Awakening the third eye

Laying there slick as an olive, I lost moments. Deep somewhere else as the warm oil dripped pools to and fro on my forehead. Dreaming and living my dream of ayurvedic therapy in a simple clinic that supports an orphanage. I have longed for this: careful, methodical hands that push up and down my body reconnecting my circuitry; a head rub; having my feet washed, oiled, massaged and dried; a steam; pranayam (breathwork) with a handsome, young yogi.

I was whisked here after a rudely early New Delhi arrival and a nap. I had asked my accommodating host and longtime family friend Prabhash for a clinic recommendation. The wife of his close childhood friend knew just the place and escorted me, initially translating between me and the doctor. Her presence was reassuring. Heading home, she was surprised this was my first visit to India. “And you’re here?” she asked. Where else, I thought. She told me I looked transformed and said not everyone is prescribed the head-oil treatment.

I was more aware the next day, dropped by Prabhash and navigating on my own. After a check-in with the physician, I follow Sandrit for a different version of yesterday. I undress and slip on a pair of black disposable panties, very much like the ones offered in the Turkish bath. I sit in the toweled chair, receive a recharging head rub with oil and wait as she prepares the warm water, pouring in salts and molasses-like oil. She places my feet in, notices I flinch slightly, then fetches a cup of colder water. Much better as she traces every muscle in my feet and shins, unleashing the trapped energy.

I am led to the table in the cubby with wide-plank, foot-polished wood floors, where she works every inch between toes and neck, front and back, before plugging my eyes and ears with cotton, gingerly strapping on some sort of facial mask. I hear the oil popping from behind and thirst for its touch, to be transported again. I am. When I return, I think I smell lunch cooking, then realize it’s me. I am bathed in so many wonderful oils that smell of tea, sesame and wild rice. I want to lick my skin but refrain. I am not using my eyes to experience, but my ears, nose and touch. I understand that Western medicine separately treats what it can see in an x-ray, on a CAT scan or MRI. Ayurvedic is based on touch: feeling one’s pulse to determine where circulation is not reaching, then treating topically and externally with natural and ancient remedies.

Today, Sandrit says “no shower,” and motions for me to dress. Our words are few, but our bodies and hearts know one another. She treats my hair with powder and a cap to prevent a cold, then releases me to pay ($35 US) for the day and a yoga session with Krishnan, who engages in pranayam, breathwork. I’ve done breathwork with other practitioners over the years, but Krishnan coaxes out my real voice, teaching it to reverberate and heal with closed lips. It’s a valuable lesson. I am released, ask about visiting the orphanage, call Prabhash for a pickup and slid away, content.

…

My third visit is even more transformative as I lay on the table lapping the oil dripping over my third eye and answer the deep call of Spirit to come closer, to move inside, shedding the dark parts I conceal from her. Today, I am attended by  Sandrit and a younger woman, working me in tandem. I can barely sit up I am so completely elsewhere. I rouse, dress and return to Krishnan for more pranayam. He wonders if I am OK. I am. VERY OK.

Traveling Istanbul on the spectrum, perfection–imperfection

In Turkey, I seem to be following the call to prayer. It happened last night as I arrived, awoke me this morning, led me to the Blue Mosque at noon and I hear it now, just outside my window as the sun sets and I sit to write.

Prayer resonates through the hills and over the sea. I don’t know the words, but understand the longing. When I asked the hotel clerk about it last night, he responded: “What call to prayer?” Is it so ingrained locals don’t hear it anymore? Wouldn’t it be wonderful if prayer were as natural as breathing?

I am more than not lonely in a city where I don’t speak the language (shame on me as I was traveling so many places and life circumstances kept me busy at home beforehand), arrived in the dark, have made some major faux pas, yet learned so much by doing so. I understand I don’t want to travel perfect, which is a good thing since I planned ten legs of flights, two airbandbs and a guest house on my own. Something. Will. Happen. And in the happening growth occurs. Mine.

For instance, I pondered the local hamams, Turkish bath houses, online, selecting the one that had what I wanted. Because I had not yet gotten a local SIM card to make inexpensive calls, I asked the clerk downstairs to make an appointment for me. He advised me it was more expensive that in should be. I thought, perhaps, he was pitching the one the hotel recommends. He pleasantly did as I asked, then gave me walking directions that happened to wind past important mosques and provided a sense of where I am. I am learning that I need to scope out, on my own two feet, where I am. I walk all the time at home. Why not here?

Also because I did not yet have the SIM card, I relied on a relic, a printed map. I promoted the use of a London Tube map to Autumn, the daughter I dropped in London for a semester,  since she had not installed her SIM and, in case, her phone ever died. Everyone should learn how to read a map. My teacher was Ronda Middletown Boxall, one of my first work buddies and dearest friends. We took our vacation together after my first year of working after college. We drove to Daytona Beach. Over those two days, she taught me how to read a map, one of the most important things, besides friendship, she has bequeathed me.

Map in hand, I followed the patchwork of streets in Sultanahmet not sure of the scale wondering how long it would really take. At lunchtime, the wailing again drew me to the Blue Mosque. I stumbled, profoundly affected by the sheer greatness of the architecture. Gathering my wits, I continued on toward the bath, arriving early as requested. I stopped at the wall of celeb photos, then wandered in, my photo-tint glasses still dark, but not dark enough to sense I may be out of my element. The staff was gracious, led me away to fill out paperwork and returned, reminding me the price was euros. Shit, I thought, that’s waaaay more than liras. Like nine times, what the receptionist said, and about the crazy price at home. I could do it, but I wouldn’t. I apologized even though they tried to find me a less pricey option and walked away. This is not where the locals go, so neither would I. I wasn’t upset or disappointed. Actually, I was grateful for the lesson and the adventure. I’d loped some off my learning curve.

As I stood on the sidewalk, looking at my map and wondering what to do, a gentleman approached me saying he was harmless and that he and his wife have family in Phoenix. Before I knew it, he was inviting me for tea at his souvenir shop. I was not in the mood to shop and graciously rebuffed him. I got directions to the Grand Bazaar and decided to attempt that on my own. Enroute, I stopped at a  Turkcell to purchase a SIM card. Seemed like a deal until I realized I was dividing instead of multiplying, but the price of having the young guys install it, answer all of my questions and have it work immediately was still less than the daily AT&T rate. Yet another lesson in diving-in and imperfection. Figured I needed a reliable map in the bazaar.

I grew smarter as I roamed the warren of stalls and pathways, pulling my scarf over my head. MAGIC: no one bothered me anymore. Not that it was a bother, but constant swaying toward this store or another was draining. It was nice to be invisible. I don’t always like that. Still in the scoping out mode, I made no attempt to look at anything because, here, that means having a brief relationship – which  enjoy when I am in the mood and have the time.

I navigated my way out without Google maps and realized I was hungry. The breakfast spread at my hotel is traditional and great (fruits, cheeses, olives, eggs, pastries, breads, meats and dark coffee) but was wearing off after all my traipsing. I dove in and walked closer to restaurants, let the barker pitch his spiel, read the menu and lept. It was good: rustic salad with a mountain of thyme on top, the freshest rice-stuffed grape leaves, a thyme-and-lemon yogurt dip and gobs of puffy breads. I’ve broken my usual gluten-free regimen.

I returned to my hotel, yet again to the ezan, call of the muezzin to the mosque. How is it to be bathed in prayer all day? I believe it leaves a patina of grace and awe about a place. Somehow that reminder mingles with my acknowledgement of imperfection like the blue dome of the mosque bridging heaven and earth, human and divine, perfection and imperfection. Istanbul is all this. So am I.

Flying carpet

In the back of my mind, I secretly wanted a Persian[ish] carpet, but I refused to look.

Heading toward the Bosphorus ferry and knowing my way, a young man approached. “Don’t worry I am not a guide.” The last one said he was not dangerous. We struck up a conversation as we walked toward the ferry. He said it was his day off and he’d been looking for lunch. He would show me where to buy a ticket.

He asked if I liked fish and was hungry, then pointed to ornate boats serving fresh fish sandwiches, pickled cucumbers and cabbage. We grabbed two and had a seat. Omar told me all about his wife and young daughters, showing me beautiful pictures. Said he had a friend building a new hotel across the river and that he’d take the cruise to film the progress. Seemed fine with me. He’s working to get something like our GED at home, then wants to get a bachelor’s and become a tour guide. He’s smart, reads voraciously and knows a lot about his adopted city. He is Kurdish, but his parents and five brothers came to Istanbul when Omar was pretty young.

It was a beautiful sunny day and I got a more visual knowledge of the city by boat as well as some historical information. Istanbul really fits its billing as the cultural crossroads. My home base and where I did most of my exploring was the oldest section, Sultanahmet. I am sitting here writing, waiting for my airport shuttle to take me to my next destination and periodically looking out my small-balcony window to the mosques, their domes and minarets, the Marmara Sea and Bosphorus River. It is stunning. I hear traffic, the ezan five times a day and sea gulls.

Just when I thought Omar and I were parting, he said he’d guide me toward the Spice Market. We stopped by one stall to greet his wife’s cousin and were instantly invited to tea: mint/ginger for healing; pomegranate for heart and circulation; plus nuts and sweets. I tasted my first Turkish Delight. Fresh and unlike anything I’ve ever had.

Omar led the way back toward my hotel, mentioning his shop was along the route. I already knew we’d wind up there. He wove me through the labyrinthine rooms stuffed with carpet. I watched artisans repair rugs, then we wandered down grand marble steps to a showroom. Before I knew it, Omar had my foot on a stool (he knew I’d slipped in the bath), I had a Turkish coffee and rugs were being unrolled left and right and another gentleman was asking which I liked. We had a conversation before he said no obligation, but money is not an issue. “You like and we’ll work it out. You don’t have to pay me now.” I plead that I was not looking for a rug, that I still had two weeks of vacation to fund and no idea nor probably the means to purchase a rug. Still they emerged out of nowhere. I always wanted to buy my own Persian rug in/near Persia. As an artist I was torn between mid-century, neutral geometrics of a looser Kilim weave and new, but traditionally handmade, double-knotted pile. I finally wiggled a price out and gasped. No way, I said. The wheeling and dealing began. I am a straight shooter and hate negotiating. The price kept dropping as I resisted. I heard final offer a couple of times and was ready to walk. But something called to me about this rug and the entire experience. It was worth something and had just about hit my threshold. I knew this was the last offer, said I needed a minute, which they gave me. The poor soul heaving the rugs with only a smile, shot me one more and I was hooked. “OKAY,” I told Sharif (I think that was his name). He lit up. “Only for you since you just lost your mother and had a birthday!” The smiling rug holder wrestled my prize into a small brown package for my carryon. I completed the sale with Omar, who gave me another $50 off because he said he knew I wasn’t really shopping for a rug.

Omar said he had a school friend with only one exam left to become a travel guide available tomorrow at a reduced rate. I tried to stall, wanting a day to myself. Before I knew it, Ayhmed materialized. He offered to walk me part way home at the same time Sharif invited me to come back at closing for a glass of wine. Overload. I wanted neither right now, only to get back to my hotel for some down time. The afternoon had been incredible, but I needed to decompress. Omar walked me out of the shop and said it was fine if I didn’t return for wine. Ayhan was sweet and eager. I said I would let him know.

When you meet someone Turkish, I guess you get his entire package of relationships. There’s an honesty and sweetness, but it can be daunting.

I found my way back home, richer for the adventure.

Omar's shop is El Rincon de Fehmi, with stores in Santiago,Chile and Madrid, Spain.

Dripping (and slipping) in honey

I typically follow the when-in-Rome philosophy when traveling. In Italy, I took pills so I could eat pasta because I’m normally gluten free and I am cautiously eating gluten and a bit of dairy on this trip. In Ireland we drank fresh Guinness … you get the point. So, when in Turkey, take a bath, right?

My guesthouse recommended a nearby bath, which included pickup. I was wary and did my own research, setting on one built in 1584 because, after all, 180 lire ($33) for a sauna, scrub, massage and facial was way cheaper than home. The guy at reception said he would make an appointment for me, but it was rather expensive. I went anyway, zipping past some of Istanbul’s most historic sites and learning my way around. I arrived early, paused by the huge wall of celeb visitors, then entered. I was greeted and handed paperwork. They wanted to know of any health issues and an emergency contact. Then, they clarified that the price was 180 Euros. More like $205. That’s not a bad US price, but more than I thought I should fork out this early in the trip. They were gracious and I was not embarrassed. I really didn’t need nor want to bathe where Oprah, John Travolta or Omar Sharif have. I wanted authentic, everyday.

Walked back to my hotel, ambling down the tumbled brick pathways dodging cars to tell the receptionist he had been right and could he book me in at the recommended hamam. He reserved  a ride and slot for later evening. I re-read tips on Turkish baths and packed my swim suit just in case. There seemed to be disagreement on the amount of acceptable nudity. I wanted to be prepared. A few minutes before my departure time, packed and money secured, I wandered downstairs. The driver was pretty prompt and another couple was also on their way. In less than five minutes we were disembarking onto another crowded thoroughfare and ducking behind the unassuming wooden doors. I paid attention as the couple selected their package and ordered the same: bath, scrub and oil massage, 160 lira (about $29). There were separate sections for women and men. A noted example of Ottoman architecture, this bath was built in 1475.

A robed woman who spoke basic English whisked me into a changing room, directing me to strip, advising that no clothing was fine, then to wear the thin cotton-stripe towel. She showed me the key – room 13 – where to stow clothing and valuables and pointed to the bathing shoes. She said I must leave my glasses behind. Ok, this was scary, but I understood I’d see little in the bathhouse with them. I was led to the steam room, where I savored the heat, not anywhere near as hot as the Temescal (sweat lodge) I’d done in Mexico, but great for a jet-lagged body. Too soon, Sarah waved me to a large marble square in the middle of an ancient domed room and asked me to lay on my towel. She massaged me with a loofa, then poured a profusion of bubbles all over. It was wonderful. She continued to monitor and ask hard or soft (rubbing). I said hard. I am used to deep-tissue massage and needed to work the travel out. She asked me to get up, collected my hand and took me to a basin where she dipped warm water and rinsed me. Heaven. We returned to the slab and began the massage with this exchange:

Sarah: Oil or honey

Me: Which is better?

Sarah: Honey
Me: Yes, please.

Her hands knew my tight spots and I was finally getting comfortable enough to relax. I am not used to group massage. When she asked me to sit, something happened and, before I knew what, I had slid right off the slab onto the marble floor with a thud. OMG that hurt like hell. I’d landed on my right butt cheek. Thank God it wasn’t my head or a bone. Sarah and the other women were as shocked as I. She pulled me up, back onto the slap and re-worked where I had hit. I was led to the shower, then carefully climbed the scary steps to the cold-water pool. I knew my derriere needed ice or cold. My swim was cut short to return to the sauna, where I could not get comfortable. I didn’t stay long and had permission to get back in the pool, where I lingered.

Like a prisoner, I was led back to my private cell, dried and dressed. Normally, locals stay and socialize. I was in no mood. Still in shock, I realized I needed ice and to get back to the hotel soon to mitigate this fall. I had so much walking and seven more plane legs to sit through. I could not be laid up. I got ballsy and told the robbed woman I’d had a bad fall on the marble and needed ice … NOW. She took me to someone who spoke better English and he said they had none and that there was a reason to wear the slippers. “I wasn’t walking,” I replied with cheek. “I was laying on the marble massage table, was asked to sit and slid off … in the honey.” With that they conjured up a frozen water bottle and packed me off to the hotel.

I was grateful that the female of the couple returning in the van asked how I was. “That thud was hard to hear.”

At the hotel, I told the night receptionist what happened so I had a record in case things turned nasty. This time, I took the elevator up five flights, scurried into my room foraging for whatever I had that would nip this in the bud. Living with fibromyalgia 20 years, I have learned the smallest accidents can set off a chain reaction. I also told myself this would NOT be the case. I took 3 ibuprofen, hemp oil, poured a glass of wine, settled myself on extra pillows and the iced bottle and watched Netflix.

I slept. And awoke with tolerable stiffness, so headed toward a pharmacy for Arnica as soon as I could. However, it was about seven hours – that’s another story – before I could apply it.

Now that I am pretty much ok, this is a GREAT story. I am grateful for this ending and glad to have ventured into authenticity. I am considering another bath, elsewhere.

Shoulder-to-shoulder exploring London, then parting for separate journeys

Been in London 36 hours and only now have the chance to sit and reflect on the blur of travel that gave way to an odd alchemy of the complacency of jet lag alongside a rush of adrenalin. I’ve just dropped my daughter off, in the dark, to a new university in a BIG city, quietly celebrated my birthday with her over a couple of pub pints, two glasses of Prosecco and heaping plates of Sunday roast, lamb and beef to be specific. It’s also exactly one month since my mother died.

Regents U in the dark

Walking halfway round London and hours since lunch, I cracked open my laptop along with a petit bottle of Cotes du Rhone Villages, a wedge of brie, a brick of very dark chocolate and handful of dry-roasted almonds. Even the tiniest, most-ramshackle appearing market is stocked with good wine, cheese and chocolate croissants for less than a bag of Doritos and a liter of soda back home. Do NOT judge a book by its cover. I learned that lesson traveling a long time ago. Exploring markets provides great insight into a place and its people. Not yet wanting to return to my lovely but now lonely airbandb room (Autumn spent last night with me) in a Victorian row house near Camden, I overshot the wrought-iron gate and red door to walk around the block – but not much farther in the pitch dark pierced only by a moon sliver at 8 pm. I reveled in the variety of halal grocers and storefront cafes, the worldwide-travel consultant. pharmacy, optician and very British pub; all just round my corner.

This is everyday, working-class, immigrant-enclave London and much more interesting than polished, populated tourist spots. My host, Tom, is a gardener, cook, food writer and teacher. He rides his bike to the school down the block, where he teaches gardening and tends his vegetables, fruits, herbs, chickens and bees. His wife, Larushka, is a film critic. Autumn found an unopened pack of DVDS in our room with a note from the BAFTAs (British Academy of Film and Television Arts).  As an Anglophile, she loved that. With their young daughters, my hosts live a life very similar to mine: creative parents balancing freelance gigs, yet able to maintain flexible hours and be at home with the kids. We had a very affirming chat about our lifestyles. Tom sent Autumn off to her dorm with a small pot of his honey.

English breakfast

Autumn studying fashion design for a semester at Regent’s University in Regent’s Park sparked this journey. Her drop-off date coincided with a big birthday and I began to plot. Well, I could get her settled and feel good about it, then jet off to … Yes, at 60, this is a bucket-list trip: London, Istanbul, New Delhi and Kathmandu. Makes perfect sense to me, but the ATT&T guy gave me a blank look and asked me why such random places. His worldview revolves around where ATT&T has service. Mine encompasses crossroads, culture, spirituality, art and food.

Being crammed like sardines into some unknown airline, Wamos, after booking what seemed like an economy-step-up flight on Norwegian, was a nightmare … after a flight from Cincinnati to Chicago and a five-hour layover. We spent the seven hours bumper-to-bumper in shoulders with too-late a warning to load the app for any entertainment. Crazy, blue-haired London Lindsey, a sculptor fresh from a month in Mexico and our seatmate, was livid. She mostly slept from the pill she took, but we managed to learn a lot in the last hour. Autumn coveted her vintage mod ‘60s dress. Lindsey had worked in a vintage shop, but was fired … for not showing up. “You really do need to work for yourself,” I affirmed. She’d received a big commission and rewarded herself with a month in Mexico, knowing it was time to come home when so many other travelers, mostly, men, spent hours talking about their travels and never even asking her name. “I was sick of the complacency.” She shared a few more details I did not want my daughter, off on her own, to hear. Lindsey is 10 years older and wiser. Now she’s out of money and had a piece of art to make. Nonetheless, she was the ONE bright spot on the flight. Our taste-free, gluten-free meals were not redeeming. I am still working out the tight spots in my body, even with walking miles over the last day-and-a-half, from such close quarters. I’ve written Norwegian, who texted us the night before of the change, that I will NOT return on that crap airline.

We did manage to sleep a bit. My husband had ordered me a trtl pillow, really a fleece scarf with support boning, and Autumn had supplied an eye mask. Both helped.

View inside the White Tower

We de-boarded, easily 

negotiated passport control – Autumn needed a student visa – and an empty customs, then grabbed a much-needed cup of coffee before purchasing train tickets. One change and a 20-minute walk (with luggage, mind you) later, we arrived at our home away from home. Tom graciously had the room ready early and offered us a reviving cup of loose-leaf Assam tea. We washed up, regrouped and headed off for a full English breakfast for 5.5 pounds down the street and the Tower of London, missed on our last trip and a birthday wish. We purchased Oyster cards for the tube and acquired 2-for-1 tower admission with our train tickets. The cashier warned that, on the downside, we only had 90 minutes, but on the upside, it wouldn’t be as crowded. “We close at 4:30 because, you know, it’s the tower, and things happen after dark.” We were mystified (later learning that 4:30 IS compete darkness) and opted to strategize to complete our mission. The priorities, in their order, were torture, crown jewels, executions and suits of armor. They were impressive. My God, the theme for this village inside the walls seemed to be riches, power, Christianity, offing your enemies and building a fortress around it. Some things don’t change.

Executioner's mask

I was stunned that so many of the crown jewels, mostly swords and scepters, were crafted in 1661, the same year my Quaker ancestor published a small, but powerful chastisement of the court of Charles II and its excesses. British civil war destroyed Charles I and many of the jewels, re-crafted for Charles II’s return. Interesting parallel and one not so far off from today’s one percenters.

Lively crowd @ Old King's Head

From the Tower, we ambled along the Thames, crossing at London Bridge, turning down a narrow alley to the Old King’s Head Tavern, a favorite we’d found five years ago. Filled with male sports fans cheering at soccer scores, we sipped a pint as the place burgeoned at 5 pm. Heading back on the tube, we visited an M and S (Marks and Spencer) market between under- and over-ground stops. We picked up salmon and cream cheese, salty potato crackers, prosciutto, grapes and two amazing power-food salads for something like 10 pounds, about $13. We kept ourselves up as long as possible, almost midnight, then settled in for a slumber of the dead.

Camden memorabilia

Rousing ourselves with wonderful showers – the first we’d had in almost two days – we walked to Camden Markets upon opening before the crowds pushed us away. As the queen of subcultures and music, the subject of her college radio show, Autumn was beside herself in this haven of creativity and independence. We bought coffee, roamed the market, including the indomitable Dr. Martens shop and mini museum, inhaling every cuisine and eyeing every cultural trinket on the planet before beginning a search for a cheap sim card and brunch. We really didn’t find either in Camden, thought we adored the individualistic vibe, and took up our host’s suggestion for Sunday roast at the Tapping Admiral Nelson pub. Story goes Nelson died at sea and was thrown in the keg, which his mates consumed during the voyage. The tongue-in-cheek WIFI password is Surfingwithnelson. Our host did not lead us astray. We ordered plates of beef and lamb and an array of succulent vegetables and shared. I’ve ordered Sunday roast that sat all day, but this was fresh, moist and the perfect birthday meal.

Adapted Doc Martens

Sunday roast

We ambled home with happy bellies, trying not to think about the separation that was about to happen. We napped longer than we should have, collected all of Autumn’s worldly belonging in two suitcases and marched off to the tube to discover the route she plotted was disabled. We rerouted, making more changes and schlepping those cases up and down so many fights of stairs. Now I understand why my sister can’t bring her son with cerebral palsy to Europe. Only some stations have lifts. Able-bodied, we persevered, disembarking at Baker Street and the Sherlock Holmes Statue and venturing into Regent’s Park, home of the university, in the dark. There, I left Autumn with two room mates and (my) stifled tears.  We’re both off on solo adventures with may gifts to collect, yet parting is such sweet sorrow.

Dance of preparing for travel

My itinerary

Facing a BIG birthday – yes, I will admit 60 – and the very recent and raw loss of my mother, I embark on a new beginning that, I pray, will transform some loose and lost ends.

This adventure began with my oldest studying away for a semester in London, my coinciding January birthday and my accompanying her. My as in I had not yet consulted her. It was rolling out in my head, soon spilling online as I obsessively played on skyscanner.com just to see how much a bucket-list trip would cost. 

Previous London exploration

Beyond London, I was fueled by the reunion five years ago of my husband's siblings and their beloved Indian exchange student, Prabhash. He and his wife generously invited any of us Barneys to visit them anytime in Delhi. I silently raised and waived my hand.

As I explored skyscanner and an impossibly expensive itinerary ($6,000 at first crack), I began looking at flight patterns from London to India. Most routed me through the United Arab Emirates or Kuwait. Some, however, trailed over Istanbul, the crossroads of civilization, spice, religion and art. I could taste and smell the winding streets as I adjusted my searches. Turkish Air offered sone darn-good pricing, especially if I pieced my ticket together as one-way segments.

On the domestic front, I was searching for both a roundtrip ticket and a student-budget-friendly one-way ticket to London. Lufthansa had a great deal out of CVG, my hometown airport in Cincinnati (in reality, it's across the river in Kentucky), at about $625 roundtrip with one stop in Newark. The catch was, a one-way ticket cost $2,500. Insane. I kept scouring and landed on Norwegian out of Chicago, which was only slightly higher than Lufthansa, including a ticket between Cincinnati and O'Hare. I had pegged some hope on Iceland Air's no-frills WOW, but it was not serving the international market from CVG during our timeframe. It still isn't, though they claim to be a presence.

I borrowed my dad's Delta Skymiles card to buy our CVG-ORD tickets to ensure we each got a free checked bag.  

With London now booked and almost three weeks between my arrival and departure, I had some figuring to do. I over obsessed, yes I know that's redundant, but that's what it was. I finally bit the bullet as prices began to edge up. I was checking multiple times a day. One particular day, my conscience insisted this was THE day to purchase. It's true fares are generally lower on Tuesdays and Wednesdays in my experience, so it must have been one of those. I was on Turkish Air booking all my segments, as I had practiced so many times, but when I hit purchase, I was told the flights were not available. I freaked. I had looked so many times. I turned to Travelocity and got my flights. Too hastily. I am never hasty with booking flights, but I did not want this opportunity to pass. I knew it wouldn't come again. I had booked a late-night flight to Istanbul from London and realized for a women alone that wasn't smart. I immediately called and got the earlier flight. I haven't been brave enough to see if Turkish Air billed me a change fee. Then I breathed a sigh of relief.

Until I discovered I returned to London via Healthrow, not Gatwick, where I would depart London for home. I wasn't willing to pay more and decided because I arrived one afternoon and left midday the next, it would be fine.

All told, 10 segments cost just about $1500, including India Air to Kathmandu and back. I really wanted to fly Yeti Air for obvious reasons (my goal to spot a yeti) and tried to navigate Nepal Airlines, but, sometimes, booking internationally is difficult and not always because of crack credit-card oversight.

Prabhash and my brother-in-law John during a 1969 visit

Next came accommodations. London was easy, Camden was the perfect spot to be close to my daughter's new university, Regent's, work in her love of '60s Brit pop/music culture and a new perspective of London. I booked an airbandb in the home of a food writer who offers guests honey and eggs from his urban farm. In India, I'll stay with Prabhash and his family. When he asked me what I wanted to do and I mentioned yoga, he said he'd have a teacher come to the house. He also helped me find a reputable ayurvedic clinic for some fibromyalgia treatment, has planned a day trip to the Taj Mahal and another to tour local sacred and historic sights, will have family escort me to spice markets and bazaars, and booked tickets to a popular parade. I want to soak in as much local as possible. I don't want to see a hundred things.

I labored over Istanbul and a little less so over where to stay in Kathmandu. I knew I wanted to be in the Sultanamhet, the historic European section of the Turkish city, vascillating between authentic and living like a sultan. I opted for authentic in a guest house owned by two local families. I originally found their highly-rated hostel, but decided I need quiet and my own room. After more searching, I uncovered their guest house. Perfect. I booked an extra night since my flight to India doesn't leave until 9 p.m. and, with the multi-night discount, it ended up being free. Their breakfast spread looks to die for. I'll rely on them for Turkisk-bath suggestions (I plan on at least two), the best markets and bazaars and will visit the art and architecture of the many nearby mosques, probably cruise the Bosphorus on a ferry, not the pricey tour. I wisely booked the guesthouse to pick me up and deliver me to the airport.

A monastery outside Kathmanndu originally caught my attention, but by the time I reserved, one of my nights was taken. Realistically, I wasn't sure I could sleep on cement and debated the cultural-appropriateness of a single, Western woman staying in the midst of men and boys. Prabhash suggested a day trip there instead; he also recommended a hotel connected to a friend. It was lovely, too lovely and Western. I found a dream apartment in the Patan, but decided $75 was too high by Napalese standards. I also considered many family stays and eventually found a simple, beautiful Newari (the traditional people of Kathmandu) guesthouse, nestled through gates in the cobbled Patan, that comes with breakfast.

My girls in London; Autumn, right, will studying there a semester

My one night in London, when I will assure myself my daughter is thriving, will be spent in a simple guesthouse close to Victoria station: quick in, quick pub pint and dinner with the kiddo, quick out. All lodging will costs about $500.

NOW, I could begin applying for Visas required for Turkey, India and Nepal. The Indian visa was a bit tricky, but online. Lots of questions and if your credit-card is denied three times, you must begin the process again. That happened using Google Chrome, so I quickly called my bank, switched to another browser and secured the visa, paid my $100 and was successful on the fourth attempt. The Turkish visa took five minutes and cost $20. I am not clear about the Nepal Visa. I applied, but was not billed and the confirmation said I had to be there in person by Jan. 8 to pick it up. It seems you can only apply two weeks ahead, so I'll have to work that one out.

I have a pretty good idea of how to get from airports to lodging in all places, have turned on international data ($10 per 24-hour use on AT&T) on my phone and will, likely pick up local sim cards along the way. Of course, Prabhash has a phone for me! I switched my debit card so I incur no ATM or foreign-transaction fees and acquired a credit card that rewards me with travel points, no foreign fees and waives the $95 annual fee the first year.

With two rounds of Hepatitus A + B (I'll need another in six months), an every-other-day for eight-days oral typhoid vaccine and a round of malaria antibiotics I start two days before I enter India, I am well inoculated. I really debated about the necessity, but, after consulting with a a corporate travel nurse friend my age, took her advice: "You don't want to come home sick." I purchased travel insurance with emergency evacuation, including for health (mine or my family's) reasons, because I worried about my mother's health.

Needless to say, I have not spent much reflective time on my journey – except to pray to be open/ed and know my mother is with me this trip in a manner she never could be before. She was so excited about this adventure and kept calling it my "trip around the world." She loved to travel, but gave that up as her mind and body diminished. Even recently, my parents would sit before dinner with a half-glass of wine and reminisce about their nine trips to Europe. That was a highlight of their lives and my mother's meticulous scrap books of those holidays gave her great joy as her memory faded.

I am madly packing and scaling back, checking things off my list and adding others in the dance of preparation.Yikes, Autumn and I leave Friday.

...

I had hoped to visit the Friends Center Library in London as I had last trip to show Autumn the 1661 single book penned by our Quaker ancestor Dorothea Gotherson Scott. My mother viewed it before me and I wanted to be with Autumn when she saw it for the first time as an homage to my mother's passing. Not meant to be. The library is closed all the days I'll be there and could not accommodate my request. Autumn will just have to investigate on her own .... under my mom's gaze.