Tremping Through Israel During Shabbat and Passover

We were standing with our bags, waiting for the bus to Israel when a nosy guy from New York overheard Mark’s and my conversation and decided to give his opinion on the matter.  With disbelief and doubt, and a big hint of snobbery, he introjected, “You know you’re going to Israel during Passover, the highest tourist season of the year, right?”  We hadn’t realized it was Passover (Easter), but this wasn’t going to deter us from going to Israel.  “The buses won’t be running, and you’ll never get a room,” he added.  With the tone of, “Thank you Mr. Pessimism, but I’m sure we’ll find something expensive and available,” we thanked him for the information and climbed into the back of the shuttle headed toward the Israeli border.

Middle East politics dictate some occasional dancing, so we bought our multiple re-entry visa for 51.25 Egyptian Pounds (about $10 US) as we exited the border town of Taba, Egypt (the re-entry visa guarantees an ability to return to Egypt after being in Israel, but just to be sure there were no problems, we made sure Israel stamped a separate piece of paper rather than our passports.  Astonished, the Israeli security guard asked “Why?” like no one had ever requested this service, but every savvy traveler asks for the separate stamp because Middle Eastern countries aren’t best buds with Israel and oftentimes will hassle or refuse to let travelers in if they have the Israeli stamp in their passport).

From the border, we took a $17 taxi to the bus station and discovered that it was in fact true that there were no buses running due to Shabbat (Sabboth) and Passover (an 8 day religious holiday when no Jew works- and the Jews make up over 80% of the country, so there weren’t many services available).  The hotels were packed, so we walked to the main road and observed tons of young Israeli’s partying on the Red Sea.   We decided to try hitch hiking north to Jerusalem.   We put our thumbs out, said a prayer, and 15-20 minutes later, whah-lah, our first ride.  We hoped into a black hatch-back with two young barefoot hippies who lived on a kabut, or commune.  They took us about an hour up the road and dropped us off at a bus station. 

From there, we thumbed a ride from a twenty-something male and female Israeli Defense Force (IDF) soldiers.  They took us another hour up the road to a bus stand outside the tiny, agricultural town of Zofar.  As they left, they explained that no stores would be open, so they loaded us up on cans of tuna, corn, pickles, and matzah (unleavened bread, like crackers, which is eaten in place of yeast bread during Passover).  

Still in high spirits, we began to wonder if we would be camping out in the chilly desert for the night (which is no exactly legal… if found you can get a 500 sheckel fine, roughly $175).  We prayed again and a car pulled over. Surprisingly, it was the same kids who had dropped us off.  “Hop in, we found you a room.”  “Wow!  Thanks!” we replied.  They drove us to the Ziv family farm where they gave us a free private room with 3 beds and hot running water.  The owner explained that workers completed the season 1 week ago, so the room was now available and we were welcome to stay.  We were astonished.  They didn’t know us from anyone and had given us a ride, food, and a room for free.  We were grateful beyond words.

In the morning, we walked back to the main road and started hitch hiking again.  The flies were buzzing around someone’s night dung napkins that had been crumpled and littered along the otherwise clean roadside.  We ate a dry chunk of crumbling, cracker matza and prayed for ride.  A couple in their early 50’s, on their way to visit their son who was serving in the Israeli Air Force (a 5 year commitment rather than the mandated 3 years), pulled over and invited us into their white minivan.  They chatted happily about their travels as young adults in Iran and the United States and Canada.  We chugged along, chatting for about 40 minutes and then they explained that they were turning another direction and we’d probably have luck getting an easy ride at this location.  Sure enough, it wasn’t long before a Russian mineral truck pulled over and told us to hop in the back with the driver’s 9 year old daughter, Lena, who was excited to go swimming in the Dead Sea.  The Dead Sea?!!  What luck!  We decided to swim as well.

Using the public restroom, we changed into our swimming suits and plopped our bags down amongst the others.  It appeared as a sea of floating people.  We took turns sitting down, laying back, and floating like a mattress was underneath us.  We watched as some people covered themselves in a black mud-bath.  The signs suggested not to linger over 15 minutes, so we showered off and kicked back on the beach with our books.  When we got hungry, we walked down the street to McDonald’s hoping for cheap food, but quickly discovered that McDonalds is a high-end chain in Israel.  We spent roughly $30 on one salad and a burger meal.  We were surprised by the number of families buying happy meals for their kids.  This was Europe, and everyone was on holiday.  We joined in the madness and added a coffee and ice cream to the mix.

With that familiar McD’s feeling of simultaneous satisfaction and depression, we walked back to the highway and again began tremping (as it’s called in Hebrew).  A small truck appeared, and again, we were on our way north.  Shamelessly, the pleasant couple up front, told us that they were having an affair and that the blonde woman in the front seat was the driver’s mistress.  They were on their way to 4-wheel drive in the desert and would we like to join them?  Mark and I looked at each other, shrugged our shoulders and said, “Why not?”  For the next few hours, we jeeped through the mountains of the Negev desert with complete strangers.  It was as dry as could be, but we saw bedowin camels scattered throughout the valleys searching for water holes.  The view of the Dead Sea down below was spectacular, and toward the end of the drive, we happened upon what we were told was a monastery but turned out to be a Muslim mosque for men only.  It was out of their way, but the couple wanted to score points with Yehweh, so they told us they wanted to take us all the way to Jerusalem. 

As we neared the holy city, the brown landscape began to spritz green.  When the driver missed the turn, he promptly started yelling out the window that he was being punished by God for his adulterous affair.  We laughed, but felt bad that they had gone out of their way to take us somewhere and now it was adding extra time to their return trip.  We said they could just drop us anywhere, but the driver responded, “No, the people here are religious; they’ll stone you.”  We laughed, but when we got dropped off we saw what he meant.  The men were dressed like Amish Russians in black suits with big fluffy round fur hats and two long black curls of hair bobbing on either side of their bearded face.  It was like we had entered a movie set filled with Jewish Rabbi’s.  “Is this just for holidays or do the men always dress like this?” I inquired.  “Always.  They’re very religious.”

We gathered our bearings and walked to the Central Bus Station as the sun was setting.  All businesses were closed for Shabbat, but would reopen at 8pm, people assured us.  Sure enough, at 8pm, the crowd was ushered through the metal detectors and security gate into the station.  Up the escalators, on the 3^rd floor, we met a fast-talking IDF soldier.  Turns out, Matan is a dual citizen who was raised in New York.  He was a wealth of great information about the busses, culture, Jerusalem, and hostels.  He recommended the Citadel Youth Hostel, assessable through Jaffa Gate, just a 30 minute walk downtown into the Old City.  We took the recommendation and ended up on some of the last-available rooftop mattress in the Christian Quarter for $30 per night.

Despite the high season of tourism, lack of busses during Shabbat, and the added complexity of the Passover holiday, we had managed to make our way to Jerusalem and find affordable accommodations.  It’s maybe not the way that most people would choose to get to Jerusalem, but maybe that’s what was so much fun about it- it was a true adventure.  We never knew where we’d be sleeping, what we’d be eating, or who we’d be riding next to, but we had the faith that it would all work out just fine.  And it turned out so much better than “fine;” it was a true adventure.

Riding A Camel Through the Pyramids of Giza- Cairo, Egypt

About 5 years ago, Bill and Nancy Vrettos showed me pictures of their world travels, and I remember being struck by one photo in particular; it was of Nancy on a camel in the desert.  I remember thinking, “THAT is so cool.  What a special memory!  I want that picture for me and my future children.”  I have this photo now- there’s me, on a camel, in the Sahara desert, with the Pyramids in the background.  This photo is special to me because it represents a part of my life that is very important to me, adventure travel. 

Traveling has shaped my world view: my political viewpoints, my philosophies about the universal nature of people, God, poverty, wealth, family, fear, security, equality, justice, possibilities, persistence, and joy.  Travel has given me a knowledge that I am beyond fortunate to have been born in one of the most financially accessible countries in the world, with access to education and a passport that allows me to go nearly anywhere I choose to.  More than ever before, travel has given me a feeling of connection to my home (America), where things are familiar.  But that feeling of home now stretches beyond the borders of my little homeland of the United States.  I see the U.S. as a small stretch on a full globe with an impact that ripples and touches the farthest corners.  As I see the globe, there are faces and landscapes and culture attached to each place that I’ve been and it doesn’t allow me to think in terms of “those people,” because we’re all just people, born where-ever we’re born and living the only way that makes sense to us at this particular point in history.  And what makes sense to me right now is experiential travel, the kind where Mark and I show up at a place and figure it out for ourselves, without a tour package, with the help of locals, some broken English, and a bit of pantomiming.

Experiential travel isn’t for everybody.  Sometimes it’s uncomfortable.  The opportunity costs are high, but in the end, for me, it’s totally worth it.  And I guess that’s what I saw in the photo of Nancy on the camel... I saw the work that Bill and Nancy had gone through to save up and take a year off to travel, the lengths to which they pushed themselves to tackle the uncomfortable, and the uniquely rewarding experiences they obtained as a result.  And it makes me proud that Mark and I have been able to achieve this for ourselves.  We’re not so unique; we see other backpackers everywhere we go.  They’re doing the same thing that we are, delighting in these gems around the world, but it makes me a little sad to see that so few of them are Americans.  Why do so few Americans take these adventures?  I think it might be because we are scared of what it might cost us.  We might have to give up our slice of the American Dream of a debt-obtained house, 2 cars, and a “secure” job.  It might seem like planning a trip is overwhelming, or the location is just too far away, so we put it off into the future.  But we’re not promised any days beyond the one we’re living, so my suggestion is, if you see something that excites you, don’t sell yourself short.  Get out there and find a way to make it happen.  Go find the joy in life.  And if you happen upon a camel in the Sahara, ride it through the pyramids, because it may well be one of the most delightful experiences of your life.

Riding toward the Pyramids

Our caravan- just me, Mark, our guide, 2 camels, and 1 horse... and of course,
 the guy on his donkey selling Coca Cola :-)

Mark giving kisses to his ornery camel

Climbing #2 Pyramid

Sphinx

Our Photographer- thanks for the great pose ideas!

Add caption

These guys were laughing at, then copying, our poses

Detour through Athens, Greece

Our original 5 month travel plan was to backpack through Africa, then hop a flight to Turkey and backpack south from Turkey, overland through Syria, into Israel and Jordan, and on to Cairo where our departure flight was booked, but like any trip, our plans were subject to change.  Egypt’s Revolution threatened to change our departure city, and Syria’s protests and the government’s reaction to those protests (killing their own citizens) was enough to make me nervous about visiting, but ultimately it was Syria’s visa policy that changed our plans.  In reaction to an increase in U.S. visa prices for its citizens, Syria raised its visa fees to $131 USD and required advance approval from the embassy in America.  This was impossible for us as we were already moving southeast through Turkey when we discovered this bit of information.  Thankfully, Uncle Sam was good to us this year, so we forked over the extra cash to backtrack by bus to Istanbul, then hopped two flights, one from Istanbul to Athens, and the other from Athens to Cairo.

When we arrived in Istanbul, we were fried from the long bus ride, so it was the last straw when our taxi driver deliberately attempted to swerve toward a detour.  Mark and I firmly yelled in unison “No!”  The driver failed to arrive at our destination (Evrim’s apartment) so we told him to let us out and we walked the remainder of the hills alone.  We arrived at Evrim’s with our bags and during the reunion, we discovered that she had other guests from Bodrum and they were out on the town for the night with no plans to sleep.  We dumped our bags and joined them in Taxim Square where we bar hopped until past 4am. 

The following night, we flew to Athens, Greece.  At immigration, we paid nothing and were asked no questions as they swiped our passports and welcomed us to Greece.  We boarded a bus to the historical district, about an hour away.  The Greek bus felt strange, like being back in the States on a subway where everyone picks seats that are as far away from each other as possible and no one looks at anyone else or dares strike up a conversation.  All body language says, “Don’t talk to me.  Don’t look at me.  Mind your own business.”  It was such a dramatic change from Turkey where people were bubbly, smiley, chatty, and struck up conversations with complete strangers as a regular occurrence.  When we arrived at the historical district, an Aussie who works in London but has a flat in Athens asked where we were going and told us he was heading that direction and could show us a few hostels if we wanted.  We were grateful for the help and dragged our bags and chattered along the 20 minute walk through winding cobblestone streets.  Around corners we occasionally caught glimpses of the lit Acropolis atop the hillside.  It was strikingly beautiful.

The prices were surprising, 15 euros each per night for a no-frills dorm at the Student Travelers Inn, which meant that Mark and I would be forking out $45 per night for bunk bed accommodations.  Suddenly, we were relieved that we would only be in town 3 nights.  Over the next 3 days, we continued being shocked by the prices, like $30 breakfasts (some of the cheapest we could find).  Our backpacker budget was between $55-65 per day, so to spend $500 over the course of just 3 days was distressing, but we were in Greece, so we determined that we were going to enjoy ourselves, and we did.

We used our student ID cards to get ½ price tickets to the Parthanon and Museum.  With the help of the front desk attendant, we mapped out a walking tour that included Greek ruins throughout the city.  We spent a full day walking from ancient libraries to Olympic stadiums.  We climbed the steps to the Acropolis and sat on rocks while marveling at the smooth marble structures.  Women were dressed in their 80’s best (pink flowery short skirts and leggings with gladiator heels and decorative scarfs).  Just as I had in Istanbul, I felt out of place in my functional, quick-dry Colorado camping clothes, but who cares, I was in Athens, man.

We spent an afternoon at the Old Museum which was full of tiny historical knick knacks and expertly crafted life-size human sculptures and gravestones.  The placards describing each white statue were intriguing.  From the way the sculptures were positioned, dates of construction and influence of gods/goddesses could be determined.  Family members were sometimes pictured together, and the importance of sports and youth were evident in the postures. 

In addition to the high prices, I was not prepared for the Athinean rudeness.  We’ve since been informed that Athens is considered one of the rudest cities in Europe, and we now understand.  Here are a few examples of the rudeness we encountered.

1)     1)  While buying t-shirts, Mark asked me if I cared for the blue one he was wearing.  I said the neckline looked too tight.  The saleswoman turned to me and said to Mark with a serious face, “It’s because your wife, she is difficult woman.”

2)      2) In a separate t-shirt shop, Mark said he wasn’t in the habit of spending $22 on a t-shirt.  The salesman replied, “It’s good quality, not like the shirt you’re wearing.”

3)      3) We purchased schwermas (chicken pitas) at an outdoor restaurant and seated ourselves to eat them.  A couple seated nearby saw what we were enjoying and told the waiter they wanted what we were having.  The waiter told them they couldn’t have what we were having because it was only available on the take away menu.  He promptly told us to leave the restaurant.

All this to say, we were glad to visit Athens, but it is a city that can be seen in a day.  Many people suggested visiting the islands from Athens, but we didn’t have enough time to do so.  If you go, just know that the prices are high, the people are a little rude, and the historical elements are totally worth it.

Green Tour- Goreme, Turkey (ie: Tour bus with ugly Americans)

Unique landscape

Clay Pot Supper (lamb is cooked inside of the clay, then the pot is broken to serve the meal)

We were at an outdoor restaurant smoking apple nargalie with Georgie and Rohan, honeymooning Aussies we’d met a few towns back, when we got a sales pitch for the Green Tour. “It’s a must-see,” they agreed through bites of clay pot supper, a local speciality that is cooked in a sealed clay pot, then smashed open during the meal. They described the green tour route: panoramic views of the volcanic activity that created the cone caves, an underground city, a creekside hike through a green valley, an opportunity to hike through a cave city located in a hillside, pigeon valley, and last but not least… the onyx sales demonstration. Rohan recounted his near-purchase of jade earrings at the sales demonstration. “They were in my hands. I had already drank their tea. The salesman seemed like such a nice guy, and he was offering me such a good deal. I couldn’t say no.” Georgie confirmed his story, “It’s true; he can’t say “no,” so I have to do it for him.”

Caves Homes and Hotels in Cappadocia, Turkey

Inside our cave hotel

Mark and I tend to be too independent for tours, but after hearing how much the Aussies had enjoyed theirs, we were sold. We booked our tour through our Cave Hotel and despite the fixed price of 70 TL per person, we were able to negotiate down to 60 TL ($40 each), not bad considering it included lunch, petrol, a guide, and all entrance fees. We were the first to be picked up on our 9:30 am shuttle. We circled town to pick up a family of 5 Canadians (3 of them pre-teens), a family of 4 from Kentucky/Tennnesee (including an 80 year old Narcissistic grandmother), 3 Aussies, and 3 Koreans.

The sites were outstanding, especially the underground city, a Christian labrynth of underground stables, living rooms, wine rooms, food storage and churches. We went 4 layers deep and only took in 10% of the underground maze where Christians used to hide for 1-2 weeks at a time. In between sites, we enjoyed viewing the green prairies and snow-capped mountains. At one point, the sun was shining so spectacularly on one particular mountain, that Mark asked, “Hey, does anyone mind if we stop for a photo?” “Yeah, sounds great!” we heard from the backseat of the shuttle. We felt proud of our ability to customize our tour to fit our needs and were quite pleased that others were on board with our plans.

Mark, exploring underground caves

We took a 4km hike through a valley where 4-5,000 Christians used to live in the cliff caves. One of the caves was a church with painted icons on the domed roof walls. The guide explained that the front window was used to begin construction in the hillside. By digging out the top of the church first, the painters were able to reach the ceiling before the lower walls were formed. We ended the hike at a 5-course creekside restaurant. Mark and I were tired of white bread, but still managed to polish off a full round loaf of bread between the two of us before the beef casserole arrived. As we pulled out of the parking lot, our guide said, “It’s about an hour drive back into town. Does anyone want us to stop for the toilet before we go back?” Mark and I looked at each other with dessert in our eyes. “How about ice cream?” we suggested. “Sure,” the guide chimed. We felt that it was another personalized victory on a group tour. The driver, the guide, all of the kids, and of course, Mark and I went in the petrol station to get ice cream and came out with big, happy smiles on our faces.

We continued the tour to a hillside city of caves where pigeon holes dotted the landscape. The guide explained that pigeons were important in carrying information back and forth to towns. It felt great to hike around through the caves, and when we finished 20 minutes later, Mark and I were the first to load back onto the bus. So far, so good; this group tour wasn’t so bad. Our next stop was Pigeon Valley, a less than spectacular site. We snapped a few pictures and gathered near the bus. I noticed a vineyard across the street and commented to Mark that it was such a shame we were on a group tour because I’d love to stop in and see the winery. Our driver, smoking a cigarette nearby, must have overheard our conversation because he asked, “Do you drink wine?” “I love wine,” I replied. “Come with me,” the driver motioned. I smiled giddily at Mark as we crossed the street to the tasting room. We tried a few samples of delicious local red wine before heading back to the shuttle. As we crossed the street, we noticed that the van was already full from the front seat, two passengers were giving us the stink eye, like we had personally held up the tour by taking the driver to the winery. We realized that the passengers may believe it was another one of our suggestions to visit the winery, but we consoled ourselves with the fact that it didn’t take too long, and it was the driver’s suggestion, not ours.

The shuttle continued down the road without any further suggestions from Mark and I about ideal panoramic photo opportunities. Eventually we pulled into the Onyx demonstration building. Mark and I weren’t interested in the sales, so as everyone emptied the van, we slipped a tip to the driver and explained that we had enjoyed the tour and would be walking back into town. We gathered our belongings, shook the driver’s hand, and headed back up the hill on foot to take photos. We skipped along the roadside clicking away at the majestic landscape all around us. What a perfect day, we thought. We did a tour, and we did it our way. About 30 minutes later, we were walking back downhill towards town when we again caught sight of the Onyx demonstration building. “Hey, I think that guy pacing there is our guide. He must be waiting for the group to finish buying crap,” I said to Mark. I added, “Oh, some of the people are in the van; they must be almost wrapped up.” Mark thought out loud, “Georgie said the demonstration only takes literally 5 minutes.” “OMG, they’re waiting for us!” I instantly realized. “How long have they been waiting!?!” We felt the piercing glare of everyone in the van. With humiliation we looked at each other, “We told the driver not to wait for us! They must all think we’re jerks!” We burst out laughing. There was nothing to be done. We waved and smiled with embarrassment. From across the street, we motioned that we were walking and they were free to go, but we were pretty certain that they hated us, the self-absorbed, ugly Americans.

The Universe is so on our side

We were on a high from paragliding. Here we were in Fethiye, Turkey, on the sandy beaches of the Mediterranean Sea; it was just too much. We looked around for a sea-side place to get a drink. Nearly every business was closed, undergoing renovations in preparation for the tourism season which begins in the end of April. We heard music coming from the second story of what appeared to be a restaurant, so we climbed the staircase searching for the origin of the music. The restaurant was empty except for a handful of guys working. “Is it open?” we asked. The owner, wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt covered in his work shook our hands and smiled, “Anything is possible. Please, have a seat.” We picked a table with an open view of the beach and ordered an Efes beer and glass of red wine. Murphy, the owner, chatted with us like we were friends of the family, completely welcome at any time.

It wasn’t until I had reached the bottom of my over-sized glass of wine that I realized alcohol and Dramamine were interacting in my system to produce an incredibly sleepy effect. It was all I could do to put one foot in front of the other and walk back to Hector’s Paragliding office. All I wanted to do was curl up on the ground with the cats and have a nap. Hector wasn’t in his office, so we were stranded without a ride back to our hotel. We bought a snack and waited as the sun was setting. Eventually, Hector pulled up on his scooter wearing a leather cowboy hat. He was short and round and it struck me as funny because the cowboy hat sat like more of a sombrero. Up until this point, our interaction with the company had been superb, but Hector was about to change that. “Hey, instead of giving you a ride back, why don’t I give you 10 lira and you can take the dolmush (public minibus).” “Okay…” We didn’t know the city at all, but Hector assured us it would be easy to take the dolmush to the Otogar where someone would tell us where to go. We boarded the dolmush with confidence. I chatted with a Scottish family on a two week holiday and some English kids visiting for the week. 45 minutes later, the dolmush emptied us out into the dark. “Finished,” was the only English the driver spoke. We had no idea where we were, and no idea how to get back to our hotel. Usually I grab a business card from the hotel or write down an address, but we had come and gone in such a whirlwind that I hadn’t thought to do it. Besides, Hector was supposed to give us a ride back to our hotel. We picked a direction and started walking, hoping that something would look familiar.

In the dark, nothing looked familiar. We’d been walking for about 20 minutes when suddenly we saw 4 guys waving at us from an outdoor restaurant table. “Hey! Join us!” they said as they jumped up to push another table into theirs. “Sure,” we replied, dumbfounded. These were the same guys we had seen an hour and a half earlier at the landing site. They were from Saudia Arabia. We’d barely said two words to each other and didn’t know their names, but they spoke broken English, and they were inviting us to join them for supper which was a lovely distraction from being lost. Like them, we ordered the lamb and cheese tortilla specialty that the restaurant is known for. They brought out their fancy I-phones and showed us videos of their solo-gliding adventures and pictures of their homes and families. They bought us supper, loaned us their GPS unit, and helped us request a local phone from our Syrian waiter. I loved looking at the Arabic writing on their I-phones and GPS unit. They had a rental car and offered to drive us to our hotel. Again, we were overwhelmed by their generosity. By calling Hector, we were able to get the hotel name, and from there our waiter gave us directions to our hotel. Abdullah and Mohammed drove us to our hotel which turned out to be just a 5 minute drive from the restaurant. It was one of those days that we got to our hotel and thought, “Wow, the Universe is so on our side.”

Paragliding- Fethiye, Turkey

It was 4/5/11, a Tuesday, not that we cared. On a 5 month adventure, dates and days of the week have a way of escaping us. All we knew is that we were four months into our holiday with one month left to go, and today we would be paragliding from the highest commercial paragliding site in the world. It was going to be awesome.

We left Izmir at 7:30am on a Pamukkale bus bound for Fethiye. Seven hours later, we arrived and took a free shuttle to our Pension (a Turkish guesthouse) on the Mediterranean Sea. Yachts floated in the marina and yellow lemons filled the green trees. It was 2:50pm, and we hadn’t eaten all day (except for some breakfast zuchinni and egg stir fry- which we ate with toothpicks from a plastic baggie), so we were hungry. Mark suggested that before we eat, we check with the front desk staff to see about paragliding. All I wanted was food. The desk staff hung up the phone, “They’ll be here to pick you up in 10 minutes.” My heart sank. I was so hungry and this was all so rushed. We’d just arrived in town, and already we were rushing to paraglide, which I was looking forward to, but I was hungry and was about to miss out on the build-up of anticipation that I enjoy so much. Mark asked the hotel staff to call the paragliding company back to see if they could stop for lunch and an ATM on the way. They agreed. And so it was that we were whisked away in a old, white station wagon just 10 minutes later.

We careened through town and screeched to as stop in front of a small restaurant. We quickly ordered two lamb donor kebaps which we devoured in the backseat as we sped across the remainder of town. With food in my system, I started to feel better about the rush; after all, we were going paragliding, something I’d been looking forward to for quite awhile. At headquarters, we joined 2 Brits, 2 Aussies, 4 Saudis, and half a dozen or more Turks in the back of an open-air, parallel dual bench jeep with a mound of colorful parachute bags piled up above. We breezed up the mountain taking in spectacular views of evergreen trees scattered throughout purple mountains that reminded us of Ouray, Durango, and Glenwood Springs. Loggers dotted the gravel road that smelled like the cedar trees that lined its edges. The temperature dropped, and as we spotted snow, we were issued jumpsuits and helmets. Further up the mountain, we saw grey clouds at the peak.

When we reached the first launch pad, it was filled with chutes and people waiting in the midst of the grey clouds. We continued up to the second pad where we were outfitted with padded chairs that resembled giant diapers. Despite the grey cloud, the instructors went to work quickly spreading out the chutes and locking us into leg harnesses. Out of curiousity, I asked Harkim, my instructor, “So, how many times have you done this?” “This is my first time!” he joyfully replied. I laughed and said, “Mine too… yeah!” I kissed Mark with excitement and his instructor said, “Last kiss…” We laughed again. We weren’t scared. This was exciting. In front of us, the grey cloud quickly shifted to the side creating a sunny window. “3...2…1… Run!” Like a football player I pushed forward and felt the chute of resistance raise behind me. Exhilaration and joy filled my body as the chute picked us up off the cliff and I took in the valleys below me, the mountains to my sides. “Whooooooo hoooooooo!” I yelled as we floated on the wind.

We skirted the clouds, slowly gliding around the ridge toward the crystal clear turquoise Mediterranean Sea and Fethiye, my instructor’s home town, below. We could see clearly into the distance, though clouds covered the Greek islands far on the horizon. For 25 minutes we floated peacefully, sweeping occasionally from side to side. At one point, I saw a tandem glider doing spirals and told Harkim, “I bet that’s my husband.” It was. “Would you like to spiral?” “Yeah!” The rapid descention and G-forces tugged my stomach inward as I screamed in exhilaration. I laughed and screamed like it was the best roller coaster drop of my life- exciting and scary in a good way. I’m a self-admitted weenie when it comes to extreme sports, but for me, paragliding feels totally safe. After several spirals, Harkim tugged the lines, and we immediately returned to peaceful suspension, dangling in the air like we were born to soar with the birds.

After about 35 minutes, the pools and hotels below were magnified, and Harkim briefed me on the landing process. I was sad it was over, but moreso I was still on a high from the glide. By walking just three walking steps, we peacefully landed on the sandy beach. “That was so great! I’m so glad we did this!” I yelled to Mark. “I know! It was awesome!” “I want to do it again!” My only regret was that it was over. I think it was my favorite thing I’ve ever done. I just love paragliding, and from what I understand, Fethiye is the best place in the world to do it. Thank you, Fethiye!