1O0W4f1I46BnMnCvVSbnNDwYRZbiYGbFxrebDLN8JOT8vPqVaQ7n7ZZurDX6DSlUGBI/s1600-h/DSC02823.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339995383011402690" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 400px; cursor: pointer; height: 300px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1IcCkIBmsuwbXpBCOCgr24eXlzku9pFoHzoe3eC_ikPzU8Rh4ZUPJDM7Ak-PcaxTcpj7ocTfP1O0W4f1I46BnMnCvVSbnNDwYRZbiYGbFxrebDLN8JOT8vPqVaQ7n7ZZurDX6DSlUGBI/s400/DSC02823.jpg" border="0" /></a>Lang's Beach<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdFPorAUChm0YTLw-lv3cMNUIWK0JKLKlZcXtZxgxQ7vFLYwO4bzChmhyuGrRWJdXh0uYZrFcglrEqyJJ_gIXza4-DIPOADH0afNWEttwYzC0bCee8H7CEV8PwAYl7gMN-1Pj3UkjUuMM/s1600-h/DSC02789.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339995116021479522" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 300px; cursor: pointer; height: 400px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdFPorAUChm0YTLw-lv3cMNUIWK0JKLKlZcXtZxgxQ7vFLYwO4bzChmhyuGrRWJdXh0uYZrFcglrEqyJJ_gIXza4-DIPOADH0afNWEttwYzC0bCee8H7CEV8PwAYl7gMN-1Pj3UkjUuMM/s400/DSC02789.jpg" border="0" /></a>Prana's Beach<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJPBfpGY9HFc92pUskCtLDEQfY6QUSZdfBbelLsUIvzBEPRp-mPZWIqH4d2RYrGKtiAxC4scX0yf5_3WurhvrYwVVA18xjLwp9ePxgr-YE0tqApckDFZc94ftAqRC3gULqV2GzAXDz4aQ/s1600-h/DSC02699.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339995104614125826" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 400px; cursor: pointer; height: 300px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJPBfpGY9HFc92pUskCtLDEQfY6QUSZdfBbelLsUIvzBEPRp-mPZWIqH4d2RYrGKtiAxC4scX0yf5_3WurhvrYwVVA18xjLwp9ePxgr-YE0tqApckDFZc94ftAqRC3gULqV2GzAXDz4aQ/s400/DSC02699.jpg" border="0" /></a>Cathedral Bay's Cathedral<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh23OGXxh88vj8Qt_83N5XLpJ6iri-rVKJG-yGgprPvyn7ZCfRKj_o5MfQWpPDk_XY8XicsHRIhnllnfGIh7sodwh2LwDlLvxE_WKWZ3F0dHF3Uf3MRHeN062i5ytKbxneckCa_kcCpMhc/s1600-h/DSC02734.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339993617274235538" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 300px; cursor: pointer; height: 400px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh23OGXxh88vj8Qt_83N5XLpJ6iri-rVKJG-yGgprPvyn7ZCfRKj_o5MfQWpPDk_XY8XicsHRIhnllnfGIh7sodwh2LwDlLvxE_WKWZ3F0dHF3Uf3MRHeN062i5ytKbxneckCa_kcCpMhc/s400/DSC02734.jpg" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPpyS_QdECozRUUxlnWnWQcAQ7qKM-xe354TXl7TaVeVu1ItssPDR5V6lWBHXNAL_tvFUqpTmM-amtonsUECXvty4uovZBsOpcn2vqAjtSrQ79mKTpwo-sZU_v6EcuDIXrt8T0NjQ_8pc/s1600-h/DSC02630.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339992751356893810" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 300px; cursor: pointer; height: 400px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPpyS_QdECozRUUxlnWnWQcAQ7qKM-xe354TXl7TaVeVu1ItssPDR5V6lWBHXNAL_tvFUqpTmM-amtonsUECXvty4uovZBsOpcn2vqAjtSrQ79mKTpwo-sZU_v6EcuDIXrt8T0NjQ_8pc/s400/DSC02630.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI3PSnHNGi8QS24XIucbHBkHcsWfdJyVgtJJ8dpNy5PAE5utVBkGufvxlIBC42ZA7cmjh5k398bgGR5NYD4lobGdqJB_NCuB8iXYnERI6mHT2kBTI8Tj6vZHboneU173cMC7YlUMOCexc/s1600-h/DSC02767.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339995110344911778" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 300px; cursor: pointer; height: 400px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI3PSnHNGi8QS24XIucbHBkHcsWfdJyVgtJJ8dpNy5PAE5utVBkGufvxlIBC42ZA7cmjh5k398bgGR5NYD4lobGdqJB_NCuB8iXYnERI6mHT2kBTI8Tj6vZHboneU173cMC7YlUMOCexc/s400/DSC02767.jpg" border="0" /></a>Indian prayer offered at the Prana beach.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2gSqV3QQZZS-tWxIHaWv6MPyqAJitRgQfld0fG2X9IvLgPfuwN7z4R__VqjoG5djh-ku4Y-O0QEKJfx6jjqBMqxrayVfhEeiGkK0deVbEswkP1IlVH7jjAwRBmhxk-Gai13FeYwqx0_U/s1600-h/DSC02642.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339992750034849106" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 300px; cursor: pointer; height: 400px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2gSqV3QQZZS-tWxIHaWv6MPyqAJitRgQfld0fG2X9IvLgPfuwN7z4R__VqjoG5djh-ku4Y-O0QEKJfx6jjqBMqxrayVfhEeiGkK0deVbEswkP1IlVH7jjAwRBmhxk-Gai13FeYwqx0_U/s400/DSC02642.jpg" border="0" /></a> </div>Rachel Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196197020015257649noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4217460362646169634.post-12099877547780541482009-05-19T12:41:00.008+08:002009-05-19T13:16:12.228+08:00House of Cards<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmXYgjCytsTrb5uxNDGynJ1ig3IHYYV3Zp3QBj5tSbTnehxOhkQHEQC46ZWNpwWX3fMG2LhS4Dr2cVdECC7wCmIgwxeEDDx-6fGFvwjzWQ9KkUIslJ5k9zpe276b_Q153hG9_168QAUaA/s1600-h/DSC02469.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmXYgjCytsTrb5uxNDGynJ1ig3IHYYV3Zp3QBj5tSbTnehxOhkQHEQC46ZWNpwWX3fMG2LhS4Dr2cVdECC7wCmIgwxeEDDx-6fGFvwjzWQ9KkUIslJ5k9zpe276b_Q153hG9_168QAUaA/s400/DSC02469.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5337391244463399970" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivLyQJP3syIgi9QGkm-ZroA8JS0oTBrJu97vCnS8wO7vSLFBqG-GDXXJpCu3wYhYQBFWd29hOO3y4gAOI_lVmU87-FzXwKlJgmo2jloUYJ8EtCdIV0Gu9Qs3wAcGHM2DyNf7CLYtqbni0/s1600-h/DSC02297.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 142px; height: 187px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivLyQJP3syIgi9QGkm-ZroA8JS0oTBrJu97vCnS8wO7vSLFBqG-GDXXJpCu3wYhYQBFWd29hOO3y4gAOI_lVmU87-FzXwKlJgmo2jloUYJ8EtCdIV0Gu9Qs3wAcGHM2DyNf7CLYtqbni0/s400/DSC02297.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5337394999799708738" border="0" /></a>It started with Mr. Sunny, or maybe it started with the healer I kept visiting but somewhere about a month ago I lost my footing. Things went from smooth sailing along a well-paved path, to literally and figuratively stumbling at every turn. There was the passport debacle, which was quickly followed by my debit card deciding to leave me, rendering me without access to money.<br /><br />This proved to be quite a nuisance for both me and my Mom who had to Fed Ex me a new card, but all in all it was manageable and I decided it was the universe telling me to stop spending so quickly. I would have preferred a more subtle message, say like losing $5, but who am I to argue?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhaOOrAr-a4isQw3WYFk2uRo-UARmrIPk05SdNClPWlN5g352yc_RZQyzgaYkmPB7WT4pRzgr9wYmn3uvdie0rpuDvPl-cXO0tB0OWKOMIr9TaDabQ7rrOujUnpguR7NvXvE5lGH_kSQg/s1600-h/DSC02279.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhaOOrAr-a4isQw3WYFk2uRo-UARmrIPk05SdNClPWlN5g352yc_RZQyzgaYkmPB7WT4pRzgr9wYmn3uvdie0rpuDvPl-cXO0tB0OWKOMIr9TaDabQ7rrOujUnpguR7NvXvE5lGH_kSQg/s200/DSC02279.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5337395824346289906" border="0" /></a>Then my lovely Mysore sister Cary arrived and we made plans to trek around Ubud and spend some time at the beach. The second night Cary was there a huge rainstorm hit, it flooded the apartment and made the tiles floors turn to slip-n-slides. I slipped and slid right into the door jam and broke two toes – one on each foot.<br /><br />All right, I guess the universe wants me to slow down, start to ground myself or something along those lines. Dear universe: I am working to decipher these not-so-subtle messages, but come on, cut a girl some slack I think one tow would have hit home just fine.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1SZwcdrnqgF0nIC5_DhyC1PWC_W1_AIfzNq6E5o7P7w2aeCWRCv2fokP_Sc-gMhslYTXVH6i9tcZbw8imdKv1ELxBxBJU4RLqWokSgNV9XztLT_MlmclETEjmJntWb0KuH7Kk84hnptk/s1600-h/DSC02298.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1SZwcdrnqgF0nIC5_DhyC1PWC_W1_AIfzNq6E5o7P7w2aeCWRCv2fokP_Sc-gMhslYTXVH6i9tcZbw8imdKv1ELxBxBJU4RLqWokSgNV9XztLT_MlmclETEjmJntWb0KuH7Kk84hnptk/s200/DSC02298.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5337395829919908370" border="0" /></a>Then four of us Bali Spirit girls headed over to the Gili islands for a few days of bad behavior and tanning. I think it best to not disclose all my bad habits here but sufficed to say, I made a few poor decisions on Gili one of which left me quite ill and seriously questioning my decision making processes.<br /><br />I returned to Ubud and began packing up. Another two months had just flown by and the time had come for me to leave my Bali home. My replacement debit card had still not arrived so when Claude offered to partially pay me for my retreats in cash it seemed like a very good way to ensure I could keep traveling.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmQfimD9eqIBls-8Xgy932F9IBduK45Hewr0w80-4598l22dIaGbdC7n-8M_Bi2sh5F1McAjP4StVK1nqq_K7rL33y9f8u3bjAo9SPqpERDEQgVPgbsKY5kAfl6ygSN5d8NVQDEFiT2IU/s1600-h/DSC02355.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmQfimD9eqIBls-8Xgy932F9IBduK45Hewr0w80-4598l22dIaGbdC7n-8M_Bi2sh5F1McAjP4StVK1nqq_K7rL33y9f8u3bjAo9SPqpERDEQgVPgbsKY5kAfl6ygSN5d8NVQDEFiT2IU/s200/DSC02355.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5337395832879741058" border="0" /></a>This is how I came to have $450 US dollars in my wallet – something I never do. I have a few self-imposed rules for traveling: never have my drivers license and passport in the same place, never have my debit card and my credit card in the same place and never carry more than $200 cash. I broke those rules in Australia.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkpLdGvYsFPDxmdwXevLSme72BDqmgurCSKmXhuycRxbppxADirIJgEHJnmK3q7GFidWPp-CsuPKcpUtxm1t5rY39ZUmYS9BtMqszD1UmxitrxjZ3QGkZYQZpxRQqdiW7G4xyTbaKsGGE/s1600-h/DSC02575.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkpLdGvYsFPDxmdwXevLSme72BDqmgurCSKmXhuycRxbppxADirIJgEHJnmK3q7GFidWPp-CsuPKcpUtxm1t5rY39ZUmYS9BtMqszD1UmxitrxjZ3QGkZYQZpxRQqdiW7G4xyTbaKsGGE/s200/DSC02575.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5337393241700919330" border="0" /></a>My last two days in Bali were productive but scattered. I just kept thinking, <span style="font-style: italic;">Rachel, pull your sh*t together</span>. I had to repack my bag about ten times because I just couldn’t make it all fit, I missed appointments, and basically just struggled with every tiny task.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMj_C7742CehgZn559cumn9IUfPfCaS-8hK2YaVm7wxKWGYQeptAVX1rFA0UyLLk1GiP8uA7FxtvJK0i1pnm32MgAQr70BhNkIroNFK7Dk2l4FMs00bHemDWsvzjKtiJdNdSWZ85lIkoA/s1600-h/DSC02306.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMj_C7742CehgZn559cumn9IUfPfCaS-8hK2YaVm7wxKWGYQeptAVX1rFA0UyLLk1GiP8uA7FxtvJK0i1pnm32MgAQr70BhNkIroNFK7Dk2l4FMs00bHemDWsvzjKtiJdNdSWZ85lIkoA/s200/DSC02306.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5337395829966186226" border="0" /></a>Two days before I left Bali my bankcard arrived. Alright, I am whole again I thought, I can use an ATM. In the hopes that none of you will ever have to experience this, let me tell you it is a real pain in the arse to not have a bankcard when you are half a world away from your nearest local bank branch. Requisite shout-out to my beautiful mother for her proximity to speaker phones and Fed Ex outlets.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7VIduNhKtyr8Kg88iv3RXWYbEY3lmTN1jG-rLe8nExotp9o0grHdccG0oV70ipttv0dKwKVmReC-t8pEaQfR05ELSgSBNgUxSBaK7kNFfGtngDKlRpMupLffO997JGhK2cnM-UHBnjc8/s1600-h/DSC02418.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7VIduNhKtyr8Kg88iv3RXWYbEY3lmTN1jG-rLe8nExotp9o0grHdccG0oV70ipttv0dKwKVmReC-t8pEaQfR05ELSgSBNgUxSBaK7kNFfGtngDKlRpMupLffO997JGhK2cnM-UHBnjc8/s200/DSC02418.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5337393229941797938" border="0" /></a>Pande my friend and trusty driver picked me up to take me to the Denpasar airport. I was still a completely scattered mess and I was coming down with a cold which was not helping to unfog my head. Pande dropped me off, I gathered up all my various bags and trotted off to test the validity of my visa extension. About an hour later I realized I had forgotten to pay Pande and he had been too kind to yell at me across the sea of passengers.<br /><br />At immigration it quickly became obvious that Mr. Sunny’s visa was less than legit. The pit in my belly reserved for times of impending prosecution flared up and I am pretty sure all the tan left my body as my face turned white in those panicked five to ten minutes. In the end I ‘repaid’ the departure tax to the immigration officer – a bribe of 150,000 rupiah – which allowed me to leave and soothed the digestive fire ravishing my gut.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz-d2vpQ0H6ZcqZBC9TQ20rzVOlPRrXtDQab86q3Kb9AkCqjAFnwua5_umkr3ljWAoLmyMQIUmsLKa3DvbM5RWxqgtVbhgZ2hgqLCb8iwmwZIycYsU-Z9lNOYB6bOct1EVLQP0mFumHu0/s1600-h/DSC02423.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz-d2vpQ0H6ZcqZBC9TQ20rzVOlPRrXtDQab86q3Kb9AkCqjAFnwua5_umkr3ljWAoLmyMQIUmsLKa3DvbM5RWxqgtVbhgZ2hgqLCb8iwmwZIycYsU-Z9lNOYB6bOct1EVLQP0mFumHu0/s400/DSC02423.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5337391236767452594" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNWM7Uwnob4b4Awg3H1wUHb7WedW4kktscARehRf-I9ujjNXOSwGuMSMmeedljF7DtSz3BMKdBgNFdVrpZbFSDRP5wCE0x6Sc419DrU3i3hC6kfIbXOex-gpy-d_jl0-ZdOe1DuJX8X-Y/s1600-h/DSC02433.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNWM7Uwnob4b4Awg3H1wUHb7WedW4kktscARehRf-I9ujjNXOSwGuMSMmeedljF7DtSz3BMKdBgNFdVrpZbFSDRP5wCE0x6Sc419DrU3i3hC6kfIbXOex-gpy-d_jl0-ZdOe1DuJX8X-Y/s200/DSC02433.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5337392443733003266" border="0" /></a>Next stop Melbourne, Australia. Once I got to Australia I felt like the tides were changing, I was functioning at a relatively high level again. I had a few truly beautiful days in Daylesford, Vicotria getting to experience a country-side autumn and not having to make any plans or decisions as my friend led me around his home turf.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF2Vg3DmRXPVQfZoJHwPqq7txNlquFd-vxxsrdgYsliEpKxKRm1yjcp4i97V0FlbkfaxxquzRtRzEG0qP-MmE_trB9mS70f408Kjk3OA3Vv5X5I1KReism1Bp4tb4eZw5nxdrtnk3RcHI/s1600-h/DSC02459.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF2Vg3DmRXPVQfZoJHwPqq7txNlquFd-vxxsrdgYsliEpKxKRm1yjcp4i97V0FlbkfaxxquzRtRzEG0qP-MmE_trB9mS70f408Kjk3OA3Vv5X5I1KReism1Bp4tb4eZw5nxdrtnk3RcHI/s200/DSC02459.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5337393235305123986" border="0" /></a>Getting to see fall was really such a treat for me. I love seasons, I don’t think I can ever settle in the tropics because I love chilly autumn nights, the first buds of spring popping up through the frozen ground, and snow, I love snow. Daylesford was a pallet of blaze reds, pumpkin oranges and blonde grain fields. The highlight of that trip for me was a visit to a lavender farm.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizIrlihqovNU2ufAZK2G9Om0iZIwp7JvClwCa6Ab0X6OKkEXNRbx7GkXaUNiP-vHWu7h7CnvtT_e7ubaVW7iTrLFt1Sd3-GS-RJz2IlbvnVqsg2CAonrsPIMkcON1aqv7BCTkwkp63GvY/s1600-h/DSC02442.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizIrlihqovNU2ufAZK2G9Om0iZIwp7JvClwCa6Ab0X6OKkEXNRbx7GkXaUNiP-vHWu7h7CnvtT_e7ubaVW7iTrLFt1Sd3-GS-RJz2IlbvnVqsg2CAonrsPIMkcON1aqv7BCTkwkp63GvY/s200/DSC02442.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5337392446061361842" border="0" /></a>That may be my new happy place. A manageable sized farm of lavender fields and olive groves surrounded by Australian bush lands and herds of Kangaroos. For two days all was well again.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTLfHekS7YqSJR7hj_bNw_cc1U1KgRon6SFPos6ngGEkuXk0r0PX6345e5wBV3TdxnwTa_Pw_wgK_DFgbUqmkQSQ8vUHxhYTHgh9vd8VVPqk5Q_i9aTjVkbbQvfBxMGf21m7Nz3eCrmU8/s1600-h/DSC02487.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTLfHekS7YqSJR7hj_bNw_cc1U1KgRon6SFPos6ngGEkuXk0r0PX6345e5wBV3TdxnwTa_Pw_wgK_DFgbUqmkQSQ8vUHxhYTHgh9vd8VVPqk5Q_i9aTjVkbbQvfBxMGf21m7Nz3eCrmU8/s400/DSC02487.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5337393839651268018" border="0" /></a><br /></div>Then I headed off for Sydney. One of the serious trials of the global nomad is how much crap you have to tote along with you. I try to get away with as little as possible but this still means that when I fly anywhere I am trudging along with one giant suitcase, a yoga mat, a backpack, a purse and a computer bag. Myself and all my belongings made it into a cab from the airport to my friends’, Brad and Tors, house, but only myself and my luggage made it out of the cab. My purse decided to stay behind.<br /><br />As a result, I have spent the last 48 hours in a flat out panic, cancelling this, calling them, waiting by the phone, the inbox the door… This morning my emergency credit card arrived via DHL courier, tick that one off the list.<br /><br />Perhaps the biggest issue to arise from this lapse, aside from the $450 US that went missing too, is that I now have no drivers license, and while most Asian motorbike renters don’t seem to require such frivolities, New Zealand car hire shops do. What little plan I had for New Zealand hinged entirely around hiring a car to stow all my luggage in while I traipsed around the countryside, crashing at quaint B&B’s and stopping as I like to take photos.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQplQlktZ2R_ZzPkE7XiuzFhg4Np17E531SRMOXjBiAEzy85KaiaL2VsH8Z7oTCg3sXi8646yhPPoYyJhGJtkjh2ur3p5TVIrqVKAMUNDzgn_HI-_x9eXbT6O2CJi1zIeo0plQgMH_Lyg/s1600-h/DSC02607.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQplQlktZ2R_ZzPkE7XiuzFhg4Np17E531SRMOXjBiAEzy85KaiaL2VsH8Z7oTCg3sXi8646yhPPoYyJhGJtkjh2ur3p5TVIrqVKAMUNDzgn_HI-_x9eXbT6O2CJi1zIeo0plQgMH_Lyg/s400/DSC02607.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5337391252199126594" border="0" /></a>It hasn’t all been trial and tribulation however. Brad and Tors have seen to it that I got to sail in a weekend yacht race on Sunday and yesterday we cruised the Sydney harbor.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3aqYgh__B2_47PDd7z_9Yapu1mmD9-7h80WFMcaxuuN1xBOUs71H9ngvyBqDX8zobthuyXeJiLXrDfZxxgz7hzrrLNpjxwPw_Bo1udBCGskd9vlZuD2M7bc6UIba3kACX_JmmZrIQ1Y0/s1600-h/DSC02574.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3aqYgh__B2_47PDd7z_9Yapu1mmD9-7h80WFMcaxuuN1xBOUs71H9ngvyBqDX8zobthuyXeJiLXrDfZxxgz7hzrrLNpjxwPw_Bo1udBCGskd9vlZuD2M7bc6UIba3kACX_JmmZrIQ1Y0/s200/DSC02574.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5337392449496018690" border="0" /></a>In the afternoon, I met up with Gai, one of the Escape the World retreat yogis and she kindly took me in ,for which I am forever in her debt as my time with her was the height of my flightiness and scatterbrained status. I cried, I drank wine I left my bag at the coffee shop we went to, affectively losing my wallet all over again – thankfully this was only a momentary lapse.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhTvFnMpMP31-UYZpEKypqlWr5cu-nbi7pZsbeGJYjfQyJOSDI-Ldcxa5wvYEPGag3btCDajNTwKCQWCL4I-MWWPYu5JQeMYh3eENJVsSybkWGEZYHxeOW5dL6ItaLp6CxnolLN-S2Mmw/s1600-h/DSC02563.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhTvFnMpMP31-UYZpEKypqlWr5cu-nbi7pZsbeGJYjfQyJOSDI-Ldcxa5wvYEPGag3btCDajNTwKCQWCL4I-MWWPYu5JQeMYh3eENJVsSybkWGEZYHxeOW5dL6ItaLp6CxnolLN-S2Mmw/s200/DSC02563.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5337393246274669458" border="0" /></a>And through it all I couldn’t put my finger on why I was so frazzled, why I felt so ungrounded, so lost. I am having a hard time figuring out this stage, but come on universe… let me keep some money on me – whatever lesson we are working on here on can’t really require me to be penniless can it?<br /><br />However, even in the midst of the storm I managed to have some really lovely moments. Sailing, walking around Sydney and sharing meals with friends I have met along the way.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPN7QZlLc5Jsgdsby_VV1OwFKjp3TiFDBfb72JpE8KdD_ZGiJwayhDF4hyUxnVLJdthzSFy_RB9XIBMPstxPkBk1tytW9_H7N0vRbAWX0UakvmrJ5oqFFyXQoCIEySo3NRngrrP5YC9C8/s1600-h/DSC02558.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPN7QZlLc5Jsgdsby_VV1OwFKjp3TiFDBfb72JpE8KdD_ZGiJwayhDF4hyUxnVLJdthzSFy_RB9XIBMPstxPkBk1tytW9_H7N0vRbAWX0UakvmrJ5oqFFyXQoCIEySo3NRngrrP5YC9C8/s400/DSC02558.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5337391247397456050" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqxLqVRkg7Ha2IsP99hTGIKJ83Akqi58gE5VoJYp75yJQCkSxfWqYw28xxpFUQxqKpRevgy_nSwUGclRgm3GRtz2ElKB8hH7h7KQifk8CSJesnl0S6uQ4Zzf9lN0_aoaT1PiRUwIdGxwo/s1600-h/DSC02581.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqxLqVRkg7Ha2IsP99hTGIKJ83Akqi58gE5VoJYp75yJQCkSxfWqYw28xxpFUQxqKpRevgy_nSwUGclRgm3GRtz2ElKB8hH7h7KQifk8CSJesnl0S6uQ4Zzf9lN0_aoaT1PiRUwIdGxwo/s200/DSC02581.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5337393238256024466" border="0" /></a>Today, the tide really is turning, because I am making it so! Enough of the scatterbrained girl I have been lately.<br /><br />Proverbial ducks … time to get in your proverbial rows!<br /><br />Universe, while I am still not 100% clear on which lesson I am learning here, unattachment, responsibility, stability, frugality... I promise I am working on it, so you can take it easy on me for a while...<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);">Footnote: After writing this I learned that yesterday Guruji, Sri. K. Patabbhi Jois passed away in Myspre, India. Guruji is the father of my kind of yoga and the gifts that he left during his time here are immeasurable. I honor him tonight with a Mysore practice and by paying puja to him and for all of us who love him and the path he followed.<br />Om Shanit Guruji, Om Shanti Ashtangis.</span>Rachel Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196197020015257649noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4217460362646169634.post-12351088494117923682009-05-05T10:17:00.006+08:002009-05-05T10:50:52.645+08:00So Hum - I am<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRWY_tynSU24mycOjOBN1FHNoQXdXXq8EH4cP5F-epRIq0pZUNMDXZNmTR6pDAooBcrtNLnEsPrJxHGMX6EF_TylhVD-jgg-z7WX9yXdvNtMRCRs0_wyDaP0XX42Aqs-uFX7VwHVEo7mA/s1600-h/DSC02154.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRWY_tynSU24mycOjOBN1FHNoQXdXXq8EH4cP5F-epRIq0pZUNMDXZNmTR6pDAooBcrtNLnEsPrJxHGMX6EF_TylhVD-jgg-z7WX9yXdvNtMRCRs0_wyDaP0XX42Aqs-uFX7VwHVEo7mA/s400/DSC02154.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332160466645444994" border="0" /></a>I planned this trip to Bali around three events, my retreat, Shiva Rea’s teacher training and the Bali Spirit Festival. Due to the Indonesian elections and a swiftly imposed rule that in the weeks leading up to Election Day, no large groups could assemble, the Spirit Festival was forced to switch dates. While I know this caused innumerable headaches to the event organizers, it resulted in a boon of yogi culture in Bali for more than a month.<br /><br />Many teachers and performers who had planned to be here for the festival in early April were unable to make it for the new late-April dates, but chose to come to Bali anyway. New teachers and performers were brought in to fill the festival’s calendar and so I sort of got a two-for-one of the cream of the yogic crop.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinp-mEweT6BgbQLzkCzQofy8SjV6Jq-VSEDV-mZ25QhaARCnktvIHPXseJvw-PfmYBIaT2G-CXS4rkGC9A6UVAfdcz0nOt-BphBXtwcjAcwcNoI-AWOtlsbktEzM3JUSMXX7udoC52Qoo/s1600-h/SL370582.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinp-mEweT6BgbQLzkCzQofy8SjV6Jq-VSEDV-mZ25QhaARCnktvIHPXseJvw-PfmYBIaT2G-CXS4rkGC9A6UVAfdcz0nOt-BphBXtwcjAcwcNoI-AWOtlsbktEzM3JUSMXX7udoC52Qoo/s200/SL370582.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332163169188169346" border="0" /></a>Tuesday I completed my last day of 'work' in Bali by participating in a reality TV shoot at Kumara Sakti. Oh the things I do... seriously sometimes I really wonder. A Dutch-based show is filming a series in Bali, bringing famous people here for restorative vacations. This one featured <a href="http://www.dannydemunk.nl/">Denny de Munk</a> attending a yoga class. If you live in Europe look for my backside or possibly my left foot's TV debut this November.<br /><br />I bought a Bali Spirit Festival pass and volunteered my services writing the daily press releases. This job suited me quite well since a requirement for writing about the workshops and concerts is attending them. In order to fulfill my duties, I am up at 6 a.m., attending my morning asana class by 8:00 and I usually get home around 10 p.m.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDRPLYWO4RiUdVWcCliZoE_6NgNMnyVGKBiKBsqxA5HMLH0q6D37DhFf0cx3eIXLXUn68gOzIFUrRaFp0FkdeRo_NEhfdVUrELnur0Sd0LhddzGhS03TGUilaD3IpEa0HO1w71hrxgNz8/s1600-h/DSC02169.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDRPLYWO4RiUdVWcCliZoE_6NgNMnyVGKBiKBsqxA5HMLH0q6D37DhFf0cx3eIXLXUn68gOzIFUrRaFp0FkdeRo_NEhfdVUrELnur0Sd0LhddzGhS03TGUilaD3IpEa0HO1w71hrxgNz8/s400/DSC02169.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332160465129569298" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSrZi0ESMwGGp_UgKQKTpuxM4Mg2SPfsH5OoCZxn06BlaorP-EWvl711JwsslM5FbgICAXt5DiHvNeGTfs57Lbt-c0h9b95zn107A30s7ulJG7krQYkHgTA1RYxIRy9i_qfhjXWw4qceI/s1600-h/DSC02167.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSrZi0ESMwGGp_UgKQKTpuxM4Mg2SPfsH5OoCZxn06BlaorP-EWvl711JwsslM5FbgICAXt5DiHvNeGTfs57Lbt-c0h9b95zn107A30s7ulJG7krQYkHgTA1RYxIRy9i_qfhjXWw4qceI/s200/DSC02167.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332163169466586162" border="0" /></a>My days are chockablock full of asana, ayurveda, tantric chanting, movement meditations, trance dance, poi play and Kirtans. It is like a yogic Lalopalooza has come to town and I have a media pass! The event is still in its infancy, this is only its second year. But what it lacks in age it more than makes up for in the breadth of workshops and the spirit of the festivalgoers. The ‘stars’ of the show hold no pretences, they mingle freely with the yogis, and take each others’ workshops with the rest of us.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxXH7kbUxv-oCKHJOB2ifGVXNJskf4pBTaEO1mSvF4t8vFclfVRejkffhwS__2IhGzdyXTtA1ekUSGhTpeHyAM-fu6hANq-WrPh-u0a2Z454BJybQR3jzL28vAlkyeV9jQyTWx558XsF8/s1600-h/DSC02161.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxXH7kbUxv-oCKHJOB2ifGVXNJskf4pBTaEO1mSvF4t8vFclfVRejkffhwS__2IhGzdyXTtA1ekUSGhTpeHyAM-fu6hANq-WrPh-u0a2Z454BJybQR3jzL28vAlkyeV9jQyTWx558XsF8/s200/DSC02161.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332161608886307746" border="0" /></a>I took classes from Katy Appleton, a very beautiful UK-based yogini, who teaches Prana Flow in a way that allows for each student to experience their own vinyasa. Rarely were two of us in the same posture at the same time, but with Katy’s guidance we all worked on the same muscle groups, just in our own authentic ways.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiraAEXEp1Jko4CA7tzJNLkJl8U6PDyehfzDWu1cI6zQ0lYCKOc2zIzQRk0-7I8ospi-sNyCxgaEokj-tZ8Jgu5OW0ESHOi2LXymLcoaTKIvz8-8XNsexJhPZZZGFBxQ8CNEbGLVR59Ts4/s1600-h/DSC02170.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiraAEXEp1Jko4CA7tzJNLkJl8U6PDyehfzDWu1cI6zQ0lYCKOc2zIzQRk0-7I8ospi-sNyCxgaEokj-tZ8Jgu5OW0ESHOi2LXymLcoaTKIvz8-8XNsexJhPZZZGFBxQ8CNEbGLVR59Ts4/s400/DSC02170.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332160470906861826" border="0" /></a>I was treated to a workshop by Mark Witwell who teaches from such a space of love and compassion that you cannot help but to fall instantly head over heals for the man. At the end of his class he individually thanked each of the 60-some odd students for the chance to share the teachings of his teacher with them. I was so moved by his gratitude that immediately set a goal for myself to get to study with him in the future.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipdXH9RhJuHZBcn9mH70hzVCNPcUuYIEYeGn9_JBVDAP-kSob-0W0Vsq5zJWpvWz2zbbQWs_Aks05LJlgst6Ggc0SQ1YKJx2CtuR7tsDo3MBZsgCfIfTgxf5c6N3q0VslTNecg38tb0KE/s1600-h/DSC02151.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipdXH9RhJuHZBcn9mH70hzVCNPcUuYIEYeGn9_JBVDAP-kSob-0W0Vsq5zJWpvWz2zbbQWs_Aks05LJlgst6Ggc0SQ1YKJx2CtuR7tsDo3MBZsgCfIfTgxf5c6N3q0VslTNecg38tb0KE/s200/DSC02151.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332161604392379538" border="0" /></a>Throughout the week I learned so much that I can fold into my personal practice as well as into my teaching style and my love for the global yoga community was confirmed time and time again in the beautiful faces I saw and conversations I had. In the middle of this week of bliss I got an email from my Mysore friend Cary and a day later she had booked a ticket to Bali. Cary arrived in time for the last day of the festival.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2r_IsYcmAXOfceXPPzv_4kc5sSABhzKCNQOcDYC2oI67vA2R7D_Wi-QWDXWp8F424S_0f1gyM8UNXJ4i8pxA88q7aSBobyTIGOGJTIPx5kk-3ZlUVgF6miaMdkoCC5dGzUFJZ5iesjlE/s1600-h/DSC02175.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2r_IsYcmAXOfceXPPzv_4kc5sSABhzKCNQOcDYC2oI67vA2R7D_Wi-QWDXWp8F424S_0f1gyM8UNXJ4i8pxA88q7aSBobyTIGOGJTIPx5kk-3ZlUVgF6miaMdkoCC5dGzUFJZ5iesjlE/s400/DSC02175.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332160471604746962" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK4uaN4_WUxzeTaaGMntNMYhlxqZd98AdPHnSUjW6_xSfDIBSFJp-Uy5HBM-4qe7vyYTE8jc3nrstkjPHwLEY4SeW_QvBbCB-j7Umd5SMba8UVDJewN2D8hKy00l1KzIbKvwlFSxnlWfU/s1600-h/DSC02191.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK4uaN4_WUxzeTaaGMntNMYhlxqZd98AdPHnSUjW6_xSfDIBSFJp-Uy5HBM-4qe7vyYTE8jc3nrstkjPHwLEY4SeW_QvBbCB-j7Umd5SMba8UVDJewN2D8hKy00l1KzIbKvwlFSxnlWfU/s200/DSC02191.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332161613936677314" border="0" /></a>During the week I did two full Yoga Malas, 108 sun salutations. For those of you unfamiliar, a sun salutation is a flow of nine or so postures including forward bends, back bends, arm strengthening poses and extensions. All together about 1000 asanas make up a Yoga Mala. It is an amazing experience, and what better place to practice one than Bali alongside 100 other yogis.<br /><br />As the festival wound down I had some time to reflect on just how amazing this yoga path continues to be for me. I get to meet the most beautiful people, normal and thus extraordinary people, who are living yoga off the mat. People who have found their path and are secure enough to help bring others along for the ride.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHsE2ysJ0SV2GahbwPKTX23tBDqe2eUVV0bX8rnaOnYYVO6vMmbYjogTl-4_9qzxCkkMgJlP8HemXGnhMXE-eTvkyApOL2YWWLUO5nTCShGqVbpL-u_8YwReMLOcNATjJ67LTPJKMXNCc/s1600-h/DSC02179.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHsE2ysJ0SV2GahbwPKTX23tBDqe2eUVV0bX8rnaOnYYVO6vMmbYjogTl-4_9qzxCkkMgJlP8HemXGnhMXE-eTvkyApOL2YWWLUO5nTCShGqVbpL-u_8YwReMLOcNATjJ67LTPJKMXNCc/s400/DSC02179.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332160476132968450" border="0" /></a>Last night I attended the festival wrap party and I sat conversing the universe, the changing combined consciousness and the viral spread of curiosity with the beautiful <a href="http://www.rockydawuni.com/">Rocky Dawuni</a> (who I mention here by way of introducing you to his music if you don't already know him) and my dear friends Tia and Cary, I realized that I can affect change, that I can virally spread hope and a new perspective. We are living in a transformational time. I now see the challenges in life as the opportunities they truly are. Change is so beautiful; nothing provides opportunity like change.<br /><br />What a beautiful way to live. I invite you to find the curiosity and opportunity in your day.<br /><br />So Hum.Rachel Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196197020015257649noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4217460362646169634.post-32062449855420209132009-04-25T10:13:00.008+08:002009-04-27T21:21:42.351+08:00Sunny, My Ass<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha76VzU6j_rm7U01MfNkK-nQq9sfVhOQklidUUWp71XHGImnZMDnNhN5ETgW9KluMxK7HZ7KH4oNvXTYcUlwUage4Ar2HO21hWsUe9JAPWHq4RzGtyild6aNDH2na0x0YOmlmh41kK-Rs/s1600-h/DSC02008.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5328446816473580546" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha76VzU6j_rm7U01MfNkK-nQq9sfVhOQklidUUWp71XHGImnZMDnNhN5ETgW9KluMxK7HZ7KH4oNvXTYcUlwUage4Ar2HO21hWsUe9JAPWHq4RzGtyild6aNDH2na0x0YOmlmh41kK-Rs/s400/DSC02008.jpg" border="0" /></a>One of the pitfalls of being a global nomad is the visa process. Over the last nine months I have spent a ridiculous number of hours in embassies, visa agent offices and surfing the “Internets” for the rules and regulations of each particular country. I have blown hundreds on visas I never used (e.g. Vietnam) spent days in cabs traipsing from one government office to another and died a little bit each time I had to lose a day to a boarder run simply to procure a stamp and return to my point of origin eight hours and a hundred dollars later.<br /><br />One of the biggest struggles with the visa process is that unless your dates are hard and fast you have to apply while on the road, often this requires finding an embassy in a major city and surrendering your passport for three-five working days, effectively trapping you in a metropolis while some bureaucracy shuffles papers and stamps and collects your fees. This is how I ended up spending a combined month in Thailand’s capital city last year.<br /><br />Indonesia provides Visa on Arrival for US citizens for a fee of $25, but it is only good for 30 days and is not extendable. If you want to stay longer you have a few choices… the best option is prior to arriving apply for a 60-day visa from your home country. This is still not extendable, but buys you an extra month. Unfortunately, not an option for me, given my current lack of home.<br /><br />Option two is to leave Indonesia for a day, or even just fly to another country for an afternoon, get stamped out and return to Bali in the same day. This is the next best option as it keeps you legal, but time and costs are major deterrents.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL5VQaMkvOGlcV38CH_KE2zJn1pRFX3FiqInx0la9s739E_7O9cWzY-HlvNE_yCgHx_mgi1EWue3HFGmI7PulB0KUjG5YFIL1bcMFT9N_YWf800GJcbSkvK_E3tTx5fvhe3863QlzWlAc/s1600-h/DSC02143.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5328449813291874834" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL5VQaMkvOGlcV38CH_KE2zJn1pRFX3FiqInx0la9s739E_7O9cWzY-HlvNE_yCgHx_mgi1EWue3HFGmI7PulB0KUjG5YFIL1bcMFT9N_YWf800GJcbSkvK_E3tTx5fvhe3863QlzWlAc/s400/DSC02143.jpg" border="0" /></a>Then there is option C – the one most of us here seem to take. Option C requires disobeying every impulse in your mind and body. Option C is how I came to relinquish my passport and 1.5 million rupiah to a teenager on the back of a motorbike at 10pm in front of the Polisi stand in downtown Ubud almost three weeks ago. That night as I watched the boy drive off with my identity the words of Wayan, the first healer I visited in Bali, rung in my head “you smart, but you used to be smarter.”<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb2PElp3AJnL_McuDrc8d4avp5A42YAOv_lpfcZQ93-wCSPLWeSR0qA4dCqTvJRk45i1MRRDxG9tsYDsPxbi85MQew45K0MRZnDDzxR09J0evuyLRyS_dU2TXuUGH6lmvEE4tNIdwuAbM/s1600-h/DSC00671.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5328446812784104578" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb2PElp3AJnL_McuDrc8d4avp5A42YAOv_lpfcZQ93-wCSPLWeSR0qA4dCqTvJRk45i1MRRDxG9tsYDsPxbi85MQew45K0MRZnDDzxR09J0evuyLRyS_dU2TXuUGH6lmvEE4tNIdwuAbM/s400/DSC00671.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1sy6VB2BCyTOxCvZDvEyw3pwicX4nFITp8W9RzzYTANqM2vxrRQlIDf4BBqk900EPJIyDQjq1Y3wn4t9LPxsY9aNhBcbFNZd8zSaab26qSVv9lc_7eQtjogv3VVfkrYgdYN4ijSx-3AM/s1600-h/DSC01979.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5328447261446638258" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1sy6VB2BCyTOxCvZDvEyw3pwicX4nFITp8W9RzzYTANqM2vxrRQlIDf4BBqk900EPJIyDQjq1Y3wn4t9LPxsY9aNhBcbFNZd8zSaab26qSVv9lc_7eQtjogv3VVfkrYgdYN4ijSx-3AM/s200/DSC01979.jpg" border="0" /></a>With my passport goodness-knows-where, I began hosting my first solo retreat. Six months of planning, fretting, and mustering up the confidence that I was indeed up to this challenge and the moment of truth was finally upon me. I am beyond thrilled… I am jubilant to report that the retreat went perfectly. The women with whom I shared this experience could not have been more beautiful or gracious or adventurous.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8j-9Q45UBMBSOf373oW5L101kdZa_lvEkL87f8vKcJqgFwCVzXDlhMW2N8_3VbuxyPOxzN0ciJAkQQXV4kVmYkVJUW4i0noAu1biPgZadBOnqfxsMtfL3A4wixYY02KzGoWImLB5QmL0/s1600-h/IMG_0041.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5328447261279458178" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8j-9Q45UBMBSOf373oW5L101kdZa_lvEkL87f8vKcJqgFwCVzXDlhMW2N8_3VbuxyPOxzN0ciJAkQQXV4kVmYkVJUW4i0noAu1biPgZadBOnqfxsMtfL3A4wixYY02KzGoWImLB5QmL0/s200/IMG_0041.jpg" border="0" /></a>We began the week by seeing Michael Franti and friends play in a very small coffee house to a crowd of not more than 100 people.<br /><br />Throughout the retreat we had twice-daily asana and meditation classes, attended a holy water purification ceremony, practiced Surinamaskars (sun salutations) at the volcano to help the sun take his place in the sky, rode bikes through the second oldest indigenous village in Bali, spent a day in silent reflection, were healed by Tjakorda Rai, attended a Legon and Barong dance, were massaged and finally shared an afternoon cooking class and multi-course dinner at Mozaic, recently rated the best restaurant in Asia. The entire week was bliss and now I have a new happy place, retreat leading.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfl_3nXf7F9QBwrW2-S9_Dnk5XYfLJLJlQX43QyhVmCkpDa4yRPxguiGNBa7M4r7rDbiCwx3RWRNvee49islLv7Zbp28rkgOAmOW0DbLYYkvZ4Kx-I3t-q5ffJw5Kvir1EDBT8iPIfL4o/s1600-h/DSC01988.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5328446820655607762" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfl_3nXf7F9QBwrW2-S9_Dnk5XYfLJLJlQX43QyhVmCkpDa4yRPxguiGNBa7M4r7rDbiCwx3RWRNvee49islLv7Zbp28rkgOAmOW0DbLYYkvZ4Kx-I3t-q5ffJw5Kvir1EDBT8iPIfL4o/s400/DSC01988.jpg" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihRyCysiINYvK0iPekXEXwaEnIoTLwJv21zQSpVaXIMdFEAbLOplp_dQJpqBQX7CBEs2J8BMtPQrbQRbzTGdKG_n7RLldFdsIZZL3UTZkA21WCRo0qlbqM4T5_mQLhg11HIV4TKht_Z9M/s1600-h/DSC02059.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5328461971140588050" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihRyCysiINYvK0iPekXEXwaEnIoTLwJv21zQSpVaXIMdFEAbLOplp_dQJpqBQX7CBEs2J8BMtPQrbQRbzTGdKG_n7RLldFdsIZZL3UTZkA21WCRo0qlbqM4T5_mQLhg11HIV4TKht_Z9M/s200/DSC02059.jpg" border="0" /></a>After the completion of the inaugural This End Up – Bali retreat I headed down to the beach with Beth and Angie for a few days of hedonistic tanning. Nothing tops off a week of soul searching, cleansing and spirituality like a day of over-priced mojitos and surfer boy gazing.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL8kAJNGbuMnwvlmhJ_AwaVNtSq3fRi0XuQMx3Ll5mOsP1d8OBUk_LYMN1nXfsy5NMO3vrOFuE48pLTi8kEwm8h-HMiTUgHyX5rcyjizIXTN3ECWhCghRbr6K7wrDLqixempr19fIOC-0/s1600-h/DSC02065.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5328461962250124322" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL8kAJNGbuMnwvlmhJ_AwaVNtSq3fRi0XuQMx3Ll5mOsP1d8OBUk_LYMN1nXfsy5NMO3vrOFuE48pLTi8kEwm8h-HMiTUgHyX5rcyjizIXTN3ECWhCghRbr6K7wrDLqixempr19fIOC-0/s200/DSC02065.jpg" border="0" /></a>The girls’ last morning was spent conspiring with the sun to age our skin, and generally basking in our final few hours together. I caught a few waves – assuming you consider shore-break whitewash to be a wave – and tried to be thankful for the gift of this time together rather than sad for the impending loneliness that would be with me in a short while.<br /><br />I said goodbye to my beautiful friends, my sisters, and strolled around Seminyak for a while, stocking up on provisions one can’t find in Ubud. That night back in my apartment the loneliness hit as did its soul-mate anxiousness. My round the world ticket is up in July and I still have three countries to visit. The time has come for me to make some decisions about the end of this part of my journey and all these decision require my having a passport.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinhuK3WQvbO0qB2BmrDEOnWTj4uA8PF42tGZlUGqqQd2D4h_VHnUv5wspiKG5ON_Pw1k8yaujhuQilf7zD7TVMnJp0O1HH6ng_wpCUc8m28bjvpe1wxUuotXLDm44jccSzkrNjESouMrs/s1600-h/DSC02106.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5328449806131305266" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinhuK3WQvbO0qB2BmrDEOnWTj4uA8PF42tGZlUGqqQd2D4h_VHnUv5wspiKG5ON_Pw1k8yaujhuQilf7zD7TVMnJp0O1HH6ng_wpCUc8m28bjvpe1wxUuotXLDm44jccSzkrNjESouMrs/s400/DSC02106.jpg" border="0" /></a>The blue book containing my printed identity and I were supposed to be reunited on Wednesday, it was now Saturday and every time I called the agent, Mr. Sunny, he assured me he’d be bringing it to me in a hour, two hours, tonight, tomorrow early … each date passed with Sunny a no-show. I began stalking him, sending a text every hour on the hour and calling every half-hour. Three days no passport … “you used to be smarter.”<br /><br />Four days.<br /><span style="TEXT-DECORATION: underline"><br /></span>On Saturday night I hit panic mode. I tried to focus on my breath, tried to visualize Sunny handing me my documents, tried to manifest a new visa, none of it was working. The logical part of my brain started taking inventory – you are now illegally in Indonesia and you have no documents. My only hope was that Sunny would come through or that the love Indonesians feel for my new president (who attended primary school in Java) could somehow make the immigration officers take pity on a stupid gringa like me.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCOHP3sMKI8leSOI-p52nVas9sIxqHyHKPsG6Km_IIcMztweh0dp0wnLla8z6AmVaMeeHh2XAbWkfIV-31PoRIIXgHBSPFscEmMW3rZdliVg1o1haGr0PAh7O6s4ux28TQ0uHjmN5R2oI/s1600-h/DSC02111.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5328449806420496354" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCOHP3sMKI8leSOI-p52nVas9sIxqHyHKPsG6Km_IIcMztweh0dp0wnLla8z6AmVaMeeHh2XAbWkfIV-31PoRIIXgHBSPFscEmMW3rZdliVg1o1haGr0PAh7O6s4ux28TQ0uHjmN5R2oI/s400/DSC02111.jpg" border="0" /></a>Five days late.<br /><br />I called in the big guns, my two girlfriends here who have both employed Mr. Sunny before. Finally after each of them left him messages he called me back. I put on my tough girl/anti-Rachel voice and said, Sunny get your ass up here NOW or else! Of course this was a hollow threat, my ‘or else’ pretty much ended at having my friends call, I am sorely lacking in Indo government contacts or US State Department friends, but it was all I had left. I had tried to woo him with a friendly carrot for days, but now I had to bring out the stick. He once again promised that his delivery boy would be up in a few hours. I hung up, out of options but with my fingers crossed.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHcJmkOiq2hZoYNBJeFDx2CQWbq1_ntQ-HItF2JEQPXPL8A2kt8jvJ0bG63TwBY5PtvSRw8rbZd7UrCe1uV9czKR_wxfzlJmR03mffwWWrFwfbDAUB-9j4mRKkmWftNXtaCsnsb-Je5KI/s1600-h/DSC02124.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5328461961540682194" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; WIDTH: 150px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHcJmkOiq2hZoYNBJeFDx2CQWbq1_ntQ-HItF2JEQPXPL8A2kt8jvJ0bG63TwBY5PtvSRw8rbZd7UrCe1uV9czKR_wxfzlJmR03mffwWWrFwfbDAUB-9j4mRKkmWftNXtaCsnsb-Je5KI/s200/DSC02124.jpg" border="0" /></a>I was so preoccupied by the predicament I found myself in that I could not shake the impending feeling of doom. My breath, my meditation, they were powerless to dissuade my fear and feeling of complete idiocy.<br /><br />On my way to the opening of this week’s retreat I almost wrecked when a taxi veered towards me and clipped my handlebar with his side-view mirror. I stopped the motor bike, waited for the world, or maybe my knees, to stop shaking and decided to accept that my passport was gone. Fine. This is bad, really REALLY bad, but it is the reality and now it is time to deal with it. Tonight I let it go, tomorrow I call the embassy.<br /><br />I went to the class and I finally did let it go. I managed to put it out of my mind for the first time in days, hours went by and I didn’t glare at my phone willing Sunny to call. When the class was over I chatted with the students for a while and then I walked past the reception desk on my way to dinner. Katut, the office manager, said to me “Miss Rachel – man came, left this for you.” And in his hand he held a small blue book embossed with the words United States of America and Passport.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj51mu6iuYcgC1pdCIf1wSGxeqq_v0cytpoxpTSZmXkaLTyCvi0Um_sHEnYYNFNRUo7LFZ914mqy_odu6DZisCLwse5B2N09TagAeqFOCx2Fw7eRgzpMCfq7jNoDj06w-TDfB3zAlTrjeA/s1600-h/DSC01964.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5328447047118872498" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj51mu6iuYcgC1pdCIf1wSGxeqq_v0cytpoxpTSZmXkaLTyCvi0Um_sHEnYYNFNRUo7LFZ914mqy_odu6DZisCLwse5B2N09TagAeqFOCx2Fw7eRgzpMCfq7jNoDj06w-TDfB3zAlTrjeA/s200/DSC01964.jpg" border="0" /></a>Either I managed to intimidate Sunny with my booming anti-Rachel voice or he was starting to do the cost-benefit analysis on paying for my SMS blitzkrieg campaign. Whatever finally lit a fire under him, it resulted in my getting my passport back five days late and three weeks after I had originally sent it off on that motorbike. I think Wayan was right, I used to be smarter.<br /><br />Now it's a week later and I have just completed my final Bali retreat for this cycle. It has been a month of amazing growth for me as a teacher and a yoga practitioner. I have had the honor of meeting beautiful new friends from Singapore, Holland, the UK, Australia, Taiwan, France, America and of course Bali. The final week Iyan was back from his bicycle accident and we had the opportunity to lead the retreat together which was great fun and I learned so much from him as well. This yogic path of mine continues to rise up to meet my feet, continues to lead me to the most amazing experiences and the greatest people.<br />I live in gratitude.<br /><br /><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Special thanks this post to Lara Beth Mitchell, Angie Alleman, Iyan and Claude, Gabby, Kore, Charlie, and the entire staff of Kumara Sakti. Om Shanti my friends.</span>Rachel Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196197020015257649noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4217460362646169634.post-85900640814901894922009-04-14T22:14:00.013+08:002009-04-14T23:09:21.088+08:00Julie McCoy, Cruise Director<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhET-INUm_oToGiu74SFv9z7y-Q5jeAjs9_BdAYBT-2TXPutRnPtNsWrZAzvPA4FuKChdyHFXDS6o7SPRfPbLxkAbP4t2jIh9tmk2U3Wgr4o0iACz32-YYw7h71DoIVCKtqx9DGvmP7F5M/s1600-h/DSC01885.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 162px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhET-INUm_oToGiu74SFv9z7y-Q5jeAjs9_BdAYBT-2TXPutRnPtNsWrZAzvPA4FuKChdyHFXDS6o7SPRfPbLxkAbP4t2jIh9tmk2U3Wgr4o0iACz32-YYw7h71DoIVCKtqx9DGvmP7F5M/s400/DSC01885.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324557516298261698" border="0" /></a>For the last week I have been blessed with the company of two of my dearest friends. Getting to see Bali through their eyes has been like experiencing everything again for the first time. It fills me with such joy that they love this island as I do and it has been my sincere pleasure to play tour guide to them. I love the challenge of fulfilling their vacation wishes, Angie requested<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBVfGZ93nx1CXNDPE7ZrvlJlY-zbVekSuju8LqPm1gxsOc0zd5uzyeWsV-y85eTd4XshM_z70BFgUg7007Ou8Mvf-INTCDpeB2_ekNWMjG_RuOjVjlS0b-60IK9-FrTjB5TWRPcNJtJds/s1600-h/IMG_5247.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBVfGZ93nx1CXNDPE7ZrvlJlY-zbVekSuju8LqPm1gxsOc0zd5uzyeWsV-y85eTd4XshM_z70BFgUg7007Ou8Mvf-INTCDpeB2_ekNWMjG_RuOjVjlS0b-60IK9-FrTjB5TWRPcNJtJds/s200/IMG_5247.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324556342615828978" border="0" /></a> diving and the beach, Beth requested monkeys, fine dining and getting to see Michael Franti. I aim to please.<br /><br />Along with my Julie McCoy, Cruise Director duties I am leading a retreat for 13 people from around the world. In the morning I teach a two-hour asana class, each focusing on a different type of yoga, Hatha, Vinyasa, Ashtanga ... giving the students a taste of the various paths and hoping they will discover their kind of yoga along the way. Our evenings are filled with a restorative or Yin Yoga practice and meditation.<br /><br />While I may be the one sitting up front, I feel as though I am the star pupil in the classes. My primary teachers are my mat and my students. I am beyond grateful for the opportunity to share yoga with so many this month.<br /><br />Beth and Angie arrived the same night the retreat began and they have covered a ton of ground in their first week here.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKXLWX1Pah14N01RQG0OCtONj-RPGfvx-OzgmX5iP6TP6IUwt7KGjGbw0fYzA-lJ55S7giQPqSaB062GNu_ddIkVYqxpS4lsaATwjfa0mgErTJMurqa8CVHj1hGpHSpxTrexLSxX7j80w/s1600-h/DSC00528.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKXLWX1Pah14N01RQG0OCtONj-RPGfvx-OzgmX5iP6TP6IUwt7KGjGbw0fYzA-lJ55S7giQPqSaB062GNu_ddIkVYqxpS4lsaATwjfa0mgErTJMurqa8CVHj1hGpHSpxTrexLSxX7j80w/s400/DSC00528.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324556523530801250" border="0" /></a>Our first outing was to the Sacred Monkey Forest Temple in Ubud. I am not new to the Monkey Forest, I have been terrorized, pick pocketed and generally molested by the monkeys many times now. My first visit there I bought bananas and made it about 15’ before I abandoned the fruit to a flock of too-friendly juveniles. Now I am an old hand at the art of monkey coaxing, <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_lY6Lr_pkjtwiVamAJKokmkqkW0XMp6oB050wwQ2Cyg8O9hnKqhaXhaJ2sLSLnCQ-kLtAfyJI9ht4uf7odo9EzWL10-fGtA2h31ZhSGAY-GDIP-xtYaj9fPSx6mRCp3glS9IFz2y7hE8/s1600-h/IMG_4817.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_lY6Lr_pkjtwiVamAJKokmkqkW0XMp6oB050wwQ2Cyg8O9hnKqhaXhaJ2sLSLnCQ-kLtAfyJI9ht4uf7odo9EzWL10-fGtA2h31ZhSGAY-GDIP-xtYaj9fPSx6mRCp3glS9IFz2y7hE8/s200/IMG_4817.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324558669910615138" border="0" /></a>one bunch of bananas can last me hours, each piece a photo op or a hands-on encounter for my companions.<br /><br />While Beth and Angie wore out the memory cards on their cameras, I took inspiration from the inhabitants to practice Hanumonasana, the monkey god pose.<br /><br />Tick monkeys off the list.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE9B7m50A0mNyPdEXZjxaFlXeDHIJ4ZCueSsCtbcKKrADT-G0BrRTNnQ6FrfnBmvycbXsA-TefKr0NRvzWOWmamT73vDQF2jkBCKEjjQespSBvxJOXMvp51IiL2NR3qa0sis7Qzxn4FiA/s1600-h/DSC01907.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE9B7m50A0mNyPdEXZjxaFlXeDHIJ4ZCueSsCtbcKKrADT-G0BrRTNnQ6FrfnBmvycbXsA-TefKr0NRvzWOWmamT73vDQF2jkBCKEjjQespSBvxJOXMvp51IiL2NR3qa0sis7Qzxn4FiA/s400/DSC01907.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324557520576719522" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiornYnFNKfUXKRKO6pr_Q2pGoh2kFqhDScPKt_uctiYvFeog27ox5AlCP1u2jGtDRJ9eEDt4Kt_3Z5TZZKbMhfj7yyqn8B6OWignkqr4AZPTZ921i6XSi3tXv8mxszl4Vgh9vYYm-X3I0/s1600-h/IMG_4915.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiornYnFNKfUXKRKO6pr_Q2pGoh2kFqhDScPKt_uctiYvFeog27ox5AlCP1u2jGtDRJ9eEDt4Kt_3Z5TZZKbMhfj7yyqn8B6OWignkqr4AZPTZ921i6XSi3tXv8mxszl4Vgh9vYYm-X3I0/s200/IMG_4915.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324558668859444802" border="0" /></a>The next day we met for coffee, a trip through the local market and then a walk through the rice fields to my favorite lunch spot, Sari Organic. The girls marveled at the aquaculture, the various stages of the rice and the overall slow pace of life here. Each comment they made reflected a thought I have had, or a question I asked during my first trip to Bali and I was honored to be able to be a resource for them as their wide eyes soaked it all in.<br /><br />That evening I went with the retreat students to the Tirta Empul, Holy Water Temple. As each student bathed in the sacred waters, purifying whatever they were prepared to rid themselves of I reflected on my last time there, the day my divorce was official. I feel so far away from that now, so clean, so centered, so peaceful and sure of the decisions that my still-best friend an I made last year. It’s like this whole week has been a chance for me to visit the past and to see how far I really have come.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs4IEPLuzkKTu4WCB0UunMe3xQ3h2HEzZPyK8LgkCHYAxx6WJjABrgula6bAZIDWFwNVuADigsHTtBUTX0TG1JwNh56BfIOscxwg2RPMoe1Y_AwOviN6z6rgCiBAKrqA4CViIG_Ag8RtY/s1600-h/DSC01922.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs4IEPLuzkKTu4WCB0UunMe3xQ3h2HEzZPyK8LgkCHYAxx6WJjABrgula6bAZIDWFwNVuADigsHTtBUTX0TG1JwNh56BfIOscxwg2RPMoe1Y_AwOviN6z6rgCiBAKrqA4CViIG_Ag8RtY/s400/DSC01922.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324555563742301218" border="0" /></a>Wednesday morning was a sunrise yoga session at the base of Mt. Batur with the retreat and then I joined Beth and Angie for a ride through some of the most picturesque terraces in Bali and to a few of the artisan villages for a bit of shopping. No matter how yogi I become I am still a consumer, I still want and on occasionally I still buy.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-eXD0NLyWrZnOeTdrRwkSf63WMcepTvI5ajvgyrSIrVToswme_smFmSGU3gjA68JaQbJG41pyFFNrJqGhH4uplit0kuCZWpD_Y8r9ja0QxTgf5pqUMD24KhO6cFQ180CZaB5emZB_RfY/s1600-h/DSC01911.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-eXD0NLyWrZnOeTdrRwkSf63WMcepTvI5ajvgyrSIrVToswme_smFmSGU3gjA68JaQbJG41pyFFNrJqGhH4uplit0kuCZWpD_Y8r9ja0QxTgf5pqUMD24KhO6cFQ180CZaB5emZB_RfY/s400/DSC01911.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324557523136042370" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggOursgCsBbRbPIM0xTnEhF2Qd5pFLh7ZB7L4dFkLLEAuO7wMpRBUBNTnBrV8PdRsQ-zGTfMH5O9DApth5IyuL6xrVBwLD3P_tB4-nF16y0qQkL1n6WshkXc5otFUTjecrPQHBMhCHiKM/s1600-h/DSC00575.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggOursgCsBbRbPIM0xTnEhF2Qd5pFLh7ZB7L4dFkLLEAuO7wMpRBUBNTnBrV8PdRsQ-zGTfMH5O9DApth5IyuL6xrVBwLD3P_tB4-nF16y0qQkL1n6WshkXc5otFUTjecrPQHBMhCHiKM/s200/DSC00575.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324556336697929794" border="0" /></a>That evening we were invited to attend a performance by the first women’s Kechak group in Bali. My landlady, Rai, is in the group and she was very excited that we would come to support her. I have seen Kechak before, performed traditionally by men, and it is always an amazing event, but to see these women so proudly breaking down a barrier was truly beautiful. At the end of a Kechak performance there is a fire dance, where the performers and a priest lead a man into a trance state, which allows him to dance barefoot on hot coals. This part was still performed by a man, apparently in a trance or not, the Balinese women are still too smart to dance on burning embers.<br /><br />That night we ate dinner at Terrazo, one of the fancier local eateries where a huge piece of seared tuna will run you about $7.50. It was a beautiful meal.<br /><br />Fine dining checked off the request list.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHDk34Jx4yMjlnmslmULdFwo3mERPxEqlLhw5vB-bQ4SIfKHt982Fne-qGcT9i1xziyOi-8vOlqDpdGJzASF_xkq3ISJEZWjrpnbpNTcTs1jz6ANaosSONUWrpYAn1zSoKsLSA4Q-ZSmI/s1600-h/IMG_5013.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHDk34Jx4yMjlnmslmULdFwo3mERPxEqlLhw5vB-bQ4SIfKHt982Fne-qGcT9i1xziyOi-8vOlqDpdGJzASF_xkq3ISJEZWjrpnbpNTcTs1jz6ANaosSONUWrpYAn1zSoKsLSA4Q-ZSmI/s200/IMG_5013.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324558675291433970" border="0" /></a>Thursday I sent the girls off with Pande to the mother temple for the full moon celebration and from there on to Amed for some beach time. I stayed behind wrapping up the retreat and completing my first of three weeks of full-time employment.<br /><br />Trip to the beach checked off the request list.<br /><br />The Escape the World retreat was a fantastic learning experience for me. Thirteen students of varying levels, some completely new to yoga, others who were quite experienced. The retreat I have been working months to plan is geared more for intermediate students and so it’s curriculum didn’t really translate to this group. As a result, I got to piece together new lessons, which was a great and rewarding challenge. I really, really love leading retreats, getting to spend so much time with the students, discussing all the limbs of yoga, tailoring the practices to their styles, desires and daily energy levels, it is a completely new experience each time we hit our mats.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga3pqHWw1VCdaZpMiVDklBg94Ul4M0eTupFCfK-LOzDyiWJSiB0TeAZ4eV1V1bn_YWeFt3OuybEAD-RfEO4DK0v4dDNv2xP4POJl8XvfC-XkXYb99QQ2QUqBBoJ6xBJ13bwJtxSjuUt04/s1600-h/IMG_0911.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga3pqHWw1VCdaZpMiVDklBg94Ul4M0eTupFCfK-LOzDyiWJSiB0TeAZ4eV1V1bn_YWeFt3OuybEAD-RfEO4DK0v4dDNv2xP4POJl8XvfC-XkXYb99QQ2QUqBBoJ6xBJ13bwJtxSjuUt04/s400/IMG_0911.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324559275955459858" border="0" /></a>After our closing ceremony I hopped in Pande’s car and headed for Amed to meet the girls and have a mini vacation after my first week of ‘work’ in months. Beth and Angie greeted me with cold beverages, a $5 massage and a sunset stroll to a beach front dinner. It was blissful and one of those moments where you stop to realize that everything is absolutely perfect. Lately I have a lot of those moments, I am finding it hard to want for any more than I already have, and that is a truly wonderful state.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU5pBVKNLzhpsaD5MUchFmHdkaUTP-SfTxtKRNkq7GbeK5aEfq8BTpfNRUEXvkG1z2LkZxjRSEFMhNpT2uz2yHuYRDs7d3SLdUvxJaN8mfRaPZ-nh-Mn1nOhlB2cVchYRl-u-Qt3ho1o0/s1600-h/IMG_1031.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU5pBVKNLzhpsaD5MUchFmHdkaUTP-SfTxtKRNkq7GbeK5aEfq8BTpfNRUEXvkG1z2LkZxjRSEFMhNpT2uz2yHuYRDs7d3SLdUvxJaN8mfRaPZ-nh-Mn1nOhlB2cVchYRl-u-Qt3ho1o0/s400/IMG_1031.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324559277415486786" border="0" /></a>Saturday we went diving at a shipwreck site. The USS Liberty was torpedoed by the Japanese in WWII and then towed to the beach near Amed where it stayed until the 1963 eruption of Mt. Batur which shook the ship free from the island and sent it down to the sea floor. It was Beth’s first dive and she had to hold her regulator to her mouth the whole time out of fear that her huge grin might set her oxygen source floating away, it was so much fun to watch her have the experience. Angie proved to be an excellent diving buddy and together we explored the various rooms of the ship.<br /><br />Diving … check.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEKJltePKsMjPDV_YF52jVcy15j7iHI7TUQyq5o4bSUAQq0NCt3PX5ForpZKeSFkCu2unCRyegW-kULm2_mSBn8Bc4R3OFKqm4HDiV6dJOR7NlOt3n16LIhPSHYoCs_SQr-NbaqGFztP8/s1600-h/DSC00640.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEKJltePKsMjPDV_YF52jVcy15j7iHI7TUQyq5o4bSUAQq0NCt3PX5ForpZKeSFkCu2unCRyegW-kULm2_mSBn8Bc4R3OFKqm4HDiV6dJOR7NlOt3n16LIhPSHYoCs_SQr-NbaqGFztP8/s400/DSC00640.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324556522268214770" border="0" /></a>That evening we enjoyed a bonfire on the beach and an impromptu karaoke session with some local troubadours on a street-side bale (outdoor platform). Beth led us in a somewhat strained, but nonetheless, complete rendition of Hotel California, and the song has been in my head ever since ... <span style="font-style: italic;">my head grew heavy and my sight grew dim, I had to stop for the night.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3s1XYoJWGLm6Eegt_aRGZmCdOs8wc7thd7WH9XumW6SRn8bTkKHFW7H4MpAB0rNCX41BQF4PVibA81WsMPcxq8g3uQP5Ni161eE6mh1HDQjlUXIW0DcZuJdpnvudV83uUdiDYzdIzRXc/s1600-h/IMG_0041.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3s1XYoJWGLm6Eegt_aRGZmCdOs8wc7thd7WH9XumW6SRn8bTkKHFW7H4MpAB0rNCX41BQF4PVibA81WsMPcxq8g3uQP5Ni161eE6mh1HDQjlUXIW0DcZuJdpnvudV83uUdiDYzdIzRXc/s200/IMG_0041.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324555804129505170" border="0" /></a>Sunday we retraced our steps back to Ubud, stopping for lunch Tirta Gangga, the water palace. As we strolled around the fountains I felt a bit sad that I had been able to fulfill all but one of their requests. Just then, I got an SMS from my friend Gabby – Tonight. 9pm. Benefit for local clinic. Michael Franti and Friends. Flava Coffee House. Pass it on.<br /><br />Check!<br /><br />Wow, I am good!Rachel Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196197020015257649noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4217460362646169634.post-71723855026054766372009-04-04T09:25:00.009+08:002009-04-04T20:00:36.790+08:00Singing in the Rain<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/Sda7XqNt0yI/AAAAAAAAGKU/5JoJQOWG22s/s1600-h/DSC01521.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/Sda7XqNt0yI/AAAAAAAAGKU/5JoJQOWG22s/s400/DSC01521.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5320646024928023330" border="0" /></a>Last week during a mountain bike trip my friend Iyan took a nasty, nasty fall. I believe the technical term for what he did is going <span style="font-style: italic;">ass over teakettle</span>. Mercifully, all that was donated to the asphalt gods that day was a fair amount of skin and 30% of his MCL. Iyan and I taught a class together last fall when he broke his ankle and I am beginning to take it personally that he gets hurt whenever I arrive in Bali.<br /><br />Iyan is now in a full-leg cast, which makes asana practice a bit challenging, so I have been offered the opportunity to teach his two retreats as well as mine. Today I began my month of employment by teaching a class to a lovely group of beginner yoginis from Canada and it was bliss for me.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/Sda7XTkTUQI/AAAAAAAAGKM/Prjvtf26oYk/s1600-h/DSC01494.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/Sda7XTkTUQI/AAAAAAAAGKM/Prjvtf26oYk/s400/DSC01494.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5320646018848739586" border="0" /></a>To my surprise and sheer delight one of my favorite artists had a gig here last week. Years ago I got to see Michael Franti play at a private party/mini-festival in Golden, British Columbia, it was a magical night and it solidified my status as a die-hard fan. Just a couple of weeks ago I sat on my rooftop in Mysore with two of my favorite woman watching the documentary he made about the war-torn areas of the Middle East and we each professed our adoration/admiration for him.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/Sda8cP2C6MI/AAAAAAAAGKk/aBkAx1sktUU/s1600-h/IMG_0487.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/Sda8cP2C6MI/AAAAAAAAGKk/aBkAx1sktUU/s200/IMG_0487.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5320647203260393666" border="0" /></a>The Bali concert was equally as magical as the Canadian one had been. My new friends and I made our way to the front row, we danced until we dropped from exhaustion and after Franti finished playing he came down into the crowd to dole out hugs, laughs and generously share his energy with all of us. I had the opportunity to meet him and I told him about the rooftop movie night. For me, it was a really special event and one I won’t soon forget.<br /><br />The very next night I got to wrap up the yoga/music path that Shiva had introduced us all to during the retreat by attending one final Dave Stringer Kirtan. Through Shiva’s workshop I got to meet and befriend some amazing artists who filled my first weeks back here with beautiful music. Dave, Patrick, Daphne, Maya, Steve and Anne Emily, thank you for the gifts of your harmony and rhythm.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/Sda6jJcTCAI/AAAAAAAAGJc/70iQW-e3eMM/s1600-h/DSC01513.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/Sda6jJcTCAI/AAAAAAAAGJc/70iQW-e3eMM/s200/DSC01513.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5320645122777614338" border="0" /></a>The final Kirtan was attended by over a hundred people, (including Michael Franti). It seemed as if every musician in Ubud was in attendance and with their beautiful voices there to drown out my own cat screeching I felt free to belt out Govinda Jaya Jaya, Gopala Jaya Jaya at the top of my lungs and found the energy to dance around the room even though I had been too exhausted to sit upright most of the day.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/Sda6jBWvEhI/AAAAAAAAGJs/9b98ywyrJb8/s1600-h/DSC01542.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/Sda6jBWvEhI/AAAAAAAAGJs/9b98ywyrJb8/s200/DSC01542.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5320645120606802450" border="0" /></a>I knew a big crash was coming. Five weeks in Mysore followed by Shiva’s retreat, I was certain that the moment I stopped moving I would be rendered useless … Sunday the crash hit like a ton of bricks, trying to get up in the morning my back protested, my hips laughed at my feeble attempts to rise from my bed and my mind went completely blank. This state lasted all of Sunday and well in to Monday. I almost allowed my dead-girl-walking status to prevent me from accepting an offer to see some new parts of Bali, but mercifully my travel partner was up for the company of a non-communicative tag along.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyvrMo-AixbfysHdk7UFMxxU84xuLTM_GzZCuF65GBi_VG99N7y4URn-dZMrl45VJ-n0i4eusiTGch0cvvj5EhFw1hesvtiP14auiR29F1C3-9AxljbPJE8i1uyHS5XO6ejcmrj1jYOps/s1600-h/IMG_0644.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyvrMo-AixbfysHdk7UFMxxU84xuLTM_GzZCuF65GBi_VG99N7y4URn-dZMrl45VJ-n0i4eusiTGch0cvvj5EhFw1hesvtiP14auiR29F1C3-9AxljbPJE8i1uyHS5XO6ejcmrj1jYOps/s200/IMG_0644.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5320645120796501186" border="0" /></a>Kim is a yogini from California, she and I became fast friends once we discovered we had both been raft guides. She was staying on in Bali for a few more days so we packed up and headed to Amed. Pande, my friend and resident Bali-know-it-all drove. For three days we let water be our guide, visiting holy water springs, black sand beaches, underwater coral reefs, dolphin-infested lagoons, waterfalls and hot springs. After the fire of Shiva’s retreat, a water week was just what the alchemic doctor ordered.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsktgtefi4MTL1XSKnmh2r8Xr8Yq4iBw2SxxjChk13cJi2gA6FwdeaoIznwafiBPlGsxNR8qzIWSbJfPBE5yeF5myUQ_RJiGybHHooARc_WUJlxW-KHp4X5U3Jl5gGG1Bsp7oTe1PPSzA/s1600-h/DSC01552.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsktgtefi4MTL1XSKnmh2r8Xr8Yq4iBw2SxxjChk13cJi2gA6FwdeaoIznwafiBPlGsxNR8qzIWSbJfPBE5yeF5myUQ_RJiGybHHooARc_WUJlxW-KHp4X5U3Jl5gGG1Bsp7oTe1PPSzA/s400/DSC01552.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5320642158421244258" border="0" /></a>Once we arrived in Amed I took a big sigh and breathed the life back into my bone-tired body. After a sunset snorkel and a dinner on the beach I felt almost human again. In the morning a full Ashtanga practice, a massage and a sunrise snorkel led me back to the world of the living. Amed was the perfect calm after my six-week yoga torrent.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtXo5WTev7KSzXsdYRVjSMtvtvFSTZ8Pr0vJ2EK9jUymDKvaxvhGC7tHTABNgrK3XaGCfL-vzDzScbakZtUS59SCKsCujpdbwe7rzRyt6MyVzxkbdoIwXK-7VP_rcxuLYcBIgNLrhQfec/s1600-h/DSC01636.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtXo5WTev7KSzXsdYRVjSMtvtvFSTZ8Pr0vJ2EK9jUymDKvaxvhGC7tHTABNgrK3XaGCfL-vzDzScbakZtUS59SCKsCujpdbwe7rzRyt6MyVzxkbdoIwXK-7VP_rcxuLYcBIgNLrhQfec/s200/DSC01636.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5320647948419522018" border="0" /></a>From there we ventured north and west along the coast to Lovina Beach. All of the things I adored about sleepy, quiet Amed were absent from Lovina. It is a resort area catering to tourists and famous, or infamous, for dolphin viewing tours. We of course hired a boat and set out with the masses at 6 a.m. It quickly became obvious that this was not going to be my kind of deal. The tour boats are hollowed-out coconut trees with outriggers and while I loved being in the boat, I did not love the 30 other identical boats jockeying for position in the dolphin hunting melee.<br /><br />The best way I can describe the boat frenzy was to liken it to little league soccer, you know like when the kids are too young to understand plays, or defense and so they all just swarm around the ball. This was how the boats reacted, when a dolphin surfaced. After about five minutes my concern for the dolphins mounted and I had to just meditate on their safe passage through the plethora of spinning long-tail props until the swarm dispersed and we were returned to the shore.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/Sda32rkPQ7I/AAAAAAAAGJM/0BeJUzwxNsE/s1600-h/DSC01686.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/Sda32rkPQ7I/AAAAAAAAGJM/0BeJUzwxNsE/s400/DSC01686.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5320642159820358578" border="0" /></a>After breakfast we went back out in the boat to do some snorkeling and to generally lounge out in the sun, this part of the tour suited me just fine.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/Sda9HrEMyDI/AAAAAAAAGK0/7CNx069IGYA/s1600-h/DSC01600.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/Sda9HrEMyDI/AAAAAAAAGK0/7CNx069IGYA/s200/DSC01600.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5320647949301893170" border="0" /></a>While in Lovina we visited the local holy hot springs and bathed in the opaque blue, sulfur-tinged waters with dozens of Balinese families. Back in Colorado I am a hot springs junkie. Here sitting a few degrees from the equator, hot water is a bit less appealing, but nonetheless it was a special experience.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB-hNkmkH0qjgTE-Ovia2IWaCbFTCK3zcBGxysFgkpYqaRJQRoKE-J6LqngHWFjNbNPeK6pXQMwSzxGiGrZpKPWSdeZ270yvaI8hhVwjufZLyViKTLcZroo4gqQKTdA9b8HH7RmN_9QaI/s1600-h/DSC01713.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB-hNkmkH0qjgTE-Ovia2IWaCbFTCK3zcBGxysFgkpYqaRJQRoKE-J6LqngHWFjNbNPeK6pXQMwSzxGiGrZpKPWSdeZ270yvaI8hhVwjufZLyViKTLcZroo4gqQKTdA9b8HH7RmN_9QaI/s200/DSC01713.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5320648442637184450" border="0" /></a>On our return trip to Ubud we stopped at the base of a 100’ waterfall and visited a few palatial temples. The drive took us through terraced rice fields, panjor-lined villages and coffee plantations, the beauty of Bali continues to amaze and mystify me.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/Sda9HYZN1gI/AAAAAAAAGKs/6V_VFicleR0/s1600-h/DSC01363.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/Sda9HYZN1gI/AAAAAAAAGKs/6V_VFicleR0/s200/DSC01363.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5320647944289768962" border="0" /></a>In Mysore my friend Shueb described a trip he took to a sea-side village by saying that the town “redefined beauty” for him. For me Bali has done that. Bali is now my beauty litmus test. I have said here before that is the most aesthetic place I have ever been, the feel of the air, the smell of incense and flowers, the color palette, they all combine to overwhelm the senses and create a state of beauty bliss for me. I really do love it here.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/Sda33IJK_9I/AAAAAAAAGJU/HqMjYevxpw8/s1600-h/DSC01847.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/Sda33IJK_9I/AAAAAAAAGJU/HqMjYevxpw8/s400/DSC01847.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5320642167491461074" border="0" /></a>Nine months ago I set out to travel for a while through yoga, always assuming that I would circumnavigate the globe and then return to the states to set up my life again largely like how I had left it. But the more I travel, the less I identify with what was my stationary, US-based life and the more I love being nomadic.<br /><br />The longer I am away from ‘home’ the harder it becomes to answer questions like, where are you from and where do you live. Should I say I am from Colorado or Ohio? And really, where <span style="font-style: italic;">DO </span>I live???<br /><br />I am trying on a few new answers for size:<br />I am from America – period.<br />I am splitting my time traveling between India and Bali.<br /><br />Yeah, I like the sound of that … I live half the year in Mysore and half in Bali. That suits me very well. So in order to make this statement my reality, I have made plans to return to Colorado in June, to move my collection of Tupperware boxes to Ohio for safe keeping and then to set out once again. I think I am now officially a traveler, a homeless nomad, a wandering yogic gypsy. Yeah, those labels suit me too.Rachel Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196197020015257649noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4217460362646169634.post-55918951994108469482009-03-29T10:32:00.009+08:002009-03-29T11:59:40.675+08:00I Heart Yoga<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/Sc7hKua47XI/AAAAAAAAGHI/8bqyU7Pxs7Q/s1600-h/DSC01239.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/Sc7hKua47XI/AAAAAAAAGHI/8bqyU7Pxs7Q/s400/DSC01239.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318435784346889586" border="0" /></a>When I was back in Colorado in January I spent six lovely hours in the Denver, Cherry Creek Mall while the Mac Geniuses tried to fix my ailing laptop. During my time at the Genius Bar I met a Kirtan leader. My meeting with him was the first time I ever heard of Kirtan and he piqued my interest so I started looking for a group to join in with. In Mysore I arrived right as the leader of the weekly Kirtan group was leaving and so I never got to practice there.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/Sc7mMubJWEI/AAAAAAAAGHw/1Rs6KV3-djQ/s1600-h/DSC01150.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/Sc7mMubJWEI/AAAAAAAAGHw/1Rs6KV3-djQ/s200/DSC01150.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318441316265842754" border="0" /></a>Now I know it wasn’t meant to be before, because I was meant to participate in my first Kirtan in Bali, with fifty other people at a benefit for a local orphanage.<br /><br />My first Kirtan was led by a maverick in the world of chanting, <a href="http://www.davestringer.com/">Dave Stringer</a>. Dave looks more like he should be in an Indi Rock band than leading sacred chanting sessions, but he brings that unconventional energy to this ancient tradition and breathes new life into the words which alone serve to inspire and resonate.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/Sc7iMF8imWI/AAAAAAAAGHg/3mopyKhz724/s1600-h/DSC01248.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/Sc7iMF8imWI/AAAAAAAAGHg/3mopyKhz724/s400/DSC01248.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318436907353545058" border="0" /></a>Kirtans are basically group-singing events. Mantras are sung in call and response form, Dave calling and the collective ‘We’ responding. We begin timidly, none trusting their voices to not offend, but soon enough we are attuned and we raise the roof with our song, some stand up to dance, no one remains still. It’s like attending a participatory symphony. On this night we sang Om Namo Shivaya, my mantra, and I was hooked immediately. At that moment, I mentally committed to attending every Kirtan I can during my travels.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpCaVKoBnDUH2E1hUD3fOA07ie_L4NuLeLXMFcGtWh6fA2X5ZkvnjCDDvwYpfplTGQ-djDBcZqw_6U1exPR4BLPKSiQ9obCYo9_L_1V2_48gHm3Rn87tbJRlIi3ZIv2pN8TbEdOtwG130/s1600-h/DSC01307.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpCaVKoBnDUH2E1hUD3fOA07ie_L4NuLeLXMFcGtWh6fA2X5ZkvnjCDDvwYpfplTGQ-djDBcZqw_6U1exPR4BLPKSiQ9obCYo9_L_1V2_48gHm3Rn87tbJRlIi3ZIv2pN8TbEdOtwG130/s200/DSC01307.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318443123592442418" border="0" /></a>The teacher training continues and I continue to be expanded in my practice, my understanding and my appreciation of Yoga. Most days we have three practices, and I thank my time in Mysore for preparing me for the rigors of this training. During our limited free hours we sleep, or sunbathe and sometimes we explore.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/Sc7hKaBeEAI/AAAAAAAAGG4/cYlMgL4QX-8/s1600-h/DSC01174.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/Sc7hKaBeEAI/AAAAAAAAGG4/cYlMgL4QX-8/s400/DSC01174.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318435778871562242" border="0" /></a>Our group went rafting down the Ayung river a few days back. The trip began with a long stairway leading down into the gorge and eventually the river. Eight kilometers later the gorge has widened and softened some, making way for rice terraces and high-end resorts along the sides. At the deepest, darkest point the black rock walls are covered in intricate carvings telling the tale of ancient Hindu battles and love stories. Waterfalls and natural springs feed the river from every crack and crevice. The pool-drop rapids are fun and technically challenging, but the warm water makes everything seem easy going.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/Sc7iL9CmXbI/AAAAAAAAGHY/HLMUBl2W7hs/s1600-h/DSC01227.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/Sc7iL9CmXbI/AAAAAAAAGHY/HLMUBl2W7hs/s400/DSC01227.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318436904963038642" border="0" /></a>The next day our group was invited to join in a sunrise chant by Dave and Patrick who are here hosting thier own retreat. The forces that combined to get us all up to the base of a Mt. Batur that morning are far too intricate to map out, but somehow, someway we all found ourselves singing the Gayatri mantra as the sun rose over the volcanoes.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/Sc7mNW2en4I/AAAAAAAAGII/-FMPwRXm5mo/s1600-h/DSC01231.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/Sc7mNW2en4I/AAAAAAAAGII/-FMPwRXm5mo/s200/DSC01231.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318441327117901698" border="0" /></a>Once the sun took up residence in the sky, we were lead by <a href="http://www.mayaspace.com/">Maya Fiennes </a>through a Kundalini practice, another first for me, and finally through sun salutations by Shiva. It was the most beautiful practice of my life, and again I know that it required every step along my path to get me to that porch on that morning. The overflow of joy I felt there was enough to sustain me for years in my practice.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/Sc7hK4tf3yI/AAAAAAAAGHQ/MQNdQ6CDA8o/s1600-h/DSC01269.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/Sc7hK4tf3yI/AAAAAAAAGHQ/MQNdQ6CDA8o/s400/DSC01269.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318435787109293858" border="0" /></a>After the morning practice we all cycled back to Ubud.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/Sc7mM2uqfTI/AAAAAAAAGH4/ikcCqVEtyR4/s1600-h/DSC01235.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/Sc7mM2uqfTI/AAAAAAAAGH4/ikcCqVEtyR4/s200/DSC01235.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318441318495190322" border="0" /></a>When I was in Bali last year I learned about the Balinese New Year celebration of Nyepi. Here they forgo champagne, poppers and illuminated dropping balls, instead they celebrate complete silence and stillness.<br /><br />For 24 hours no one leaves home, there are no scooters whizzing by, no offerings are made, no lights are turned on, even the airport closes. 3.3 million people stop what they are doing and stay home, in silent stillness for a day – it is palpably powerful. When I was sailing to Singapore I experienced the same dark calmness, but never before have I experienced it with so many, the sheer magnitude of an entire population pausing is magical.<br /><br />The morning after Nyepi was the last practice of Shiva’s retreat. We all enjoyed another intensely fluid practice together and now that the course is over I have lots of processing to do. Since I came straight from India into this training I haven’t really had time to imbue the lessons from there and now I have a whole new flow to digest. My body is tired, my mind is swimming in different schools of yoga and my heart can’t wait to get back to my personal practice.<br /><br />I heart yoga!Rachel Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196197020015257649noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4217460362646169634.post-24519402563843070292009-03-27T17:13:00.006+08:002009-03-27T17:44:15.159+08:00Return<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/ScyZ2xMrzGI/AAAAAAAAGFI/0fG789DO4mY/s1600-h/DSC00962.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/ScyZ2xMrzGI/AAAAAAAAGFI/0fG789DO4mY/s400/DSC00962.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5317794426216238178" border="0" /></a>Leaving India, flying out of Bangalore I was a full 20 kilos over the apparently unevenly enforced luggage weight limit. The creative counter agents began negotiations at $18 per kilo, for an opening bid of $360. I raised my voice, pierced them with my blue eyes, and the negotiations continued... I offered to remove all liquids from my bags, to start adding layers to my modest travel outfit and finally after about 45 minutes I gave them all I had, 1200 rupees, $24. The agents were disgusted with my measly 'offering'.<br /><br />They asked for credit cards or if I had any US dollars. I explained that this was all I was giving up and that thanks to them now I had no money for dinner and would surely starve. After a brief conference involving every counter agent in Bangalore, they decided I wasn’t worth their time, threw my 1200 back at me and sent me on my way with no fee and all my bags checked. As I left the manager said, and I quote... “next time lady, you bring us money!”<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/ScybYLHo1NI/AAAAAAAAGGg/IE4nR9Es-T4/s1600-h/DSC01070.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/ScybYLHo1NI/AAAAAAAAGGg/IE4nR9Es-T4/s200/DSC01070.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5317796099621704914" border="0" /></a>The rest of my journey was blissfully uneventful, I did a somewhat expedited Ashtanga practice in the business lounge of the Bangkok airport and made it Denpasar in time for lunch.<br />Coming back to Bali really did feel like a homecoming in many ways. It’s easy, comfortable and settling.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/ScyaiapKcfI/AAAAAAAAGFo/UTZ_KS_EKr4/s1600-h/DSC00979.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/ScyaiapKcfI/AAAAAAAAGFo/UTZ_KS_EKr4/s200/DSC00979.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5317795176075915762" border="0" /></a>Upon arriving I was greeted by my friend Pande’s beaming smile. He brought me to his house and I took up residence in his guest room, which months before I attended the blessing ceremony for. Pande said then that he knew I would end up being his first guest and indeed I was. His wife Kadek, daughters Putu and Kadek made me feel welcome, stuffed me with sambal and rice and the girls kept me entertained with their Balinese dancing.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/ScyZ3QdXUdI/AAAAAAAAGFY/aQaDoU9pVCY/s1600-h/DSC00984.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/ScyZ3QdXUdI/AAAAAAAAGFY/aQaDoU9pVCY/s400/DSC00984.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5317794434607698386" border="0" /></a>Bali has a seemingly endless stream of holy days, festivals and national holidays to celebrate. Twice a year Gulangan is celebrated to honor their perseverance over the bad spirits. The last Gulangan took place the day I graduated from Yoga school, and now six months later I feel that cycle completing for me as I return to host my first retreat.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/ScyZ2KvFy-I/AAAAAAAAGFA/fkLzaMJqgFY/s1600-h/DSC00972.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/ScyZ2KvFy-I/AAAAAAAAGFA/fkLzaMJqgFY/s400/DSC00972.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5317794415891565538" border="0" /></a>Pande’s family invited me to join them in their small mountain village for the celebration. It was an all-day affair filled with food, ceremonies and lots of sitting around waiting for the next ritual to commence. I was once again the only Westerner and much like I had been on the third class Indian train … I was like TV to them, something strange and different to be openly gawked at, smiled at and ultimately accepted into the fold.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/ScybYO5u12I/AAAAAAAAGGQ/H5KvtsWaYxk/s1600-h/DSC00994.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/ScybYO5u12I/AAAAAAAAGGQ/H5KvtsWaYxk/s200/DSC00994.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5317796100637120354" border="0" /></a>Unless you have really been the center of prolonged, unwanted attention you can’t really grasp how truly uncomfortable it is. Most of the time I sat cross-legged on the ground and just smiled, what else is there to do when dozens of people are staring at you?<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_0ZVkUJ66xgu4_c5VYexD7Yg4kfnwmOTJQGR3gAcWJgB52zJ8yafH6ylUEhC2h4Gd4wNhQSuAH_0kjoANiagtRwkd5ds0vcUdSiww_vH_b9WqpaHu4n-CXN7eXX4B8zUqU0w_PhyphenhyphenCEXs/s1600-h/DSC01033.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_0ZVkUJ66xgu4_c5VYexD7Yg4kfnwmOTJQGR3gAcWJgB52zJ8yafH6ylUEhC2h4Gd4wNhQSuAH_0kjoANiagtRwkd5ds0vcUdSiww_vH_b9WqpaHu4n-CXN7eXX4B8zUqU0w_PhyphenhyphenCEXs/s400/DSC01033.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5317794430501117346" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/Scyaipw4ZiI/AAAAAAAAGFw/O97-LIXUGWg/s1600-h/DSC00988.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/Scyaipw4ZiI/AAAAAAAAGFw/O97-LIXUGWg/s200/DSC00988.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5317795180134819362" border="0" /></a>During the day of celebration I was force fed non-stop by the local villagers. It is a holiday steeped in ritual eating. Offerings are meticulously crafted, taken to temple, blessed and then doled out for all to enjoy. As we sat out front, after making our own offerings, a steady stream of devotees came, prayed and left us fruit, rice crackers, sates, you name it. Early on I tried to explain my preference for vegetables, and my aversion to unidentifiable pork products, but it was for not. Language and cultural barriers left me unequipped to refuse the offerings and so I ate, and ate, and ate.<br /><br />The next day, I settled back in the apartment I lived in this past fall, right across from the resort where I did my training. It feels homey and easy, a nice combo for a weary world traveler.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/ScyeEyqGZ-I/AAAAAAAAGGo/7L1Jb_qCzc4/s1600-h/DSC01307.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/ScyeEyqGZ-I/AAAAAAAAGGo/7L1Jb_qCzc4/s400/DSC01307.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5317799065172731874" border="0" /></a>I came back to Bali a bit earlier than originally planned to attend a training/retreat with Shiva Rea, the pioneer of Vinyasa Flow Yoga. She is beautiful and powerful and so free in her movements. As we practiced that first day I felt like the stiff Ashtangi in the room. Everyone else is flowing, they are so organic and unrestrained, then there is me who is like... but wait, that wasn’t five breathes, hey we skipped Chaturanga, and what do you mean move however your body tells you to?<br /><br />Vinyasa Flow is the practice that first brought me to yoga. It is where the seed of yoga was first planted in me and it too feels like a homecoming. It only took me a day to get into the flow for myself again. I look forward to returning to my personal Ashtanga practice next week and am equally as excited for this opportunity to refocus on my original practice and the kind of yoga that I teach. I feel well-rounded and balanced through both practices.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/ScyZ3UUT0GI/AAAAAAAAGFg/ne4BOGGKXE0/s1600-h/DSC01073.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/ScyZ3UUT0GI/AAAAAAAAGFg/ne4BOGGKXE0/s400/DSC01073.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5317794435643461730" border="0" /></a>The first night of the retreat, as we lay down in Shivasana, Shiva turned the recorded music off and this guitar player, who snuck in while our eyes were closed, began playing live in the room. He was AMAZING!!! His name is <a href="www.myspace.com/stevegoldmusic">Steven Gold</a> and he was accompanied by his lovely wife Anne Emily. The music was infectiously inspiring and as he played and sang Om Nama Shivaya, my mantra, the dam on my tears broke and I just started weeping. The fact that we are practicing in the same shala that I did my teacher training in, and the culmintaion of all the experiences I have had since I was here six months ago combined to overwhelm me in one steady stream of tears. It was a beautiful.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/Scyaimk-iUI/AAAAAAAAGF4/-p769qeH0Nw/s1600-h/DSC01006.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/Scyaimk-iUI/AAAAAAAAGF4/-p769qeH0Nw/s200/DSC01006.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5317795179279583554" border="0" /></a>Only taking every single step along this path could have led me to be in that place at that moment and to experience it in such a powerful way. It was one of the most affirming moments I have ever known.<br /><br />I tell you, the universe is kicking my ass with all these gifts. I am humbled and awakened and most of all, filled with unending love.Rachel Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196197020015257649noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4217460362646169634.post-28535612934377819482009-03-21T12:34:00.013+08:002009-03-21T13:24:01.835+08:00No Fear, No Fun<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/ScRwH014d2I/AAAAAAAAGDQ/W5bwKv5fNf0/s1600-h/DSC00770.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/ScRwH014d2I/AAAAAAAAGDQ/W5bwKv5fNf0/s400/DSC00770.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315496739950065506" border="0" /></a>Sharath, our teacher, has some trademark sayings. His English is not perfect so some are made all the more endearing for their grammatical incorrectness. He can’t possibly remember the name of every student, but he manages to remember countries and each morning as he shuffles students’ practice times around he says things like “Canada sisters, you come 6:30 tomorrow - Japan, why you late? - Holland, you stop there”. If a students falls during a headstand or a drop back he says “don’t break floor!”<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/ScRzaPiDK0I/AAAAAAAAGEw/IDnU8jgKPPg/s1600-h/DSC00824.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/ScRzaPiDK0I/AAAAAAAAGEw/IDnU8jgKPPg/s200/DSC00824.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315500354887166786" border="0" /></a>One of his favorites is “no fear, no fun”. He says this often to students who are just learning a particularly difficult or fearful posture. Drop backs for instance are when you stand at the front of your mat and bend backwards until your hands touch the ground behind you, then you spring back up to standing. This asana for sure instills fear but the look on my fellow Ashtangis’ faces when they stand up for the first time is definitely all fun.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/ScRzGyxLcGI/AAAAAAAAGEY/MN9KQQZuCzM/s1600-h/DSC00931.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/ScRzGyxLcGI/AAAAAAAAGEY/MN9KQQZuCzM/s400/DSC00931.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315500020748480610" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/ScRw3mi5OcI/AAAAAAAAGDg/lGZCDDkn_7o/s1600-h/DSC00705.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/ScRw3mi5OcI/AAAAAAAAGDg/lGZCDDkn_7o/s200/DSC00705.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315497560746047938" border="0" /></a>For my last week in Mysore I adopted this as my mantra. No fear, no fun led me to a party in a teak forest, it led me to eat an unwashed tuber straight off the turnip truck, and finally … to an Indian water park, where the real fear of water-born parasites only helped to amplify the fun.<br /><br />My Mysore sister Shelley and I had been trying to come up with a good party plan for weeks. We had bandied about the idea of renting a hotel suite and throwing an air conditioning party, a particularly enticing idea when the temperature wasn’t dipping below 95 Fahrenheit until the wee hours of the night, we managed to venture out for a few dance party nights at a very surreal Mysore discothèque, but it wasn’t until we passed the water park that the epiphany came.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/ScRwH_Xxh_I/AAAAAAAAGDI/xgcWl8MlGLc/s1600-h/DSC00743.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/ScRwH_Xxh_I/AAAAAAAAGDI/xgcWl8MlGLc/s400/DSC00743.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315496742776571890" border="0" /></a>We invited everyone who would give us the time of day, in the end 13 hardy souls hit the park on Friday the 13th. The park was so much fun! I felt like I was ten again, like I was Charlie and all of India was the Chocolate Factory.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/ScRw3_pTQEI/AAAAAAAAGDo/GB0Hmkum7hY/s1600-h/DSC00773.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/ScRw3_pTQEI/AAAAAAAAGDo/GB0Hmkum7hY/s200/DSC00773.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315497567483805762" border="0" /></a>We slid, we splashed , we bumper car-ed. The highlight for me was the Aqua Dance Party, a dance floor covered in dousing sprinklers and Indian men in long pants and tank tops dancing like we were all in the final scene of some Baliwood epic. to quote the bumper sticker, I danced as if no one was looking. In that moment I had no reservations about anything, no inhibitions, no fear, purely fun.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/ScRzGDLl-pI/AAAAAAAAGEQ/gy31lTLzI1Q/s1600-h/DSC00919.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/ScRzGDLl-pI/AAAAAAAAGEQ/gy31lTLzI1Q/s400/DSC00919.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315500007974369938" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA7rmF-RmTDNXTTa5yXlpeJOdVmRRe5z4MM4d2ATPYvFrDS-D4weG_5qCnGhTz2YzbXFKpR9y3j_4Uw4grJ1newOBvpVZeV2EbHeZCRGojZEpFA1fWvdt5xzLHRk3k7EGlKwcobPvGGAw/s1600-h/DSC00867.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA7rmF-RmTDNXTTa5yXlpeJOdVmRRe5z4MM4d2ATPYvFrDS-D4weG_5qCnGhTz2YzbXFKpR9y3j_4Uw4grJ1newOBvpVZeV2EbHeZCRGojZEpFA1fWvdt5xzLHRk3k7EGlKwcobPvGGAw/s200/DSC00867.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315500356416357602" border="0" /></a>My final days were filled with friends, plans for the future and reflection on my time in India. On the morning of my last practice, Sharath gave me permission to return to the shala in August. <em>Insallah</em>, I will be back that soon, and then I will stay for a more extended practice of three to six months.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/ScRypBhZBuI/AAAAAAAAGD4/qhb3GyMfpYc/s1600-h/DSC00870.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/ScRypBhZBuI/AAAAAAAAGD4/qhb3GyMfpYc/s200/DSC00870.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315499509312718562" border="0" /></a>The last night Shelley, Cary, Emma, Bernadette and I climbed up Chamundi Hill and drank champagne in the pouring rain, honoring the goddes Raguphuthi had assigned to me the week before. My friends and I laughed freely, gazed intently and I loved fully the women I was with, the country I was in and the person I have become. After a glutenous dinner of Tali and one last visit to the dazzling palace it was time to sleep away the night.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv2CLS3y6ECMvHqjM2iYgr-Uz7CspU7KXo67YPfNw-_t4OS4UUOUtUn1cuSTvMJgthWm3HrxT_GBuS3QlLe0nd3KEft2bbZXqa75iKNOYIFzKPEv9jX_juNdNldsFvXsf2Asj1Dq6osfQ/s1600-h/DSC00876.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv2CLS3y6ECMvHqjM2iYgr-Uz7CspU7KXo67YPfNw-_t4OS4UUOUtUn1cuSTvMJgthWm3HrxT_GBuS3QlLe0nd3KEft2bbZXqa75iKNOYIFzKPEv9jX_juNdNldsFvXsf2Asj1Dq6osfQ/s200/DSC00876.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315500354387235186" border="0" /></a>My neighborhood dog Ruby decided to help me fully experience that last night by howling at the moon beneath my window. Thanks to Ruby I lived that last night fully. Sleep seems less important now; in those last hours I was appreciative of Ruby’s perpetual alarm and I tracked time by watching the moon move across the sky.<br /><br />In the morning I drug out my practice for as long as I could, soaking in the energy of the shala and gaining three new postures for the road. As I left, I touched my hand to the threshold and then to my heart to honor my teachers and all of my Ashtangi family members who have crossed this way before me, and to those who will arrive wide-eyed just as I did a month ago.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/ScRypQ8K2LI/AAAAAAAAGEA/Zv49TgN0nMY/s1600-h/DSC00893.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/ScRypQ8K2LI/AAAAAAAAGEA/Zv49TgN0nMY/s200/DSC00893.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315499513451567282" border="0" /></a>I pulled a breakfast hat trick stopping in at all three of the yogi haunts. At Santosha I met Thomas and collected my painting, now I have Chamudiswari Parviti to remind me of this time and to evoke when I need strength or humbling. One by one I said <span style="font-style: italic;">see you soon</span> to my friends and fellow yogis, taking the moment to look into their familiar eyes and absorb one last bit of them before leaving.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbyUX1pw6Q70PtIEUQhPYPC-Zha390lx65OKue1TRe9hljG22_vDdcI5hNxs10QQTjPlTyg0myKgu-PPIU1MUbIKQhRxi10-gI5wuPcIkcxk9rrm1NybCfeEFPxgj9u37AvPs8JB6e_6A/s1600-h/DSC00923.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbyUX1pw6Q70PtIEUQhPYPC-Zha390lx65OKue1TRe9hljG22_vDdcI5hNxs10QQTjPlTyg0myKgu-PPIU1MUbIKQhRxi10-gI5wuPcIkcxk9rrm1NybCfeEFPxgj9u37AvPs8JB6e_6A/s200/DSC00923.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315500345205814770" border="0" /></a>As a final memento I had my nose pierced like all good Indian women do, to honor the part of me that resides there now.<br /><br />When it was time to go, Shelley saw me off and took over where Claudia had left me weeks before. She moved into the 12 Cross flat, adopted Pepe the Honda Scooty motor bike and settled in for her final weeks. Saying goodbye to her or to Mysore seemed all too premature … after all I feel like I will be there again very, very soon.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/ScRwH4O504I/AAAAAAAAGDY/waGGz5FuYDg/s1600-h/DSC00796.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/ScRwH4O504I/AAAAAAAAGDY/waGGz5FuYDg/s400/DSC00796.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315496740860318594" border="0" /></a>Please allow me the indulgence of gratitude. I wish to thank my Ashtanga teachers, Sri K. Pattabhi Jois, Sharath, Saraswati, Marco and Sandra Bianco, Katiza Satya, Claudia Pradella, Paul Dallaghan, Neil Barker, Steve Roger and all of the beautiful yogis who I have had the honor and privilege of practicing with. My Mysore sisters Shelly, Cary, Kelly, Maggie, Melissa, Danielle, Nina, Ursala, Emma and Bernadette, my brothers James, Thomas, PJ, Javier, Arne. I thank you for the gift of yoga, the lessons of the path and the luxury of your attentions.<br /><br />I live in gratitude. Namaste. Om Shanti, Shanti, Shanti.Rachel Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196197020015257649noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4217460362646169634.post-60739512645044545232009-03-20T09:07:00.006+08:002009-03-20T09:34:42.724+08:00Samyama<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/ScLuozzil6I/AAAAAAAAGBw/IdIDG406Koc/s1600-h/DSC00669.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/ScLuozzil6I/AAAAAAAAGBw/IdIDG406Koc/s400/DSC00669.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315072895119169442" border="0" /></a>It is about to rain here. The sky is heavy with grey-blue clouds; you can feel the static electricity in the air and hear the thunder roll across the valley. The plants are craning up, opening to the sky in anticipation of long awaited moisture and the smell of damp Jasmine is blanketing the town.<br /><br />The storm started rolling in last night. As Shelly, Joe and I stood on one of our friend’s rooftops, awaiting his ride to the Bangalore airport and subsequent flight back to the states, the clouds loomed on the horizon. To the west the sun set under a canopy of jet black clouds turning the sky into a pallet of pinks, oranges, magentas… heat lightening illuminated the clouds giving the approaching darkness an ethereal feel.<br /><br />To the East the pale, yellow, full moon began to rise as it if and the sun were on the same fulcrum, it seemed that for one to rise the other must set. It was a truly magical night and I was almost jealous that PJ was getting such a spectacular send off knowing that my own impending departure would come before that days’ sunset and moonrise.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZDsdO9rQhmmoNDEFg-xhHuruzw9855IUtriFlpuSw80ZsFS9-zUXUop5qlv6Hd4zMaWjSAvbeCjz5WtPvAXXSeyLmCrMGxIwGwm6UNQUAQYkqdQMm9NKT4JxRu4IBm0O6jnt9XlD-CgU/s1600-h/DSC00302.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZDsdO9rQhmmoNDEFg-xhHuruzw9855IUtriFlpuSw80ZsFS9-zUXUop5qlv6Hd4zMaWjSAvbeCjz5WtPvAXXSeyLmCrMGxIwGwm6UNQUAQYkqdQMm9NKT4JxRu4IBm0O6jnt9XlD-CgU/s400/DSC00302.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315073463370169634" border="0" /></a>Mysore is like living in a magnified world. Our practice bonds us together. Meeting someone new takes on a heady weight because you already know how much the same you are and that you will have plenty of topics to converse about in the coming weeks. Introducing yourself to someone over breakfast implies the impending relationship, soon enough you will be Facebook friends and you will be regularly planning coconut stand rendezvous’. It’s a commitment.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/ScLwKSGVpUI/AAAAAAAAGCg/ItSN7QO7Hus/s1600-h/DSC00930.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/ScLwKSGVpUI/AAAAAAAAGCg/ItSN7QO7Hus/s200/DSC00930.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315074569698387266" border="0" /></a>I have been outgoing and social while I have been here, forging intense friendships with people I may only get to know for this month. Some of course I will see again, the yoga world is a small place and the yogic path is a well-worn trench from which none of us diverts easily. No doubt many will meet again at a retreat or in India, but for now, we live in the moment and revel in the long days. I have come to have deeper connections with some I have only know over the course of two or three days here than people I knew for years back in Colorado. The Mysore magnifying glass makes us open, honest and communicative.<br /><br />You cannot come here and not be changed, expanded and intrigued. There is a man here who is interviewing yogis for his PHD thesis. When he came to interview me, deemed worthy of an interview because of my year through yoga travels, I asked him how he could possibly choose his subjects, everyone here has a story, everyone here is powerfully interesting.<br /><br />They say that yoga can give you super powers, and while I haven’t seen anyone levitate in the shala yet, I believe all these Ashtangis are living on an other-worldly level in a lot of ways. They are some of the most interesting people I have ever met. It’s like they have super lives and super personalities, if not obvious x-ray vision.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/ScLvKCNrM1I/AAAAAAAAGCI/riMi8wCOFok/s1600-h/DSC00634.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/ScLvKCNrM1I/AAAAAAAAGCI/riMi8wCOFok/s400/DSC00634.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315073465922564946" border="0" /></a>Patanjali said that through Samyama (meditation, turning the senses inward and Samadhi) one can obtain the power of an elephant by focusing on that creature. Samyama can make you light as a feather, or heavy as a boulder, it can make you giant like a tree or small enough to fit through a keyhole. The yogis here seem to be practicing Samyama on relationships. Samyama can make you lifelong friends in a week or it can help you obtain all the teachings you need from a person over the course of a single breakfast.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/ScLvwvOiCOI/AAAAAAAAGCQ/9jF0F4_gnQ0/s1600-h/DSC00637.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/ScLvwvOiCOI/AAAAAAAAGCQ/9jF0F4_gnQ0/s200/DSC00637.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315074130840783074" border="0" /></a>It is a belief among many Buddhists that you continue to meet the same people over and over again in all your reincarnations – an idea I can believe in since so many people here, that I am seemingly meeting for the first time, are so intensely familiar to me. If that is the case, then I think all of us Ashtangis must have had our own village once upon a lifetime. Pattabhi Jois would have been the mayor, my friend Shelly was for sure the social director, PJ would have been the sheriff, Thomas was the town sage, and thrown in the mix were a few tramps and gypsies. I was probably a gypsies or maybe I was the scribe, I can’t be certain.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/ScLwKl2_GbI/AAAAAAAAGCo/84u-vEh_1N0/s1600-h/DSC00909.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/ScLwKl2_GbI/AAAAAAAAGCo/84u-vEh_1N0/s200/DSC00909.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315074575002704306" border="0" /></a>Through lifetimes and eons our Ashtangi village has spread around the globe, but nonetheless we still know each other when we meet. I feel like I’ve known you all before and seeing you again feels like home.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/ScLvJxZ91YI/AAAAAAAAGB4/jj99hfWq6xM/s1600-h/IMG_0011.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/ScLvJxZ91YI/AAAAAAAAGB4/jj99hfWq6xM/s400/IMG_0011.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315073461410715010" border="0" /></a>As the rain starts to fall, the smells become even more intense. India smells a lot better than you might imagine. The dampness brings relieving cool to the scorched dirt streets and fields. The Technicolor pallet is slowly enveloped in the cloudy night sky and the full moon disappears from view. This dark and stormy night I will sleep like I did growing up in Ohio on rainy nights. The lullaby of raindrops, the safety of friends, the comfort of practice, all conspiring to lull me off to a deep relaxing slumber. If I’m lucky … I’ll dream about the last time we were all together.Rachel Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196197020015257649noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4217460362646169634.post-91946966445047539452009-03-13T11:23:00.009+08:002009-03-13T12:39:37.793+08:00Shiva<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SbnUv5RKAhI/AAAAAAAAF_Q/XZ4b7s-285U/s1600-h/DSC00469.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SbnUv5RKAhI/AAAAAAAAF_Q/XZ4b7s-285U/s400/DSC00469.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5312511154751930898" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihSZ42ONF2q0l72RgTNBSIZQpQ9wmCNrX9dqfQ6v1ullPFOPhSmI_QKD8ATi_1K5Fyn277X_SGVAOenVMzY43Ec9G8jFekknUfbgvy0cVxpislCDPDWZJH7Qg_DyRz5z4A36LDGgGEK5E/s1600-h/DSC00582.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihSZ42ONF2q0l72RgTNBSIZQpQ9wmCNrX9dqfQ6v1ullPFOPhSmI_QKD8ATi_1K5Fyn277X_SGVAOenVMzY43Ec9G8jFekknUfbgvy0cVxpislCDPDWZJH7Qg_DyRz5z4A36LDGgGEK5E/s200/DSC00582.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5312512395372867490" border="0" /></a>In Hinduism there is a Trimurti of three gods, Vishnu, Brahma and Shiva. Shiva sometimes gets a bad wrap as he is known as the destroyer. Nonetheless, he is my favorite of the three and the one I evoke daily when I don’t like the way I am thinking or behaving, I call on him to destroy bad patterns.<br /><br />This week Shiva has been popping up all over the place.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJLwN-UtoJObNzq0XBt0386ci8FfnBoXy67HofZua5wQWOJBAC-XiS1-mr4uhqpQxOh0AqNhC7AtzX2SZZUufcC87FvQAILKVvBD758m_IFUgKW_KiLxWzhNX1tNJiIv0StHLAMopO_9g/s1600-h/DSC00604.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJLwN-UtoJObNzq0XBt0386ci8FfnBoXy67HofZua5wQWOJBAC-XiS1-mr4uhqpQxOh0AqNhC7AtzX2SZZUufcC87FvQAILKVvBD758m_IFUgKW_KiLxWzhNX1tNJiIv0StHLAMopO_9g/s400/DSC00604.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5312511162444966418" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SbnUv-fXD5I/AAAAAAAAF_I/mViRW79DOqE/s1600-h/DSC00468.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SbnUv-fXD5I/AAAAAAAAF_I/mViRW79DOqE/s400/DSC00468.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5312511156153683858" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn77B9IivsiQpvdOOkKelAlLzPt-tZSl87WHKNXRGGXJnhnwTCrwm1g4H2IOOVY_tzH2gQ8bjA2ZUNBHAbY42E0AmHBG-0ZQLOLk22fgSPvOlC_hAY3zExG-R7VReIKMvHE4OiQhWsaMs/s1600-h/DSC00424.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn77B9IivsiQpvdOOkKelAlLzPt-tZSl87WHKNXRGGXJnhnwTCrwm1g4H2IOOVY_tzH2gQ8bjA2ZUNBHAbY42E0AmHBG-0ZQLOLk22fgSPvOlC_hAY3zExG-R7VReIKMvHE4OiQhWsaMs/s200/DSC00424.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5312512402730917922" border="0" /></a>There are two main breakfast spots for yogis here in Gokalum. Om Café and Santosha. Santosha is owned by a lovely couple, Tam and Thomas. Thomas collects and creates traditional Mysore paintings, which are intricately detailed and adorned with bits of gold leaf. I was enamored with one of the paintings in his collection and was discussing purchasing it. He and I got to talking about art and he offered to introduce me to a local artist that he has befriended.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SbnXxYnOwWI/AAAAAAAAGAI/668g8dXibYs/s1600-h/DSC00312.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SbnXxYnOwWI/AAAAAAAAGAI/668g8dXibYs/s200/DSC00312.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5312514478880768354" border="0" /></a>That afternoon we paid the artist a visit, shared a chai and before we left I commissioned a piece. Ganjifa Raghapathi Bhatta is a handsome man in his early fifties, whose face reminds me of my own father’s. His soft eyes and gentle stare made me want to spend the whole day listening to his stories, watching Hindu history unfold through the windows to his soul. He is a studied man whose vast knowledge of Hindu lore provides the most consistent subject matter for his paintings.<br /><br />I came to his studio with two other women who had each commissioned works by him. They had chosen the goddesses Saraswati and Lakshmi, which left me struggling to come up with a goddess of my own to evoke. Raghapathi jokingly said Parvati, consort of Shiva, mother of the elephant-headed god Ganesh. But Parvati is a mischievous goddess and not one most people chose to have hanging on the walls of their homes.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SbnV4q9ukQI/AAAAAAAAGAA/X1060x4yLFI/s1600-h/DSC00352.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SbnV4q9ukQI/AAAAAAAAGAA/X1060x4yLFI/s200/DSC00352.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5312512405042794754" border="0" /></a>However, here in Mysore there is another incarnation of Parvati, one who is good and who saved Mysore from a demon. Chamundeshwari is a beautiful goddess and Thomas assured me she is a good one to evoke when you need to defeat your ego.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SbnhMZwZ_jI/AAAAAAAAGAY/W82RTwPlXJs/s1600-h/DSC00499.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SbnhMZwZ_jI/AAAAAAAAGAY/W82RTwPlXJs/s400/DSC00499.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5312524838648806962" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SbngMdiVpHI/AAAAAAAAGAQ/Y_F-xNXWb-0/s1600-h/DSC00413.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SbngMdiVpHI/AAAAAAAAGAQ/Y_F-xNXWb-0/s200/DSC00413.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5312523740151915634" border="0" /></a>The day before, my Mysore friend Kelly and her two year-old daughter Maggie invited me to join them for a day trip to Melkote. I had no idea what or where Melkote was but I figured I’d accept the invitation and see where it led us.<br /><br />Turns out Melkote is home to several temples, one in particular honoring Shiva. The landscape surrounding the city is dotted with large rock formations that reminded me of Moab, Utah and which gave me a brief sense of my beloved Four Corners region. In the city center there is Cheluvanarayanaswamy temple built some 900 years ago, Yoganarasimhaswamy temple is on the hill overlooking Melkote.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SbnV4SA9TWI/AAAAAAAAF_w/O5fv5xJiakE/s1600-h/DSC00564.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SbnV4SA9TWI/AAAAAAAAF_w/O5fv5xJiakE/s200/DSC00564.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5312512398345456994" border="0" /></a>The views and natural beauty of the area were awe inspiring. The colors of saris draped along fences while people bathed in the ritual waters were a photographer’s dream and the throngs of people who greeted us, asked us to take a photo with them and invited us to join in their picnic lunches was heartwarming and unselfconsciously generous.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SbnUwPzndjI/AAAAAAAAF_Y/p2JZV2iNn48/s1600-h/DSC00506.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SbnUwPzndjI/AAAAAAAAF_Y/p2JZV2iNn48/s400/DSC00506.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5312511160802047538" border="0" /></a>My week was rounded out with a discussion about which of the three Tirmurti gods we each felt an allegiance to. Brahma is Thomas’s favorite because to him he embodies family. Some prefer Vishnu as the sort of the top god from whom the universe began and for his reputation as the protector. Then there are us Shiva loyalists, we are a wily strong-willed bunch and if you ever see me spinning my Om Namo Shivaya necklace you will know that I am evoking Shiva and asking him to help me change my mind.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SbnUvjYyhLI/AAAAAAAAF_A/HOlQCD96kB8/s1600-h/DSC00359.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SbnUvjYyhLI/AAAAAAAAF_A/HOlQCD96kB8/s400/DSC00359.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5312511148878365874" border="0" /></a>Rachel Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196197020015257649noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4217460362646169634.post-5178888657951177062009-03-05T16:13:00.008+08:002009-03-05T17:01:23.713+08:00Community<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/Sa-TF9bOIrI/AAAAAAAAF-w/RMPWaQ7MfNY/s1600-h/DSC00274.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/Sa-TF9bOIrI/AAAAAAAAF-w/RMPWaQ7MfNY/s400/DSC00274.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5309624216290468530" border="0" /></a>Pattabhi Jois’ shala is located in Gokulam, which is a small town about ten minutes outside of Mysore. There is a real sense of community here. It is small enough for neighbors to know each other and everyone knows about the yogashala and the steady flow of foreigners who stream in for a month or two at a time.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/Sa-OSFTYRXI/AAAAAAAAF9A/x8Eeh4qw-V0/s1600-h/DSC00184.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/Sa-OSFTYRXI/AAAAAAAAF9A/x8Eeh4qw-V0/s400/DSC00184.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5309618927005353330" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/Sa-PdrgyNeI/AAAAAAAAF-Y/kzFYpUI9-C4/s1600-h/DSC00228.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/Sa-PdrgyNeI/AAAAAAAAF-Y/kzFYpUI9-C4/s200/DSC00228.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5309620225752315362" border="0" /></a>Today was a day of community for me, it began with practice in the shala followed by breakfast at Om Café, where I eat almost every morning largely due to the amazingly friendly manager Bruno, who knows everyone’s name and who is more generous with Chai then he needs to be.<br /><br />Om Café is a swirl of spiced teas, herbal elixirs, palm sugar, curd and yogis discussing the cumulative successes or failures in their practices. Some mornings we celebrate a fellow student’s success like yesterday when a four-time Mysore veteran was bestowed the title of ‘authorized’ by Sherath. This honor is reserved for those who have visited at least four times, can complete the primary series and are deemed worthy of the title by our teacher.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/Sa-O5ekhX4I/AAAAAAAAF9Y/civJLXI0kjk/s1600-h/DSC00194.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/Sa-O5ekhX4I/AAAAAAAAF9Y/civJLXI0kjk/s200/DSC00194.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5309619603803037570" border="0" /></a>Other days we support friends whose practice has slipped, who have lost a posture – that is to say that Sherath told them to go back to an earlier asana in the series and to work on that before they are permitted to move on to complete the series. Here you have to perform each asana to it’s specifications before you can move on to the next. I am allowed to perform about ¾ of the series before I skip ahead to the finishing postures. I have already gained one new asana while I have been here which I feel really good about. But for others, losing a posture is equal in misery to my elation at gaining one.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/Sa-RNBl9ZfI/AAAAAAAAF-o/SkSHrxLrpM8/s1600-h/DSC00154.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/Sa-RNBl9ZfI/AAAAAAAAF-o/SkSHrxLrpM8/s200/DSC00154.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5309622138645079538" border="0" /></a>After breakfast my days are filled with random wanderings or socializing poolside at one of the local resorts that allow the yogis to sunbathe for a nominal fee, or courses in anatomy, meditation, yogic chanting, etc. Today I decided to wander aimlessly for a while which led me to a spa where I had my right hand/forearm tattooed in henna.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/Sa-O598keoI/AAAAAAAAF9g/8FhUWK-bGNc/s1600-h/DSC00210.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/Sa-O598keoI/AAAAAAAAF9g/8FhUWK-bGNc/s200/DSC00210.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5309619612225403522" border="0" /></a>I was supposed to meet friends at the pool but I emerged from the spa with an arm full of henna paste and strict instructions to let it dry for at least two hours. As I stood next to my scooter wondering how I could possibly get it home without the use of my right hand two women approached me.<br />– Do you know by chance where we could find ….<br />They had just arrived in Gokalum and had not yet had the chance to get their bearings. I looked down at my arm and my bike and said:<br />– Well I have to let this dry for a few hours so if you have time, I’ll give you a walking tour.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/Sa-O6ROd92I/AAAAAAAAF9o/TMPrhTIUmyw/s1600-h/DSC00237.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/Sa-O6ROd92I/AAAAAAAAF9o/TMPrhTIUmyw/s200/DSC00237.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5309619617400747874" border="0" /></a>They had time and for the next hour I strolled with them past all the places that are now second homes to me – Barista the coffee shop, the coconut stand, Loyal World – the grocery store, the gelateria, and then back to where we had met and to where my bike was parked. Two weeks ago I was just like them and I had friends to show me the ropes, so I renewed my karma yoga bank and welcomed the ladies from Canada to the Gokalum community.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/Sa-OSD44XRI/AAAAAAAAF9I/UzsogCQGI2M/s1600-h/DSC00249.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/Sa-OSD44XRI/AAAAAAAAF9I/UzsogCQGI2M/s400/DSC00249.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5309618926625774866" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/Sa-Pde1KcBI/AAAAAAAAF-Q/7sHKjQuI6F0/s1600-h/DSC00252.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/Sa-Pde1KcBI/AAAAAAAAF-Q/7sHKjQuI6F0/s200/DSC00252.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5309620222348128274" border="0" /></a>During the supple light of the twilight hours I wandered some more photographing those everyday settings I have come to love. Cows lounging in the middle of streets unprotested, cars which are newer, but look like they came out of a 1930’s British spy film, purple flowered trees lining the main road, women in brightly colored saris, bedazzled with bangles, diamond nose studs, gold chains and ropes of long black, coconut oil glistening hair.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/Sa-TF0hMQgI/AAAAAAAAF-4/_wtNlSpo2Kw/s1600-h/DSC00269.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/Sa-TF0hMQgI/AAAAAAAAF-4/_wtNlSpo2Kw/s400/DSC00269.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5309624213899592194" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/Sa-O6vNJ7QI/AAAAAAAAF9w/X65HM-myfG0/s1600-h/DSC00278.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/Sa-O6vNJ7QI/AAAAAAAAF9w/X65HM-myfG0/s200/DSC00278.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5309619625448303874" border="0" /></a>I ventured down to the slum – what there is of one in this affluent town – to take some sunset photos. I paid a woman and her daughters in carrots and turnips for the privilege of photographing them. They were kinder an more patient with me than they needed to be.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/Sa-Pc7xG4wI/AAAAAAAAF-A/upBSKiGMG7s/s1600-h/DSC00281.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/Sa-Pc7xG4wI/AAAAAAAAF-A/upBSKiGMG7s/s200/DSC00281.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5309620212935877378" border="0" /></a>As I was getting ready to head home I spied a group of young boys playing a game. I photographed them and climbed back on to my scooter. One of the boys came over and looked at the bike, he placed his hand on the electric ignition switch. I thought it was sweet that he was so intrigued by my ‘Scooty’ bike so I let him push the starter.<br /><br />When the engine came to life he covered the break with one hand and gunned the throttle with the other, I went flying backwards. I steadied myself just in time to cling to the left break with all the force I could muster. I locked eyes with him and he grinned a maniacal grin - he knew exactly what he was doing. I forced his deceptively strong but thin arm aside, regained control of my bike, scooted myself back into the saddle and took off.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzRFVzEEdqVOXPgg_cpGfuX5TzZbSLIIIbO2_3nDdK0p-UZW85xO_ZBJDvwnNRCpq1iB0qwzttMYxCdV_DnuaJmN7pqQzkDdC4vUHXSbGk9YRx8KyUP55UlUFdv5o8WmgJmaP6NcAZ5VQ/s1600-h/DSC00201.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzRFVzEEdqVOXPgg_cpGfuX5TzZbSLIIIbO2_3nDdK0p-UZW85xO_ZBJDvwnNRCpq1iB0qwzttMYxCdV_DnuaJmN7pqQzkDdC4vUHXSbGk9YRx8KyUP55UlUFdv5o8WmgJmaP6NcAZ5VQ/s200/DSC00201.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5309620227251053314" border="0" /></a>It happened so fast and for a moment I let it erase all of the beauty I had seen this day. I sunk into a sadness and mourned for the serene little world I have been lulled into seeing here. A few blocks later I decided to accept that as part of the day, but to not let it define the day. In fact this little act of mischievousness made the day all the more real for me. The smile returned to my face as I scooted along the road back to my flat.<br /><br />Because practice at the shala is limited for most to a month or two, someone new is always arriving and someone is always leaving. Friday, Melissa leaves. She is from Telluride, Colorado and is a kindred soul in many ways. Tonight was her going away dinner and we girls all dressed up in new Indian tunics for the occasion, Each of us put on makeup, dolled up our hair and applied hindu bindis (bejeweled third eye decorations) to our foreheads.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/Sa-OR3F0jzI/AAAAAAAAF84/U-mHA1wKQ30/s1600-h/DSC00298_2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 299px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/Sa-OR3F0jzI/AAAAAAAAF84/U-mHA1wKQ30/s400/DSC00298_2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5309618923190390578" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/Sa-O7F4dA3I/AAAAAAAAF94/wO5hdt2KduA/s1600-h/DSC00293.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/Sa-O7F4dA3I/AAAAAAAAF94/wO5hdt2KduA/s200/DSC00293.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5309619631535489906" border="0" /></a>We ate at the Green Hotel and there were at least twenty of us at our long table under the stars. Ten minutes in, the power went out and we all sat in rows, candlelight flickering off the rhinestones on our foreheads and Orion shining down on us from the heavens. It was magical and I fully lived in those moments.<br /><br />After dinner I strolled home with Melissa who is staying just up the road from me. I said goodnight but before leaving she turned and said “wait two minutes and then look uphill from your roof“. Out of the inky black Indian night I saw flashlight signals from her rooftop, halogen well wishes for a night filled with sweet dreams. Tonight I go to sleep reminded of how rich my life is and of how I’m here mostly because of yoga. I go to bed filled with gratitude, love and a too full belly, which will undoubtedly make it nearly impossible for me to touch my toes in the morning or to out maneuver shifty nine-year-olds. I go to bed fulfilled and eager for the morning.Rachel Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196197020015257649noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4217460362646169634.post-49385947328625063792009-03-01T15:52:00.011+08:002009-03-01T17:43:00.499+08:00Balasana<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SapLE2LL2SI/AAAAAAAAF8Y/Qv9zvLDX2zw/s1600-h/DSC00144.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SapLE2LL2SI/AAAAAAAAF8Y/Qv9zvLDX2zw/s400/DSC00144.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5308137657443539234" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Balasana</span>, the <a href="http://www.yogajournal.com/poses/475">child’s pose</a>, is the most comforting asana for me. In Balasana you sit back on your heels and fold your chest across your thighs, basically the fetal position but with your knees and shins as the base. Today I may be sitting upright while in public, but I feel like I am that little, curled up ball.<br /><br />Per the recommendation of my teacher Satya, I went to see Kumar a local spiritual guide/healer. I had heard about the experiences of other's sessions with him, about how some had regressed to their childhoods or even to past lives. I have no experience identifying other trips around this particular cosmic block, but I do get regular bouts of déjà vu, so I was open to the idea that anything was possible.<br /><br />When I arrived at Kumar’s Mumuksha Center for Transformation, he began by asking me some questions about what I wanted to work on. I told him that I had recently gone through the complete upheaval of my existence, but that I was feeling pretty good about how I had made choices and changes as a result, so I thought it might be good to delve a bit deeper into my behavior patterns. He asked me to tell him the emotions that surrounded my divorce and I immediately came up with shame, sadness, fear and hurt. Shame garnering the top spot.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SapEFd8-wBI/AAAAAAAAF8Q/pHpLq2c22Tw/s1600-h/DSC09836.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SapEFd8-wBI/AAAAAAAAF8Q/pHpLq2c22Tw/s200/DSC09836.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5308129971539984402" border="0" /></a>From there he began with some body work/massage and instructed me to tell him if anywhere particularly hurt or if I saw any colors or images associated with an area of my body during the session. When he got to my right hamstring my body started twitching. So he went deeper, he spoke to the knot in the middle of my thigh and when he did a swirl of blue-green came into my mind’s eye. He asked me to name the emotion I felt there - I felt cold and frightened. Then the blue-green turned into inkly swirls of three-dimensional black, a chaotic dance of mercury-filled licorice strings which caused my eyes to twitch and my stomach to convulse.<br /><br />He moved on … left hip and left shoulder, big blocks. This is of course not news to me; those are areas of daily consternation in my asana practice as well. The shoulder elicited a darker teal color, a pulsing heat and a sense of anger, the hip was purple and it held some more cold fear. They say you carry your relationships with men and women in your hips, left: feminine, right: male – or more specifically right: father, left: mother. My mom and I spent the next hour together in an intimately woven tale that took me back to the womb and showed me the very source of my defining emotional characteristic … guilt.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SapEFJ3zWvI/AAAAAAAAF8I/ENEYogtZ3Yo/s1600-h/Photo+13.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 142px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SapEFJ3zWvI/AAAAAAAAF8I/ENEYogtZ3Yo/s200/Photo+13.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5308129966149556978" border="0" /></a> Kumar guided me through my gestation, birth and a particularly vivid memory from when I was somewhere around two. Once the turning points were established, I began to revisit these times, to release the guilt and then a new color came into my mind - calm, cool, sky blue, the color of glacial ice on an overcast day, the color of relief, the color of my eyes.<br /><br />That journey gave me a deeper understanding of my habitual behaviors and a visceral, palpable sense of love and respect for my beautiful mother.<br /><br />I came back to the present with ears full of the tears that had been streaming down my face. I came back bewildered, exhausted and not entirely sure it had been real. An hour later and I am still trying to wrap my mind around it all. I feel mentally drained. Physically, I am acutely aware of the space around my solar plexus, it feels hollow, like there is room for something new in there.<br /><br />From here words begin to fail me, only the coming days will tell if I am changed, if I am free or freer from the guilt that has for so long been the basis for my decisions. We'll see if I can not only identify the patterns, but change them.<br /><br />Over the years, part of me justified my guilty motives by telling myself I was being selfless, that guilt was a virtue. Subconsciously I think I granted myself the honorary title of guilt martyr. I decided I was Julie McCoy, cruise director to everyone else’s happiness and my own suffering. I allowed myself to bundle up heaps of passive-aggressive angst that would burst open at seemingly random times.<br /><br />Anyone who was the recipient of the implosion of my guilt cache, (usually my parents or my best friend/ex-husband) had no chance, it wasn’t a fair fight. They were defending themselves with the present and I was fighting with months or years of ammo. This meant that even if I had a current legitimate grievance it was lost in the hailstorm of past affronts. The end result was always me apologizing and quickly replenishing my stockpile of guilt.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SapRE1VVE3I/AAAAAAAAF8o/-AURkFTVkgY/s1600-h/DSC00143.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SapRE1VVE3I/AAAAAAAAF8o/-AURkFTVkgY/s400/DSC00143.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5308144254287418226" border="0" /></a>I can see the pattern as clearly as anything now. I could see what I was doing in the moment a lot of the time, but guilt drove me, or more specifically the anger that latent guilt had turned in to. Guilt became anger, which became shame, which nourished the guilt and so it went for 35 years.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SapLFBFedeI/AAAAAAAAF8g/y6w69kJQ1jk/s1600-h/DSC00177.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SapLFBFedeI/AAAAAAAAF8g/y6w69kJQ1jk/s400/DSC00177.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5308137660372383202" border="0" /></a>I think I’m ready for a new defining emotion, I wonder if joy is available? Perhaps jubilation got a pink slip in the current economic turmoil, or maybe compassion is looking for a new job. Help me spread the word … there is a vacancy in my solar plexus if any healthy emotions are looking for a new place to set up shop. I’ll be conducting interviews from the fetal position.Rachel Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196197020015257649noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4217460362646169634.post-64708972163138805802009-02-24T16:23:00.010+08:002009-02-24T17:24:47.297+08:00Simpler<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SaOw43Vlz-I/AAAAAAAAF6g/Fv1kWmcbTns/s1600-h/DSC00019.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SaOw43Vlz-I/AAAAAAAAF6g/Fv1kWmcbTns/s400/DSC00019.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306279276946247650" border="0" /></a>Today was a day of simple pleasures and that made it very special.<br /><br />I practice everyday except Saturday on normal weeks. We also take off full and new moon days and women skip the first day of their period. This week I got four days off in a row – at least off from the shala, I still practiced on my own.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SaO1a_1eNjI/AAAAAAAAF7Y/rQ0Snv0Crvw/s1600-h/DSC00097.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SaO1a_1eNjI/AAAAAAAAF7Y/rQ0Snv0Crvw/s200/DSC00097.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306284261389514290" border="0" /></a>Saturday was my normal rest day, Sunday I skipped led class to attend an all day meditation, Monday is a national holiday in celebration of Lord Shiva, one of the Hindu gods in the Trimurti, and Tuesday is new moon. My first week had been so full and busy that this break was very welcome.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SaOzJgGxh2I/AAAAAAAAF7I/y7FBXUooig0/s1600-h/DSC00090.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SaOzJgGxh2I/AAAAAAAAF7I/y7FBXUooig0/s200/DSC00090.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306281761791117154" border="0" /></a>Saturday I spent my first rest day with Claudia, we had breakfast with a large group of students from the yogashala and then spent most of our day at the Mysore market. Claudia, very kindly helped me to find lodging when I first arrived and let me walk right into everything she had established in her time here. This morning I moved into her flat and tomorrow I pick up her rented motor scooter. Really I cannot thank her enough for making my intro to Mysore so easy and comfortable.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SaOw4K8e7uI/AAAAAAAAF6Q/FfRJw7w_KYA/s1600-h/DSC00092.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SaOw4K8e7uI/AAAAAAAAF6Q/FfRJw7w_KYA/s400/DSC00092.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306279265029779170" border="0" /></a>Sunday, per the invitation of my teacher Katiza Satya I attended and all-day meditation led by Swami Paramahamsa Nithyanada. The Swami is a fully enlightened master at the ripe old age of 31. He has a large following and travels the world leading meditations and helping people realize what they require to atain fulfillment. He is a beautiful, always smiling man and the meditations he led us through were some of the most lovely ones I have ever had.<br /><br />As part of the day participants had the opportunity to be blessed by the Swami and to ask a question, which pretty much was akin to asking to have a wish granted. I spent the entire morning trying to formulate my wish. We had been warned to think it through very carefully, that what we wished for we would get, so if you wished for a big car, you might end up driving a bus.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SaOzJkGwi7I/AAAAAAAAF7A/aUvjjPK8zi4/s1600-h/DSC00129.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SaOzJkGwi7I/AAAAAAAAF7A/aUvjjPK8zi4/s200/DSC00129.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306281762864794546" border="0" /></a>Finally I settled on asking for clarity of mind, speech and purpose. I threw a in footnote request that want to be a writer, student, teacher and traveler and that I would require the tools/means to sustain such this lifestyle – we’ll see if footnote wishes are granted as well.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5bizTetqBVm8_UfcXdQ63adv3be8BMqFG7iGsRdSRf-j0v81-azja_2mZF3t1Ob6IRtsceWbblQqiv90rFzV93ohmkv-KZpxN8AQu3KKLrmNOcW4E2wVfskjFT-FJ1oIv8lpy7utRVdA/s1600-h/DSC00018.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5bizTetqBVm8_UfcXdQ63adv3be8BMqFG7iGsRdSRf-j0v81-azja_2mZF3t1Ob6IRtsceWbblQqiv90rFzV93ohmkv-KZpxN8AQu3KKLrmNOcW4E2wVfskjFT-FJ1oIv8lpy7utRVdA/s200/DSC00018.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306284254633019746" border="0" /></a>As beautiful as the day and my meditations were I have to admit that I had a few Love Guru moments during the day. If you have not seen the movie you should. Not that it is necessarily a work of cinematic genius or anything, but when I saw it, it allowed me to laugh at this yogic path I have chosen.<br /><br />Around midday I took a stroll through the hall where the meditation was held and perused the for-sale items. The Swami sells books, CDs, malas, photos and even pens adorned with his image. These all seemed pretty standard to me and while I don’t see why I need to write with the Swami staring at me, none of it seemed too much to me. That is until I got to the condiment section. The swami sells blessed bottles of chili sauce, face creams and various tinctures that promise to settle your belly or moisturize, I can’t be certain which. Anyway it was the condiment table that made me think of Mike Myers as the <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QbBr_aDdgjM">Love Guru</a> finishing every profound statement with a TM – trade mark.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SaO1bEabcWI/AAAAAAAAF7g/TKHMvR4yTLA/s1600-h/DSC00099.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SaO1bEabcWI/AAAAAAAAF7g/TKHMvR4yTLA/s200/DSC00099.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306284262618263906" border="0" /></a>This morning I said goodbye to my beloved friends Claudia and Satya. As I watched them drive away I realized that I am now alone in India and that is a wondrous opportunity. I packed up my things and delivered them to my new flat. Seeing off my friends meant getting up at 4:45 so I was little groggy. I decided to venture out for a cup of coffee. I had no luck finding an open café, but I did get to begin my simple pleasure day through this walk.<br /><br />First I stumbled upon the local dairy/milk store. Cows are so commonplace here I might not have noticed this unassuming little stall even with a dozen heifers tied up out front, but upon closer inspection I realized that the men were milking and there was a steady stream of stainless steel pail laden dairy consumers. The milkers would deliver their pail fulls to the merchant who would then turn around and pour the pails into stainless steel jugs which were quickly snatched up by customers. It was a simple, efficient and I found beauty in it.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBTvdR9QSo0C5EVpmUoQSjnJTh_HBZXElR9nTmeCSdPJU9M2t5hYcqzv1RvbKPO6HyX60XkMlieNN50yPESBgFmM-tpqN9f5n1-ZeHpd2naYnYY0eO9F5-2puxGbP-52jA7-OUwur35JM/s1600-h/DSC00036.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBTvdR9QSo0C5EVpmUoQSjnJTh_HBZXElR9nTmeCSdPJU9M2t5hYcqzv1RvbKPO6HyX60XkMlieNN50yPESBgFmM-tpqN9f5n1-ZeHpd2naYnYY0eO9F5-2puxGbP-52jA7-OUwur35JM/s400/DSC00036.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306279270551365010" border="0" /></a>From there I went to the coconut stand to meet Kim, Shelly and Joyce, new friends who invited me to join them on a trip to Bylakuppe for the day. Bylakuppe is about two hours from Mysore and it is special because after the 1959 invasion of Tibet, many Tibetans settled here and today this Buddhist enclave feels like you must have crossed a border somewhere. Word on the street was that the Dalai Lama was here and so we set out to see if we could spend another day with His Holiness.<br /><br />Turns out even the Dalai Lama needs a day off. We did not get to see his Holiness on this day, but we all meditated at the temple where he was resting and that was plenty for me – two days of meditating with masters is all this little Western girl could possibly hope for.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SaOw5NudHOI/AAAAAAAAF6o/Qouw8T_k5A0/s1600-h/DSC00077.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SaOw5NudHOI/AAAAAAAAF6o/Qouw8T_k5A0/s400/DSC00077.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306279282956115170" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SaOzJdlxnZI/AAAAAAAAF64/uwmhzfab6rI/s1600-h/DSC00072.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SaOzJdlxnZI/AAAAAAAAF64/uwmhzfab6rI/s200/DSC00072.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306281761115839890" border="0" /></a>Monks in crimson robes filled every corner of Bylakuppe. We got to watch young students recite prayers from their brightly colored books under the gazes of three golden Buddhas in one <a href="http://www.blogger.com/www.palyul.org">temple</a>. Where the Dalai Lama was resting we watched devotees walk clockwise around the temple, counting off the beads of their malas and reciting prayers as they rounded the corners. Colors, prayer flags, monks, malas… these are the images that Bylakuppe has emblazoned on my mind, but the image I will always remember is that of a young monk sharing his rationed meal with a beggar on the street, such a simple and generous gesture.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SaO1bR38BtI/AAAAAAAAF7w/5JytfkbbPFQ/s1600-h/DSC00136.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SaO1bR38BtI/AAAAAAAAF7w/5JytfkbbPFQ/s200/DSC00136.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306284266231695058" border="0" /></a>Back in Gokalum I settled into my new home. I allowed myself to completely unpack and took the time to adorn my room with some of the items I have picked up along the way.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SaO3h7O-D8I/AAAAAAAAF74/aaOwc1M1A7s/s1600-h/DSC00131.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SaO3h7O-D8I/AAAAAAAAF74/aaOwc1M1A7s/s200/DSC00131.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306286579436621762" border="0" /></a>Tonight I sat out on the roof serenaded by the flapping of Buddhist prayer flags as one of the daily power outages blackened the street below and illuminated the stars above. I made myself a simple dinner on the single burner propane camp stove my flat came with and indulged in writing a lengthy post about what a beautifully simple day I had.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SaOw5cawM7I/AAAAAAAAF6w/eC3BFxtEJ0M/s1600-h/DSC00122.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SaOw5cawM7I/AAAAAAAAF6w/eC3BFxtEJ0M/s400/DSC00122.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306279286900011954" border="0" /></a>Note the toy gun in the young monk's hand.<br /></div>Rachel Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196197020015257649noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4217460362646169634.post-34832567850131987182009-02-23T01:36:00.009+08:002009-02-24T17:38:24.545+08:00His Holiness<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SaHl4OURBGI/AAAAAAAAF6I/2as3a5Zis4I/s1600-h/DSC09964.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SaHl4OURBGI/AAAAAAAAF6I/2as3a5Zis4I/s400/DSC09964.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5305774590097687650" border="0" /></a>Some days it is quite hard to be me and some days I am the luckiest girl in the world.<br /><br />Yesterday morning I woke up early and decided to get online and check my email only to have my computer completely crash on me. I went to morning practice and tried desperately to put my toasted computer out of my mind, but of course I failed. I met a guy yesterday who told me a variation on a Buddhist lesson, which pretty much sums up my day.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SaGP5_5dFcI/AAAAAAAAF5o/VyiqSaFDz_M/s1600-h/DSC09815.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SaGP5_5dFcI/AAAAAAAAF5o/VyiqSaFDz_M/s400/DSC09815.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5305680062586885570" border="0" /></a>A man asks his guru to tell him the secret to meditation. The guru says it is simple – for the next week do not think about monkeys. The man is confused, but thanks his teacher and goes home. For the next week the man thinks about monkeys nonstop, over morning tea he envisions monkeys in trees, at night as he falls asleep he sees playful monkeys dancing, monkeys monkeys everywhere, all the time. At the end of the week he tells his teacher how he has failed and his teacher tells him that the secret to meditating is to quiet the monkeys in the mind.<br /><br />My monkey was my defunct MacBook. All day I fretted over my computer. Have I lost all my photos? When was my last back up? How will I write to the website and so on? Basically I spent the whole day uselessly worrying. But finally at about 9pm after an hour-long call to Apple Care, I decided to stop worrying and to take it as an opportunity to minimize a distraction and to focus on my surroundings.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SaGP589s0jI/AAAAAAAAF5g/n1Na3ZOyul8/s1600-h/DSC09946.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SaGP589s0jI/AAAAAAAAF5g/n1Na3ZOyul8/s400/DSC09946.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5305680061799387698" border="0" /><span style="display: block;" id="formatbar_Buttons"><span class="on" style="display: block;" id="formatbar_CreateLink" title="Link" onmouseover="ButtonHoverOn(this);" onmouseout="ButtonHoverOff(this);" onmouseup="" onmousedown="CheckFormatting(event);FormatbarButton('richeditorframe', this, 8);ButtonMouseDown(this);"><img src="http://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gif" alt="Link" class="gl_link" border="0" /></span></span></a>I woke up today in an absolutely stellar mood. I all but skipped to <a href="http://www.kpjayi.org/">morning practice</a>, I got into Marichyasana D all by myself and then for fun I did some <a href="http://www.yogajournal.com/poses/2498">Bhujapidasana</a> and even threw in a Kurmasana for good measure. I emerged from the yogashala beaming. I skipped back home and then went off to Om Café for some breakfast before my anatomy class. At breakfast I overheard some other yogis talking about venturing up north next week to try and catch the Dalai Lama who is supposed to be giving a talk there.<br /><br />Wow – the Dalai Lama, what could be cooler than seeing his holiness speak in India of all places. This summer he spoke in Aspen and I so wanted to go. However, the fact that tickets to the event were somewhere around $1000 and that it took place while I was in France prevented my attendance.<br /><br />I went in to my anatomy class and tried to focus on the Psoas and the transverse abdoniminous something or another, but today the Dalai Lama was my monkey and my mind kept leaping back to the chance to get to see him.<br /><br />Class finished and Noah, the teacher said “hey, I heard the Dalai Lama is speaking at the university in Mysore today, I am heading over to see if I can catch him. There’s space on my bike if anyone wants to tag along.” Fifteen minutes later I was in the presence of his Holiness the Dalai Lama. Along with about 300 university students I listened as he gave a speech on Ahimsa.<br /><br />Ahimsa is simply put the principle of non-violence. It means to live a non-harming life, to foster beauty and harmony, to live peacefully. It is one of Yama’s of yogic philosophy, part of the eight limbs and affectively Yamas are the golden rules of a yogi.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SaGS_G_nmII/AAAAAAAAF54/KXvkPv4whZk/s1600-h/DSC09981.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SaGS_G_nmII/AAAAAAAAF54/KXvkPv4whZk/s400/DSC09981.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5305683448926017666" border="0" /></a>On this day, I was in India, seeing to the spiritual leader of Buddhism talk about ahimsa. Twenty-four hours before it never even occurred to me that seeing the Dalai Lama was an option while I was here, but as fate would have it... there I was.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SaGS_K9u63I/AAAAAAAAF6A/FxphxqfvB8s/s1600-h/DSC09987.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SaGS_K9u63I/AAAAAAAAF6A/FxphxqfvB8s/s400/DSC09987.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5305683449991850866" border="0" /></a>On this day, I am the luckiest girl in the world.Rachel Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196197020015257649noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4217460362646169634.post-82410693216709815742009-02-20T11:58:00.008+08:002009-02-21T10:37:36.703+08:00Ashes to Ego<span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 102); font-style: italic;">There are still a few spaces left for the This End Up! yoga retreat in Bali this April. Click </span><a style="color: rgb(255, 204, 102); font-style: italic;" href="http://www.oneworldretreats.com/ubud_bali_yoga_retreat_rachel.php">HERE </a><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0); font-style: italic;"><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 102); font-style: italic;">to learn more.<br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpShbFflSGILj2_YnmApuyncsjXC7O1X0ADCrCpidvErTW5GIvCMTTJhDVDALip7k_Jn4KZAi0r1EAHYsRl2D9Mbz4d7HZKQT7sBJgxkTahC4HWrz1NWyp-lYWwxjZRHA-R56TiF5fRH4/s1600-h/DSC09940.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpShbFflSGILj2_YnmApuyncsjXC7O1X0ADCrCpidvErTW5GIvCMTTJhDVDALip7k_Jn4KZAi0r1EAHYsRl2D9Mbz4d7HZKQT7sBJgxkTahC4HWrz1NWyp-lYWwxjZRHA-R56TiF5fRH4/s400/DSC09940.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5305061958726678322" border="0" /></a>That smoldering pile of ash on the floor… that was once a nice chunk of my ego.<br /><br />There isn’t really an orientation at the shala since people come and go daily, so you are left to figure out the protocols on your own. This predictably led to my completely mucking up in every possible way.<br /><br />My assigned practice time was 8:45 a.m. I showed up at 8:10, 8:25 according to the shala clock, thankfully I had been warned about the clock being set 15 minutes fast and that it is assumed you will arrive 15 minutes early. This means you are expected there a half hour earlier than your assigned time. I was unsure if I was supposed to wait on the street or in the hall, so at 8:30 shala time I went into the hallway expecting to peer through the doors for a while to watch the others and hopefully learn the tricks of the trade before a space opened up for me to go in.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcGvzwjjGWz3eBbdHNXBoMRXIYwR3mipRMImY6NxH7zeeGi0HZAK7WxVQDeQIXtVeucoQ8gRTON0ghQq5F2nsFb93Jk9SmW4mLUi4cSol7trUC4oJSYCiZt_ZvwuBitzT6JukQo1yanTE/s1600-h/DSC09955.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcGvzwjjGWz3eBbdHNXBoMRXIYwR3mipRMImY6NxH7zeeGi0HZAK7WxVQDeQIXtVeucoQ8gRTON0ghQq5F2nsFb93Jk9SmW4mLUi4cSol7trUC4oJSYCiZt_ZvwuBitzT6JukQo1yanTE/s200/DSC09955.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5305065251325697346" border="0" /></a>No such luck on this day – as soon as I walked through the front door, I was ushered straight into the shala and told to get to work. I laid out my mat, piled my things in a neat stack and sat down to take some centering breaths before beginning my practice. At this point I had already committed two cardinal sins. The first – only you and your mat are welcome in the shala – all your stuff has to go in a locker, I was unaware there were even lockers. Due to the number of practitioners and the relatively small size of the shala, it is kind of a get-em-in/get-em-out situation, no lallygagging... no centering breaths. You walk in, you begin Surinamascara A (sun salutation A) immediately.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjruKGE1biEKpaM8XqWfSlqR09JboW8nyI8X1mHk7wRmDiB9qc5GTPafX_-2ekn4ZXziP-UnRwt1LlF41q_0Iw57JpwA65AkTh8AeD7_HK4qBz54v6mYhq7zuc9gI5nUyXcRhWB5comFZ0/s1600-h/DSC09953.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjruKGE1biEKpaM8XqWfSlqR09JboW8nyI8X1mHk7wRmDiB9qc5GTPafX_-2ekn4ZXziP-UnRwt1LlF41q_0Iw57JpwA65AkTh8AeD7_HK4qBz54v6mYhq7zuc9gI5nUyXcRhWB5comFZ0/s400/DSC09953.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5305061970689038402" border="0" /></a>Alright, lessons learned and I only feel mostly like a jackass, time to get to my practice. Inhale extend… exhale contract… lengthen… stira… suka, steady and comfortable. I was thinking to myself, <span style="font-style: italic;">I feel good, I feel like today I can touch my toes, maybe I am not a complete hack</span>. Then he spoke.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">– Rachel </span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">– Yes Sharath… </span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">– Are you a beginner?</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">– Um … not entirely.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">– You look like a beginner</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqlTCpTQorI1xOKsjYOgx-vGfhBdPB2e2GF3CUlDhETZqQbp0vda6cuZ3OI801dnDhUWLSRiQx-1CZBjOG-79_lgf0PKXmkfFgd4ktxTXehnKE4Fm7oGXxVrskRW3oFt_J_eEJVkcDc8w/s1600-h/DSC09939.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqlTCpTQorI1xOKsjYOgx-vGfhBdPB2e2GF3CUlDhETZqQbp0vda6cuZ3OI801dnDhUWLSRiQx-1CZBjOG-79_lgf0PKXmkfFgd4ktxTXehnKE4Fm7oGXxVrskRW3oFt_J_eEJVkcDc8w/s200/DSC09939.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5305065249084357202" border="0" /></a>Right then, fantastic. This is the part where my mind starts hysterically laughing at me. You idiot, you just traveled around the world to come study with the masters, you are in WAY over your head. Here, once again I found myself drowning with no clear escape other than to complete the series under the watching eyes of Sharath and to try and shut my mind up.<br /><br />I told myself over and over again… I didn’t come here because I am an expert, I came here to learn. I want to believe that being ‘a beginner’ means that I am that much more committed for doing this now, at this relatively early stage in my yogic journey. I like to think of myself as a middle-aged prodigy.<br /><br />But pretty often my mind went back to the ‘you are a hack’ line of thought and try as I might I felt awkward in the remaining poses. I was relieved when I was dismissed to go complete the finishing sequence in the locker room on my own. Somewhere in the seated posture portion Sharath told me he would help me tomorrow, which means he expects me to come back for more yogic ass kicking. With any luck I’ll be able to touch my toes and I won’t cry.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SZ4uhskwUvI/AAAAAAAAF3g/zi1a9RTQ7Wg/s1600-h/DSC09932.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SZ4uhskwUvI/AAAAAAAAF3g/zi1a9RTQ7Wg/s200/DSC09932.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5304728567524905714" border="0" /></a>After morning practice I went in search of longer-term accommodations. I am staying in a nice apartment/hotel which comes with a dodgy Internet connection, a nice bed, daily breakfast and the steep price tag of 1200 rupees or $25 a day – a fortune by Mysore standards. Claudia is here for another week and then the room she is letting is available so I am planning to move in there for 6500 rupees/month or about $130. While it lacks Internet and breakfast it comes with a very private rooftop setting, propane stove and did I mention it costs $130 a month.<br /><br />After visiting Claudia’s rental I tagged along with her to breakfast. On our way to brunch Claudia asked me how my morning practice was and I told her about the beginner comment and subsequent internal head games. She said “oh that’s just his way of asking if you have ever practiced in Mysore before… are you a beginner means is this your first time here? His English isn’t perfect.” Lesson learned, perhaps that pile of ash was ignorance not ego after all.<br /><br />I sat down for a few moments at the restaurant, ordered a snack and set out to work on rereading my teacher training manual. I was about two pages in when a red-haired man came out and yelled something about the last course beginning and room available, lada lada lada. Claudia and Jonika both looked at me and said in unison “you must go!”<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SZ9j8iZjR3I/AAAAAAAAF5Q/rXcjAaLNV90/s1600-h/IMG_0596.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 152px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SZ9j8iZjR3I/AAAAAAAAF5Q/rXcjAaLNV90/s200/IMG_0596.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5305068777743009650" border="0" /></a>Turns out the redhead was Noah a yogi/chiropractor/anatomy professor and he is offering his final yoga anatomy/therapy class for this season. I grabbed my hummus and tea and joined his class. In the afternoon I attended classes on Sanskrit and Yoga Sutra chanting. My days here can be very full, there are a multitude of classes and treatments available to choose from and for this first week at least I am already booked solid.<br /><br />Tuesday I had my second practice and true to his word Sharath came over to help me get into Marichyasana D – a particularly contentious twist for me. I have never been able to get into it on my own, but as soon as he sat down he said, “I think you don’t need me” and with that he helped guide me, but there was none of the actually pulling and twisting on his part that I had required from past teachers to get me into the posture. I did it on my own.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SZ9gvv7vouI/AAAAAAAAF44/6oAbvcp5krQ/s1600-h/DSC09948.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SZ9gvv7vouI/AAAAAAAAF44/6oAbvcp5krQ/s200/DSC09948.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5305065259502904034" border="0" /></a>My practices thus far have been amazing in that I am really able to meditate in them. I am in a room with about fifty other people, all breathing loudly, joints popping, sometimes grunting, there are cars outside beeping their horns, doors creaking , and peanut sellers singing the song that apparently alerts people there is a peanut seller outside and yet with all of these distractions I am able to focus inwardly more easily than maybe any other practices I have had. An hour and a half goes by in the blink of an eye and I leave the shala feeling an inch taller, five pounds lighter and a heap of consciousness stronger. It is truly beautiful.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SZ9dv6_orXI/AAAAAAAAF4I/eIQ1i6Orbd8/s1600-h/DSC09958.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SZ9dv6_orXI/AAAAAAAAF4I/eIQ1i6Orbd8/s400/DSC09958.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5305061963937131890" border="0" /></a>A few days ago I met Appu the rickshaw driver. Since Thailand I am beyond wary of taxi drivers but Appu has soft eyes and I immediately liked him. Last night he took me to dinner and to run some errands. When he brought me back to my flat I asked how much and he said it was up to me. I handed him 150 rupees ($3), he handed me back 50 and said it was too much. My jaw hit the floor.<br /><br />So today I called Appu and asked him to take me into Mysore proper for some shopping and lunch. He picked this fantastic India restaurant and showed me how to eat all of the wonders placed before me. Break this up and use it to eat from this container, pour this sauce over this rice, put sugar in this for dessert, and so on. I felt like I was two being spoon fed, but it was a much needed lesson for me and I was grateful to have him there.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SZ9dvzYFr2I/AAAAAAAAF4Q/eAbNg-PEz7E/s1600-h/DSC09950.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SZ9dvzYFr2I/AAAAAAAAF4Q/eAbNg-PEz7E/s400/DSC09950.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5305061961892212578" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SZ9gwJuYyeI/AAAAAAAAF5I/oezXCj1ZbrU/s1600-h/DSC09931.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SZ9gwJuYyeI/AAAAAAAAF5I/oezXCj1ZbrU/s200/DSC09931.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5305065266426202594" border="0" /></a>Then we went to the market. I love visiting markets – oh the wonders of a new country laid out neatly in 5’ stalls. Appu helped me decipher which stalls sold decent items and which ones sold overpriced inferior sandalwood sprayed with scent to make it seem better. I bought a few malas, prayer beads, for gifts and took about a hundred photos of brightly colored paint bases and of the flower stalls.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SZ4uid9VhcI/AAAAAAAAF34/8Gu_FmBSnEU/s1600-h/DSC09951.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SZ4uid9VhcI/AAAAAAAAF34/8Gu_FmBSnEU/s200/DSC09951.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5304728580781344194" border="0" /></a>Somewhere in the carrot section I realized why this particular market seemed so special. No meat. Every other Asian market I have ventured into has a fish and unidentifiable animal product section, whose smell overpowers all the subtle scents of jasmine and cinnamon. Not here, in this market you smell it all, the incense vendors, sandalwood, fresh papayas cut open to show their golden orange color, I could smell the palm sugar, the roasting peanuts and the marigolds – it was an olfactory smörgåsbord and I loved it.<br /><br />I fell asleep that night with the smells still strong in my nose and I think that was when I realized, I love it here.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 102);">Notes:<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">For regular updates visit my Twitter page </span></span><a style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" href="http://twitter.com/RachelRoberts">http://twitter.com/<span id="username_url">RachelRoberts</span></a><br /><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >Due to the untimely demise of my operating system I'm left unable to size photos for a few weeks, the next couple of posts will therefore contain full-resolution photos which will likely slow down their loading. Mac OS X apologizes for any issues resulting from it's failings.</span>Rachel Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196197020015257649noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4217460362646169634.post-23981424594106873882009-02-16T00:15:00.009+08:002009-02-16T18:24:02.599+08:00Yoga's Belly Button<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SZhAK4l26RI/AAAAAAAAF04/Iu0nhLULpLo/s1600-h/DSC09908.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SZhAK4l26RI/AAAAAAAAF04/Iu0nhLULpLo/s400/DSC09908.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303059116962801938" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8Ny9eCOVPT_u8e4rvJLiLNMx3fw6R2Jipr3unkJDTiM-7Ht3KiHdQPa6mv046y4WDLcUFZOnCprLdtJmfRHTT0YKF-EXVfNuo5K2kT9RHjYhoLGbBtLJLxONRAVs0S3QC72QX03qH-zo/s1600-h/DSC09861.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8Ny9eCOVPT_u8e4rvJLiLNMx3fw6R2Jipr3unkJDTiM-7Ht3KiHdQPa6mv046y4WDLcUFZOnCprLdtJmfRHTT0YKF-EXVfNuo5K2kT9RHjYhoLGbBtLJLxONRAVs0S3QC72QX03qH-zo/s200/DSC09861.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303061078572386434" border="0" /></a>My friend Claudia has been in Mysore almost since I last saw her in Cambodia and she kindly helped me to get an apartment/hotel. As I was leaving the five-star, recovery hotel I got a text from her saying, you may see Satya when you check in. Satya is my Chilean firecracker of a yoga teacher and while I knew she’d be in India while I was here I had no idea that not only would I get to see her, but that in fact she would be the first person I laid eyes on in Gokolam. Not that I needed further affirmation, but seeing her was a sure sign that this is the right place for me.<br /><br />Back at yoga teacher training was the first time I really became aware of the roots of Ashtanga yoga. I learned about Sri Krisnamacharya who was the teacher of Pattabhi Jois, who is the teacher of my teacher Satya and who founded the <a href="http://www.kpjayi.org/">Ashtanga Research Center</a> here in Mysore. Pattabhi Jois, or Guruji as he is affectionately known by his students, is 94 now and sadly he is not well. His yoga shala is currently run by his daughter Saraswathi and grandson Sharath. This is where I have come to practice for the next month.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SZhBDCq7vgI/AAAAAAAAF1o/bAansCgPHZk/s1600-h/DSC09843.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SZhBDCq7vgI/AAAAAAAAF1o/bAansCgPHZk/s200/DSC09843.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303060081741118978" border="0" /></a>Gokolam, where the yoga shala is and where I am staying seems to me to be a sort of suburb of Mysore. It is a very upscale town by the Indian standards I have seen thus far. Everything is within walking distance of my hotel and while built on a grid system it is not… I was able to figure out how to navigate the roads and to find some key landmarks, namely Anu’s place and the coconut shack.<br /><br />Anu’s is a restaurant, Internet café, guesthouse and all around yogi center. Ganesh who runs the place is a go-to guy for all the questions confused visiting yogis could come up with. Where can I stay? Where can I rent a motorbike? How can I call home? And so on.<br /><br />While walking around the town I had noticed this unimpressive little shack in the middle of the main street that was always packed with yogis drinking from coconuts. During my lunch at Anu’s the gentleman at the table with me mentioned the coconut shack and I said that I had seen it. He informed me that the shack was the center of the yogic world – that it was effectively “yoga’s navel”. I haven’t quite worked up the courage to drink coconut juice from the belly button of yoga, but I am sure I will before I leave.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SZhALehX6bI/AAAAAAAAF1Y/dqbyhmU9Fbg/s1600-h/DSC09832.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SZhALehX6bI/AAAAAAAAF1Y/dqbyhmU9Fbg/s400/DSC09832.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303059127144540594" border="0" /></a>Later I met up with Satya, her Dutch friends Danielle and Nina, and Claudia and her friend Jonika, all six of us went out for a dinner of dosas and fresh watermelon juice. I felt so amazing in the company of all of these wonderful women, all of us here to practice, all of us smiling with our wide eyes and open hearts. After dinner we quietly made our way back to the hotel and each settled in for the night.<br /><br />Still fighting the time difference, I woke up every two hours and finally threw in the towel at 4am. After a couple hours of flitting about, I made my way to the roof and began my morning practice. When practicing at the shala the weeks run from Monday through Saturday, so your week, month, whatever begins on a Monday. For me this means one day of on-my-own practice before the big show.<br /><br />One by one Satya, Danielle and Nina joined me on the roof until we were each at our own place within the Ashtanga Primary Series and each within our own breath. It was a beautiful practice for me, during a vinyasa I looked up to see a hawk landing on the roof about 15’ feet from us. I stared at him, he stared at us in our strange positions, it was a really special moment.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SZhALTStKfI/AAAAAAAAF1Q/hkMpRw5iaoY/s1600-h/DSC09837.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SZhALTStKfI/AAAAAAAAF1Q/hkMpRw5iaoY/s400/DSC09837.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303059124130228722" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SZhBCX23XvI/AAAAAAAAF1g/uWwYF3WuC_E/s1600-h/DSC09834.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SZhBCX23XvI/AAAAAAAAF1g/uWwYF3WuC_E/s200/DSC09834.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303060070248439538" border="0" /></a>After my practice I was eager to explore the town more so I set out on foot once again. I walked along quiet residential streets photographing doors and windows and the chalk-drawn prayers in front of each house. I took note of all the very healthy-looking cows wandering haphazardly through the streets. And finally I found the coffee café. I know I am supposed to learn to love Chai while I am here, but I will have to slowly ween myself off of my Italy-developed cappuccino habit.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SZhB9B9sdkI/AAAAAAAAF2Q/1eHuJyaHgso/s1600-h/DSC09855.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SZhB9B9sdkI/AAAAAAAAF2Q/1eHuJyaHgso/s200/DSC09855.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303061077983786562" border="0" /></a>Satya pulled up as I was out front of the café and the two of us enjoyed a drink and conversation. Generally I think I am a good conversationalist. I can speak to varying degrees on most topics moving conversations along or slowing the pace when appropriate and truly I enjoy hearing other people’s stories. But when any of my teachers talk, I am greedy with their words. I don’t want to add to the conversation I just want to drink in their experiences and perceptions. So my cup remained full as I sated my thirst with Satya’s words and simply enjoyed being in her presence.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfZ_b-DXOlVnugvKgOsr4n5x-3IJ40QmNRDfWrK_d9m3ITyUJEWChlpDSytMS0bkzTXQ5VKhImitKW1VM93XtM65z69kQVCFtv5NmTm2qcCBBNYYD2YDx1NLWGoWjla31-5WgrBesZkXo/s1600-h/DSC09835.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfZ_b-DXOlVnugvKgOsr4n5x-3IJ40QmNRDfWrK_d9m3ITyUJEWChlpDSytMS0bkzTXQ5VKhImitKW1VM93XtM65z69kQVCFtv5NmTm2qcCBBNYYD2YDx1NLWGoWjla31-5WgrBesZkXo/s400/DSC09835.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303059120546930226" border="0" /></a>I walked back to the hotel afterwards, the whole time my eyes wide and my grin inviting. People here are so fascinatingly open. Something about their smiles and the abundance of eye contact that makes me want to actually talk to everyone. In Thailand I found myself looking down, wearing my headphones and generally avoiding having to talk. Here I want to engage everyone, hear all their stories, stare into their eyes and be blinded by their toothy smiles.<br /><br />A<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SZhBDN16NxI/AAAAAAAAF1w/YsBs-0vi86A/s1600-h/DSC09865.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SZhBDN16NxI/AAAAAAAAF1w/YsBs-0vi86A/s200/DSC09865.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303060084739946258" border="0" /></a>t 4pm I went to register for the month. Sharath signed me in and gave me the card signifying my right to practice in the main shala with him. If you come for less than one month you practice later in the day with Saraswathi. I set my watch to shala time, fifteen minutes faster than real time, and grabbed a seat by Claudia and Jonika for the afternoon’s lecture.<br /><br />Sharath began speaking about energy channels and how asana (physical yoga) and pranayama (breath) are the paths to cleaning your nervous system. After about ten minutes he ended the class abruptly and informed us that he had to leave because Guruji had taken ill and had to go to the hospital. Everyone in the room felt the weight of those words. Outside the shala we caught a rare glimpse of Guruji as his car drove away.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SZhBDQdWkUI/AAAAAAAAF14/QO_A5t29xOQ/s1600-h/DSC09868.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SZhBDQdWkUI/AAAAAAAAF14/QO_A5t29xOQ/s200/DSC09868.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303060085442253122" border="0" /></a>In the evening we went to see the palace which is lit up by thousands of standard light bulbs on Sunday nights. Since we had arrived earlier than expected we took a quick side trip and ended up at Sri Patanjala’s Yoga Shala where Sri Krisnamacharya taught, where Guruji studied, where Ashtanga and by lineage Vinyasa began. It was such a powerful place to visit and to get to be there with one of my teachers was beyond anything I could have ever hoped for.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SZhB9qcVqyI/AAAAAAAAF2o/piCf1qOUrQc/s1600-h/DSC09904.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SZhB9qcVqyI/AAAAAAAAF2o/piCf1qOUrQc/s200/DSC09904.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303061088849734434" border="0" /></a>A few minutes later we were standing in front of the shining Maharaja’s Palace and I was completely overcome with joy and wonderment. How did a girl from Cincinnati, Ohio end up at the yogic center of the world at this moment, with these women?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SZhBDUl4fMI/AAAAAAAAF2A/IleySLnovcQ/s1600-h/DSC09916.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SZhBDUl4fMI/AAAAAAAAF2A/IleySLnovcQ/s200/DSC09916.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303060086551772354" border="0" /></a>I felt like my body and mind were inadequately equipped to take it all in, like my eyes could not widen enough, my mind could not comprehend and like my heart was having to work overtime to compensate for the failings of my senses.<br /><br />I am humbled, I am inspired and I cannot wait for my first practice tomorrow morning.Rachel Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196197020015257649noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4217460362646169634.post-22490851538033229192009-02-14T12:33:00.008+08:002009-02-23T02:10:43.000+08:00Around the World in Five Days<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRe_htaVrw_uY55o9Hwgwq9ydB7wfJh3-n7fDg6bM0-NBfqZUNazAe2HWILm3oWXhgl8BFpm_zk8OYC_bKRC_2cEbJqMQVJldcGiAghW_dpOzP8qor-EMetaUfQvSwUl8vo-szrW3_iOM/s1600-h/DSC09789.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRe_htaVrw_uY55o9Hwgwq9ydB7wfJh3-n7fDg6bM0-NBfqZUNazAe2HWILm3oWXhgl8BFpm_zk8OYC_bKRC_2cEbJqMQVJldcGiAghW_dpOzP8qor-EMetaUfQvSwUl8vo-szrW3_iOM/s400/DSC09789.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5302509630108871666" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Note: While I was home a my friend Brook informed that I should start telling the whole truth on these pages. That all the good stuff is a bit insufferable and that I need to start painting a more realistic picture before all my friends sell their homes and follow my path. Admittedly I try not to be negative here and I gloss over or completely omit a lot of the trials of a traveler’s life. This post however should make up for that.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxv0DFDbkCyGX-L2dKxXgzHnnpo3Gk-_U4EjMi-aZq12FQ2VP3ATd9ndReCgLLvZG84j3lW8cENyo4IaFm8DMYXU14OKcXv8ftBcA_uIbzBFu6WwkMLUPcZpKMqMN2nhdCHHCLp_wBtwc/s1600-h/DSC09804.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxv0DFDbkCyGX-L2dKxXgzHnnpo3Gk-_U4EjMi-aZq12FQ2VP3ATd9ndReCgLLvZG84j3lW8cENyo4IaFm8DMYXU14OKcXv8ftBcA_uIbzBFu6WwkMLUPcZpKMqMN2nhdCHHCLp_wBtwc/s200/DSC09804.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5302510295139348594" border="0" /></a>I was ready to hit the road. My time in Colorado had completely revitalized me and I was eager for the second half to begin. I drove myself to the airport and watched as a few clouds began to blow in, signaling a snow storm on the horizon. I checked in and grabbed a seat in the lobby so I could say goodbye to Dan when he came by on his way home from work to fetch my car and see me off. All was going according to plan.<br /><br />My flight schedule was heinous. A three-day global circumnavigation the likes of which only a directionally-challenged sadomasochist could dream up. The product of piecing together three tickets to get to India. Aspen to Munich, Munich to Bangkok and Bangkok to India. The Aspen to Munich portion was a paid ticket. Munich to Bangkok a Mileage Plus reward ticket to get me back to my round-the-world ticket which I pick up in Thailand. It was an intricate house of cards and it came predictably tumbling down in the foreshadowing winds of that oncoming snowstorm.<br /><br />As Dan waited patiently in the lobby, I stood shaking at the United counter, having just been informed that if/when I missed my SFO>MUC connection and thus my flight from Munich, that I would have forfeited the remainder of my Mileage ticket. There is a long story here that involves me crying, a bit of impassioned pleading and finally the shaking part, but bottom line was that they told me in order to get to Bangkok in time to get to India I was looking at two choices. The first was $6,000, the second was $2000.<br /><br />I sent Dan home and boarded the plane, praying for some kind of aviation intervention that would allow me to make it to the SFO>Munich gate in 15 or less minutes. Then all my hopes were dashed. The pilot came on and said something about how they were trying to load too many fur coats and Louis Vuitton steamer trunks and how we had to be de-iced and that the new projected landing time in SFO was 9:30, fifteen minutes after the Munich flight departed.<br /><br />I slumped in my coach seat and tried to devise a plan. Alright, not the end of the world. Beth lives in San Francisco. I can move in with her, and heck it’s the Tour of California this week, I can tag along with Roberto. I’ll just give up on India, I mean how many signs do I need to know I am unwanted, and then I’ll scour the travel sites to find a cheap ticket to Bali for April. It’s not the end of the world…<br /><br />And then the miracle happened. The lights came on, the door opened and the flight attendant said “we have been weight restricted, I need two volunteers to deplane, for which you will be rerouted without charge and given a free ticket for US travel.” Graceful I am not, but swift, oh yeah! I was at the door in two shakes of a tail feather. An hour later I had all new tickets, including the free one and Dan was picking me up again for one final night in down enveloped bliss.<br /><br />The big downside here was that my new routing was even more heinous than the original one, but it didn’t cost me two grand so I danced a jig and thanked everyone profusely.<br />Now five days, five countries, six flights and an ill-advised third class train ride later I am in Mysore, India. I am as sleep deprived as I have ever been.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(255, 102, 0);">Fun facts:</span><br />• Upon landing in Munich I promptly went and had a spit, (a nice Aussie term for tossing one’s cookies) thanks to an unfortunate cup of coffee mixed with a yogurt and half an hour of neck breaking decent turbulence. This marks the first time I have ever endured motion sickness and I would like for it to NEVER happen again.<br /><br />• Munich’s Lufthansa lounge has sleepers in the First Class section and the kindly women at the desk took one look at my pallor and generously granted me entrée where I got the most sleep I would for the next three days.<br /><br />• Munich and Vienna both have sex shops in their airport terminals. I can't help but wonder if sales aren't affected by the fact that both are situated directly <span style="font-style: italic;">before</span> the security x-ray machines.<br /><br />• United no longer serves free drinks on international flights. I think this is cause for a revolution.<br /><br />• My suitcase liked Munich so it decided to spend a few extra days there.<br /><br />• Thanks to my suitcase’s prolonged vacation I wore the same velour tracksuit for three days. In Bangkok they gave me an overnight kit, which consisted of XXS grannie panties and an XL white T-shirt. Could anything be less attractive for a woman to sleep in?<br /><br />• I was in Bangkok for less than 24 hours. In that time, while effectively sleepwalking I managed to get my phone unlocked (shh, don’t tell), put up a post on this site, shower, buy enough clothes to get me out of the Juicy suit and get scammed by two taxi drivers.<br /><br />• A Red Carpet Club card gets you into any Star Alliance lounge in the world except for Bangkok’s Thai Airways lounge. A fact I did not know until I had to spend five hours at the airport awaiting the arrival of my luggage.<br /><br />• Among the lifesavers I feel compelled to mention during this odyssey are… The Red Carpet Club (except Bangkok’s), Ambien, Pinot Grigio, four seasons of <span style="font-style: italic;">Weeds</span> viewed on my laptop and noise-canceling headphones.<br /><br />Alright back to the story… So at almost midnight on February 12 I landed at the Bangalore airport. My taxi ride to the hotel felt like one of those movie drug scenes, where everything is flying by in a tunnel of neon, dotted intermittently with close ups of cars too nearby and with a Bollywood soundtrack blaring over the cheap blown out speakers. Once at my pre-booked, moth ball scented, not cheap, slum of a hotel, I managed to get about 3 hours of sleep before the arriving dawn light let me get a good look at my lodging conditions and effectively lit a fire under me to get out of Bangalore.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SZZMa5K1YQI/AAAAAAAAFz4/tkB7diIYX7I/s1600-h/DSC09760.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SZZMa5K1YQI/AAAAAAAAFz4/tkB7diIYX7I/s400/DSC09760.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5302509636181909762" border="0" /></a>My haste to leave the city is how I ended up on a third class train to Mysore, which took five hours. Had I been able to wait one more hour I would have gotten on the 1st class express and would have been there two hours earlier, but sleep deprivation and squalor are a bad mix for normally savvy travelers.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SZZMavsh8eI/AAAAAAAAFzo/th7ZWtVXB-Y/s1600-h/DSC09770.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SZZMavsh8eI/AAAAAAAAFzo/th7ZWtVXB-Y/s400/DSC09770.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5302509633638887906" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SZZNAvLVufI/AAAAAAAAF0A/wU3YwVJNcXA/s1600-h/DSC09765.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SZZNAvLVufI/AAAAAAAAF0A/wU3YwVJNcXA/s200/DSC09765.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5302510286334704114" border="0" /></a>I was the ONLY non-Indian on the standing room only train. Not a single moment of the five hours went by without people openly and unabashedly staring at me. I have never been so self-conscious in my life, have never loathed my golden locks or blue eyes so totally. About four hours into the train ride I read in my Lonely Planet about a five-star resort in Mysore and about thirty seconds later managed to justify the expense.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SZZNvQrefnI/AAAAAAAAF0o/1vh5P9fBSMU/s1600-h/DSC09796.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_uEYtSy-txyQ/SZZNvQrefnI/AAAAAAAAF0o/1vh5P9fBSMU/s400/DSC09796.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5302511085601848946" border="0" /></a>Today I write from the balcony of my bungalow, serenaded by geese, monkeys and a plunge pool. I fell asleep yesterday at 4pm and woke this morning at 7:30. I have showered, burned my velour tracksuit and eaten enough Dhal to convince me that three hours a day of yoga notwithstanding, I won’t be losing any weight in India.<br /><br />I think I am going to like it here.Rachel Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196197020015257649noreply@blogger.com0