international travel – Art. Yoga. Adventure. Life on the Road.

Upside Down and Out of Control

As Week Two of my Yoga Teacher Training wrapped, I caught myself marveling that I can, in fact, do hard things. The rhythm of my days looks a little something like this. I get up early and walk to the training through my empty barrio. I wind my way through the narrow maze-like roads, my footsteps echoing off the stone buildings. The maze ends and suddenly there is open sky and morning sunshine as I cross in front of Cathedral de Barcelona. I stop for a quick espresso at my favorite coffee shop that is tiny and local and almost always has the little old man whom I have named Sandro.

By the time I have arrived at the doors of the Yoga Shala I feel ready for the day head. This is when the real work begins: a half hour of meditation. An hour class of yoga. Learning different asanas (postures) and how to correctly do them and teach them to avoid injury. After learning, there is more practicing these asanas, and then, sweet relief…breakfast. The rest is short lived because next comes another full hour long class of yoga, this time led by one of the students (yours truly included). Then there is some more learning, more stretching, and I realize that I have made it through another day.

Week One I characterize with the word “Ow”. “Ow! My arms!” As I shrug on a coat. “Ow! My shoulders!” As I pull my purse over my head. “Ow! My legs!” As I walk out of the Metro station, climbing the handful of stairs to the street level.

Week Two “Ow” faded away and I realized that I was craving this daily movement. “Ow”, I realized, was shifting to “Wow”.

Wow, I made it through Week One and Week Two. Wow, when I stop my body wants to keep going. Wow, I can’t believe I just did that.

Wow, especially, today.

In life,I do not like going upside down. At all. I do not like roller coasters. I could never do a cartwheel as a child. As a swimmer, I chickened out of learning the acrobatic “kick-flip”, where you do a little somersault under water and kick off the wall, shaving valuable seconds off of your lap split.

And in all of my years doing yoga I have never, ever done a headstand.

Until today.

There was no great build up to this. We were in our first yoga practice of the day like any other, and we were in some variety of a Surya Namaskar (sun salutation) when we were guided simply and gently into a headstand preparation. Internally I rolled my eyes, willing to go as far as a downward dog, when our teacher walked behind me and encouraged me to “just kick up”. And in what turned out to be an anti-climatic moment, I did.

I did a headstand.

And it wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t dangerous. It was strangely…peaceful.

I came back down safely and found respite in a quiet child’s pose. What had been holding me back all these years? I told myself I did not have the strength to do a headstand. I convinced myself it was unsafe. Every yoga class that incorporated it I would sit back on my heels and watch. I’ll just sit this one out, I would think as my yoga progress stalled at this very place again and again.

While I am not on my way to the Olympics for swimming anytime soon, I also see how my progress in swimming has stalled as I opted out of kick-flips. Joining leagues or Premium swim teams always felt so out of reach – how would I explain that I cannot do this simple little somersault a child can do?

As I lay curled into a simple child’s pose I realized with a start that all of this delayed self-growth was in the spirit of… not losing control.

I mean, who likes to lose control? Control of our time, of our work life, of our love life – “losing control” has a notoriously bad reputation. But what if this learning to let go, to loosen the reins a bit and trust the process is exactly the moment when we become a better version of ourselves? What if…we face our fears and come out the other side relatively unscathed. Perhaps that is the moment when we realize that we are less fragile than we thought. That our inner strength is actually much greater than anything we ever imagined. Today it’s a headstand. But how will this one little headstand reshape my opinion of exactly what is possible – and what might be next.

What if…I feel the fear and do it anyway? The start of my Journey to 200.

It was the winter of 2001 when I saw the ad. The whole country was reeling from the 9/11 attacks. The dust was still settling over the two craters in the earth where the twin towers had been, and the collective heartache was palpable.

I was a travel agent at the time of the attacks and my entire industry felt unsteady. Layoffs were happening around me and travel shops nationwide were silently shuttering their storefronts. I wondered what was next for me if my job, my career, disappeared.

I was looking for something, anything, to soothe the constant anxiety I felt boiling in my stomach. All of the ‘What If…‘ questions racing through my head were keeping me up at night. What if... I lost my job. What if…the travel industry collapsed? What if…I could not continue living in San Francisco? Where would I go, what would I do?

By the time December hit I found that I was depressed, anxious, and feeling completely out of my body. I scribbled out my New Year’s Resolutions to take better care of myself, to find something, anything, that would let me take some of my power back.

I found a tattered paperback copy of Richard Hittleman’s 28 day yoga plan (original publication date 1983) at a thrift store for $2 and dedicated myself to his method. The black and white photos of the nearly naked swami led me through asana on my living room floor. At the end of the 28 days I noticed I was feeling a bit better. I reasoned that if at-home yoga was good, surely in-studio yoga would be better. As I searched for studios in the Bay Area, the ad popped up: Free Yoga Teacher Training.

The teacher’s name was Tai Sheridan, PhD. Tai was a zen buddhist priest and in response to the 9/11 attacks he was choosing 12 people to take part in his teacher training for absolutely no cost. The training was not about core strength, the depth of your downward dog, or how strong your headstand was. Instead Tai was hoping to spread peace. He reasoned that if he taught teachers how to access loving kindness within themselves, they would go out into the world and teach others how to do the same. He hoped that this would tip the cosmic balance back into a place of love rather than hate.

Impulsively, I applied. There was no logic to this decision. I was a complete novice at yoga. I had never taken a studio class and all of my training had come from a long haired swami in a diaper from a publication nearly twenty years old. I told Tai in my application that while I wanted to join, I worried I wasn’t ready. Would the downward dogs I did while watching Friends be good enough?

I was stunned when I received my acceptance letter. Stunned and a bit panicked. New ‘what if’ questions flooded in. What if…I am not strong enough? What if…I am not ready? As the travel industry continued to crumble around me, I felt that I had no choice. This was going to be my new path.

I faced my fear and each Friday I would drive across the Golden Gate Bridge toward Marin County, the sun and the fog doing battle as the city receded behind me. There was the asana practice in the morning followed by long meditations. In the afternoon we would discuss theory and the practicalities of teaching. And every time we gathered we somehow drifted into long group discussions about the events of 9/11. We cried together as we processed the loss we collectively shared. In this sacred place we healed. I walked away a year later feeling hopeful for my blossoming career as a yoga instructor.

But life had other plans.

I went through a divorce. The travel industry did crumble. I moved out of state. I searched for stability and built an entirely new career, one that paid the bills. Yoga, as much as it had been the thing that healed me all those years ago, became the hobby I did only occasionally as the years slipped by.

It has been 22 years since that yoga teacher training, and oh how life has continued to change, shift, ebb, flow, and delight. That great destabilizing time in my life pushed me out the other side better for it. I discovered love again, married a wonderful man, went back to school, and found a calling that helped others. It wasn’t yoga, but I was spreading peace in my own small way.

Yoga still calls to me. Perhaps that is why, on an impulse not unlike the one twenty years ago, I applied for another yoga teacher training. And just like last time I am pushing myself into uncomfortable territory. The fears are almost identical to how I felt twenty years ago. Am I ready physically? Am I ready emotionally? My last training was gentle and healing, but this practice promises to be intense and invigorating. At nearly 44 years old, I wonder: Am I too old to be doing this? Will I be the oldest there? Will my body withstand the month of daily asana? Will my mind be patient enough for the half hour daily meditations? I am nowhere near getting into a headstand, is that a problem?

I let the thoughts wash over me and take a deep belly breath. As I slow my racing thoughts, a new, surprising ‘what if’ question presents itself.

What if…I can absolutely do it, and be better off for it?

In that moment of clarity I feel something shift. I am going, age be damned, ability be damned. If I have learned anything in life it is the power of feeling the fear and doing it anyway. Middle age can feel ominous. I try to remind myself of who I am: a bad-ass Gen-Xer who does not have to let herself be defined by age. In that ageless space I take this moment and say Fuck It.

Here we go.

I leave for Spain in less than a week to complete my training. I plan to keep weekly updates on my Journey to 200 Hours. I hope you join me.

Italian: Level 1

My beloved and I made a deal before our European adventure: He would try to learn some French, and I would study Italian. This would cover us, we figured, for the month that lay ahead of us. My Italian would help us through a five day hike through the Dolomites, Venice, Cinque Terra, and Florence. Then we would head to the South of France and finally Paris, where my beloved would navigate us with his French.

Fluency felt like a fool’s errand since I was starting from scratch, so I set a goal that felt achievable: order an Americano or a bowl of pasta without sounding like a complete jackass. Every morning leading up to the trip I poured myself a large cup of coffee and settled in with my Duolingo app, the little cartoon characters cheering me along. By the time we landed in Italy, I could clumsily order food and drink.

When we started planning our return to Italy, I realized I wanted to get serious about Italian. Now that I had this foundation, I glibly told myself, what if I became fluent? The fact that I reasoned a few months of Duolingo was a foundation was already magical thinking, but the dream had taken root. I caught myself daydreaming of my newfound fluency, my head thrown back in laughter, sharing a joke with a local as I trilled along in flawless Italian.

I searched for classes at the local community college. I looked for Italian tutors. I explored small language schools. It was around this time that I read a piece by David Sedaris, where he referenced that he used Pimsleur to help him learn languages. If it’s good enough for David, I reasoned, it’s good enough for me. On that logic alone, I downloaded Pimsleur and away I went.

I would pop in my headphones and take our dog for her morning walk, zig-zagging my way through the cul-de-sac, mumbling out loud as I repeated phrases that left me wondering what in the hell was going on in Italy.

Marco: “Do you speak Italian?”
Gabriella: “A little.”
Marco: “When can we eat?”
Gabriella: “Not now.”
Marco: “Later? Can we eat together a little later?”
Gabriella: “No, not now, and not later.”
Marco: “What about ten?”

I found myself mentally chastising Marco. She said no, Marco! Leave her be! Then, a plot twist.

Gabriella: “No, I am married and will not have dinner with you.”
Marco: “You are married? Where is your husband?”
Gabriella: “He is back at the hotel.”

I thought about the people I passed by as I walked. Did they speak Italian? What must they think of this woman muttering to herself this Italian soap opera? I began questioning the Pimsleur method, and frankly, David Sedaris, but pressed on. Gabriella returned to the hotel ostensibly safe and I returned home, hoping that this would all somehow pay off.

I practiced every day, wondering to myself who was responsible for the scripting over at Pimsleur. After the, let’s call it pushy, section between Marco and Gabriella, we progressed to the section dedicated solely to asking after someone’s family. This felt like less dangerous territory to tread into, but I found myself rolling my eyes and questioning whether or not I would find any real purpose in knowing how someone’s child was, how old someone’s child was, how many grandchildren someone had, and where on earth all of these children lived currently and in the past. Where were the phrases that would get me checked into a hotel? Or the phrases that would educate me on finding the best pasta in Cefalu?

Trust the process, I chastised myself. Just keep going.

By the time we landed in Palermo, I had finished Level 1. I realized all of the conversations I had been listening to had given me the power to string together a reasonable sentence to check us in to a hotel after all. I was still patting myself on the back by the time we hit the street on the hunt for Real. Italian. Pasta. We made our way to a highly lauded ristorante promising molto autentico Sicilian cuisine. We walked in and, discovering that no one spoke English, I realized that this was it, this was my moment.

I cobbled together words for “Table” and “for two”, undoubtedly from the section with Marco and Gabriella, and was pleased when the woman responded kindly. After ordering, I noticed an older gentleman hovering around our table. As soon as I made eye contact he rushed over to check on us. As it turned out, this was the owner of the restaurant, and the woman who sat us, his adult daughter. And here it was, Pimsleur in all their glory coming through for me.

“How many children do you have?” I asked, my memorized lines from Pimsleur flooding back. His eyes lit up and he smiled as he told me he had three children, and six grandchildren. Then he proceeded to show me pictures of everyone. When I asked where everyone lived, both past and present, he answered with delight. Eventually he drifted away and we enjoyed our pasta and seafood, my eyes wide staring at my beloved. “Well I’ll be damned. Pimsleur worked.”

We are currently planning our next trip. This time we will be five weeks in Spain and I have again turned to Pimsleur for help. Now as I waltz the streets with my dog on her leash, muttering phrases about needing to work hard, I feel confident that someday soon I will be in a conversation and think: Well I’ll be damned. Pimsleur worked.

Hipster coffee in Scottsdale

As a Seattle transplant to The Valley of Sun I have found nearly everything to be a welcomed change of pace. Less traffic, faster drivers, more sun, etc.

But one thing that Seattle wins at is (not surprisingly) coffee. Plop yourself on nearly any city street of Seattle and you will find yourself in the nearby radius of a turbo cool, small business coffee shop that takes their beans (and themselves) very, very seriously.

Now, I’m not against big box coffee shops per se. But I do love supporting small businesses and I do love a hipster coffee shop where the foam is light and the roast is dark.

So if you find yourself in the Scottsdale area and on the hunt for a good cup of joe, here are two places to try.

1) Mythical Coffee: 10269 N Scottsdale Rd Scottsdale, AZ 85253

Mythical coffee was the first hidden gem I discovered in Scottsdale. Started in Gilbert, this northern location uses their own roasted beans and even offers a monthly roasters box delivered right to your door.

For those looking for decaf, they offer an organic Honduran roast that is Swiss water processed. The coffee shop itself is HUGE, complete with plenty of work tables and couches to hang out on. Lovely.

2) Street Brew Coffee: 10634 N 71st Pl, Scottsdale, AZ 85254

I found this place killing time while running an errand in the neighborhood l, and find myself stopping back in time and time again. While they do not roast their own, they partner with a local roaster who provides them their beans.

They have a simple menu, homemade pastries, and a nitro brew on tap. The space is small but offers a few tables and a nice couch set up for those who work remote or just want to get out of the house.

Friperie: Thrifting in Montreal

The first thing that strikes me when wandering the streets of Montreal is just how charming it all is. Brownstones, boutiques, ancient stone buildings…it feels more Europe and less Canada.

One thing I love doing while traveling is thrifting. It is a great way to find unique pieces, unknown (to me) brands, and clothes that now hold a special place in my heart.

My first stop was at Marche Floh, a three story vintage store on Saint-Denis street in Le Plateu-Mont-Royal neighborhood. This is a definite must-do while in Montreal, not only because of the massive amount of curated and excellent vintage finds, but because of their unique business model. Marche Floh offers their brick-and-mortar space to local entrepreneurs, each hanger in the store representing a different independent vintage reseller. Since each reseller is hand picking items to highlight at Floh, the selection is exceptional. I found cute sweater vests, vintage blouses, and a vintage slip that I could not live without. I loved that I felt that I was supporting small businesses while also adding unique pieces to my wardrobe.

Next up, Village des Valeurs, or as I know it in the States: Value Village.

I love Value Village, and frequent my local spot in Scottsdale pretty regularly. I always, always find something. On my trip to Montreal, we had an unexpected few rainy days and with lots of walking on the calendar, I knew I needed to find a poncho, raincoat, or something to keep me dry while I was there. I was delighted to find something I know and love so close to me in the Hampstead neighborhood and decided to look there for something dry.

My first impression of Village Des Valeurs was the size. To call this place a store is wildly underselling the scale, which in my mind was more of a warehouse. I was impressed by how organized and plentiful the store was. I found it hard to pull myself away from each section as there was such an amazing selection.

Ask and the universe delivers: when I finally did make my way to the coats section, there it was. A rubber raincoat without so much as a scuff on it, in absolutely perfect condition, in a beautiful matte navy color. And the price! $18.49 CAD! Sold!

Finally, while in the hyper-chic area of St. Laurent, I stumbled into Ribotti Vintage, an elegant and curated vintage, retro winterwear. Think: Snowsuits from the 90s, wool coats, and snowpants.

They also had a beautiful selection of vintage denim and my absolutely favorite, old worker jumpsuits.

I barely scratched the surface thrifting in Montreal, and I’m already daydreaming about going back for a second pass.

Review: Halfday Duffel

Disclaimer: this is NOT a paid advertisement. This is a review of something I paid good money for, tested, and then decided to post a review. I’m not against paid advertisements (hint, hint…), but for now, this is my completely unbiased opinion!

I’m a sucker for an Instagram ad, and when the Halfday Duffel (https://halfdaytravel.com) ad popped up, I was instantly intrigued.

This duffel promised so much! Garment bag! Weekender! A place for shoes! I love a good multitasking anything, and with multiple trips coming up that required fancy dresses and suits, I took the plunge and bought one for my husband and one for myself.

First, you unzip the duffle until it is lying flat, then put whatever you want to lay flat in the garment bag portion. I managed to get three (!!) dresses in, the hanger hook holding everything in place, and the bottom clips ensuring the dresses wouldn’t bunch up.

Then I stuffed in my shoes into the shoe pockets. As a size 9, I managed to get two pairs of heels in, while my husband (size 13) could only fit one pair.

Then it was time to zip up to create the duffel.

I found it was easiest to zip halfway up, then start filling with clothes, then zip again and stuff the remaining toiletries in right before you zip it completely up, so as not to waste any space.

I managed to get 4 days worth of outfits plus my formal wear into this duffel. Three pairs of pants, a pair of jeans, several sweaters and a few shirts. Plus all of my toiletries!

Overall, I love this bag. It’s easy to carry, and holds so much stuff! It also fit beautifully into the overhead compartment, even on the smaller Embraer jet I flew recently.

A few of my less than favorite moments:

– You have to half fill, then zip, then fill again, otherwise your belongings spill out and it becomes cumbersome to zip up.

– You have to completely unpack at your destination to get your garment bag items out. This isn’t a huge problem, but as someone who lives out of her bag, it’s a little more of a pain once I hit the ground.

Even with these minor frustrations, I say it’s definitely worth the purchase. I’ll be using mine regularly.

How to see FREE Art in San Francisco

If you are like me, art plays a central role in any trip. From paintings to architecture to weird one-person performance pieces, tuning into art on a trip adds an important dimension to all of my travels.

In a place like San Francisco, where the art world is thriving, it can be hard to narrow down exactly what to see, especially if you are short on time. How do you prioritize? And with any trip, there is always the decision point of what to spend money on and where to save. If you are going to San Francisco, don’t let the art slip by. Here is how to see some beautiful works, and for FREE!

Go For The Gallery

Galleries line the streets in SF, and can be found in most neighborhoods. The highest concentration of these galleries live between Union Square and The Tenderloin districts, specifically on the streets running east/west. Geary, Sutter, and Post streets all have excellent galleries with collections from very famous artists.

The collections are for sale and often the spaces are smaller, but there are no lines, no fees for entrance, and excellent variety of unique pieces you will not see in larger museums.

On this trip, we stumbled into the Christopher-Clark Fine Art gallery (where we were introduced to the artist Mr. Brainwash, who, according to the gallery staff, is a protégé of Banksy. He was already a street artist when Banksy discovered him and took him under his wing. His pieces are layered and complex and visually very, very cool.

As we perused the rest of the gallery, we discovered a collection of Salvador Dali pieces, as well as a collection of Pieces by Matisse and Rembrandt. It was an exceptional collection, and best of all, no lines and free!

Next we hit openings at two smaller galleries on Sutter. At Hashimoto Contemporary gallery we saw the opening of Scott Albrecht’s exhibit “Holding Time”, a Brooklyn based artist displaying his signature graphic relief paintings and sculpture.

After checking out his beautiful works, we popped into the gallery next door, Glass Rice, where another opening was in progress.

Gallery hopping in San Francisco is a lovely way to see unique pieces by famous artists and fabulous new works by emerging artists. If you are traveling to San Francisco, be sure to add this to your itinerary to add an extra dimension to your experience.

How not to die while swimming with dolphins

I am not entirely sure when the dream to swim with dolphins started to take root. Was it one of the endless summer days I spent swimming in a docile lake, pretending I was a dolphin? Was it their understood kindness, their keen intellect, their impressive flips? I had heard of tours where one could swim with dolphins, but every time I took a closer at the pamphlets, I grew discouraged by what I saw. Glossy photographs of large dolphins, small containers, tourists slicked over in sunscreen in a glorified fish tank clinging to miserable looking dolphins. No thanks.

In New Zealand I found what I thought would be a true swimming with dolphin experience. This tour was not held in a tank hanging off a dock of some tourist-trap resort. Instead, we would board a boat and swim with a pod of bottlenose dolphins in the wild. This, I thought, would be magical.

We boarded the boat and cruised through the glassy water, our captain safety briefing us and then discussing the plan. They were tracking the different pods of dolphins, and because of conservation laws, we could only have so much time with each pod before we would have to turn back. “I’m following one right now and I’m pretty sure we will get you in the water very soon!” He chirped over the loudspeaker, and with that, my beloved and I gazed out at the magnificent scenery along the New Zealand coastline.

As promised, it was not long and we were nearly on top of a pod. Only now, as I gazed below the boat into the dark blue vastness of the water, did I realize that my smug desire to swim with dolphins in the wild might actually be… dangerous.

“They’re right below us!” Our captain exclaimed, and I nodded quietly as I looked and saw absolutely nothing. “Quick! Put on your wetsuits!”

Everyone on the boat scrambled to find a wetsuit, each of us struggling to get the neoprene over our bodies while rocking gently on a boat and trying to hurry before the pod disappeared.

Wetsuits on, we were handed snorkel masks and our next set of instructions: each of us were to sit on the back of the boat, from which two long bars extended off each side.

“So when I say ‘go’,” our captain explained, “grab hold of the bar, and scootch out to the end, then the next person will go, and so on. There should be four people on each bar.” We all looked at each other.

“Then,” he went on, “we are going to pull you through the water with the pod.”

Was it the use of the word “scootch”? Perhaps it was the precarious nature of keeping a death grip on the metal bar, each of us undoubtedly mentally recounting pull ups in gym class and questioning our strength. We all seemed to share a collective “WTF” thought.

I was starting to feel the panic rise in my chest just as the other crew prodded us to get moving, and, stuck in between two others, I had no choice but to scootch my way into the deep blue.

Clinging to the bar, I dipped my head below the surface and saw the tunnel of darkness. No dolphins. “They are down there!” The crew cheered to us, which enhanced the terrifying feeling of a great unknown just below my feet.

Just when I thought it could get no worse, the engines next to me roared, and like a piece of bait on a line, I was being dragged through the freezing dark blue waters. I tried to leave my head below water, but the force of the boat motoring through the choppy waters had me skipping across the surface like a stone.

It didn’t take long before common sense bubbled to the surface and I raised my hand, signaling to pull me in from the deep dark sea. Others did the same and it was time to turn back from the pod.

Disappointed, I shed my wetsuit and wrapped myself in a towel and stared off into the distance, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Just as I came to terms with the fact that this trip was a complete flop, something caught my eye.

Right next to the boat a fin emerged, then another. Soon, we were surrounded by dolphins, some leaping out of the water, others swimming just below the surface.

I stared in awe as they danced around us, grateful for this magical moment. It might not have been the experience I had planned, but as I hung my feet off the bow of the boat, the dolphins creating beneath me, I realized it was still a dream come true.