The Secrets of Brooklyn

...about bikes & bridges, junkyards & sunsets and a walk among tombstones

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A good traveler has no fixed plans and is not intent on arriving.

– Lao Tzu

One’s destination is never a place, but a new way of seeing things.

– Henry Miller

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Bikes & Bridges

This early October weather is making me melancholic. The Fall has arrived with the last warm days and I’m looking at my bike sadly. I will have to retire it soon for the winter, because either the wind or the cabs will become even more merciless once November arrives. I’ve decided to take it out for a serious spin. I have 30 km on my marker and 2 brochures are occupying my oversized pants pockets. One is for the Green-Wood Cemetery, the other one for PioneerWorks. 

I’m exploring the deepest secrets of Brooklyn, to put a more dramatic touch on my Sunday itinerary. Both locations were only vague notions a few hours ago. Like so many random adventures in New York, I stumbled upon them through friends, who were told by other friends of friends. The thrill of discovering an extraordinary experience is a treasure hunt New Yorkers constantly engage in, hence, I often advise visitors against over-planning when coming here. Most memorable way to experience the city is to chase its curiosities for a while. Something incredible will fall on your head at a moment, when you are taking a shortcut through that seemingly dodgy street in Chinatown or elsewhere. It will make you fall in love with the thrill and probably hate it a bit too, because there is so much to do, so much to take in, and so much to miss out at the same time.

A Brooklyn curiosity - The Clocktower Radio

Since I live in Manhattan, the way to leave the island involves crossing one of the bridges. Of those, Brooklyn Bridge is probably my least favourite but also the most entertaining. It’s packed to the brim; you can quickly get overly close with strangers or get a selfie stick shoved in precious body parts. After a brief inevitable ride through it, I’m perfectly trained in sound spelling “Get the fuck out of the bike lane!” with the piercing voice of my bike bell. It’s either tourists that have made the mistake to wonder off to the left from their tiny pedestrian path, or one of the citibike newbies has decided to take a selfie... while still cycling in zigzag... with one hand... through the sea of bodies.

Riding a bike in New York isn’t exactly relaxing at any point. It requires the focus of a surgeon. When I tell people this is how I commute EVERYWHERE, at ANY time of the day and in ANY footwear and outfit, most of them give me the slow eye-scan that’s clearly evaluating my mental stability. It’s true there is a high probability of being sandwiched between a garbage truck and a cab, the drivers of which are still figuring out how driving works or run over a pedestrian, who’s texting while crossing on red. I won’t even try to paint a better image; it is THAT bad, but I also love cycling THIS much.

A Walk Among The Tombstones

First stop - the cemetery. I’ve put my bike to a halt a few comfortable meters away from the entrance. The distance allows me to examine the view and finalize the internal debate on whether or not to go in. Let me put it this way - cemeteries ain’t my jam. Of all the places I could roam, this would probably classify quite low on my bucket list, somewhere between walking barefoot through a dumpster and dining in one of those Bangkok dancing establishments. Today I’m nudging myself out of that comfort zone, I keep hearing about.

Main gate to Green-Wood Cemetery

The Green-Wood pasture for the eternal peace is not exactly what I expected. The main gate reminds me of Sagrada Familia – the beautiful Gothic arch needs almost its own background angel choir. The cemetery map gives me the scare. The size of this thing implies I can walk around for days without being found - hiking paths, several chapels and a number of lakes are at my disposal. It also seems to be a favourite spot for young Brooklyn moms with strollers, as well as joggers. The only thing the scenery seems to be missing is some free grazing sheep (ducks are present at the scene and quite territorial as I will find out quite fast).  

View of Financial District

I’m moving slowly towards some hills that open gorgeous views of the East River and Manhattan. My hesitant walk stays on the clearly marked paths. Graves aren’t fenced, there’s mostly grass and tombstones peeking out of it. There have been many daredevil bets in my teens, when conquering a cemetery at night was considered pretty badass. However, a walk through one during the day, which doesn’t involve visiting a resting member or a bottle of whiskey and a heavy metal video, is giving me the creeps. The reason  - the notion of cemetery in Bulgaria is at the opposite end of Green-Woods. You won’t get directed for a walk or handed a map. Involvement with it is limited to unwritten rituals, which dictate bringing flowers, lighting a cigarette, having a drink with the dead, but overall just feeling sad that someone is gone. Death in the Balkans is wrapped in mystery and superstitions and it’s nothing anyone discusses with a light heart or feels in need to incorporate in daily search for fresh air. But the more I’m walking, the more I see why people choose this place. It’s, to no surprise, very peaceful. New York is quiet for a change, which allows me to find a good spot to sit down and soaks up the prime real estate imagery without distraction. As I’m pondering about these differences and my inherited emotional response, I see a pack of ducks has taken interest on me.  Every time I avert my eyes, they use the chance to slowly sneak up, but before they get the chance to gang up on me and ask for my lunch money, I jump on my feet, shaking off the friendly ghosts and conflicting thoughts. It’s time for the next portion of the itinerary - PioneerWorks in Red Hook.

Junkyards & Sunsets

Retirement home for tubs

Red Hook is a remote part of Brooklyn, which most New Yorkers connect with infrequent ferry trips to IKEA. It’s roads are solitary and they push me under imposing bridges, through neatly organised industrial zones, between buses and trucks. I get the occasional friendly honk and a wave. A bike is an exotic animal on these streets. The green parks and brownstone houses are gradually exchanged for factories and junkyards. 

The sinks solitude

I make a few stops to admire the yards. Despite their fairly one dimensional purpose, there is a highly artistic depth and solitude to their image. Old bathtubs & sinks, chandeliers, metal scraps from tables and chairs have been retired, neatly stacked behind a rusty fence. The weather has changed their shades kindly, giving them the definition of “Brooklyn cool”. The occasional graffiti complements the scenery, colours and shapes are looming into the backs of buildings like twisted tattoos. Red Hook is gritty, it’s like that pretty but tough girl at the bar you’ve been eyeing from afar, because you know she can punch you in the face.

One phrase marks the entrance to PioneerWorks - “In pursuit of magic”. The building is a tribute to a roman bath house, which has been gutted and its insides have been redecorated with art installations. There are multiple studios for artists and an art radio station, called Clocktower Radio, is pulling some funky tunes. The flyer for today lists a number of exhibitions and promises live music, which I’m anticipating the most. 

Inside PioneerWorks

The buzz from the collective exchange of ideas and photographs spills into the garden. Yes, there is some magic in here and the pursuit for it has gathered a highly artistic crowd. Among the display of bags with intricate poetic messages and the chime of frail wine glasses, a soft jazzy tune rushes in. Bonfires are lit as the sun slowly drowns into the water and another devastating Red Hook sunset paints the sky over the face of Lady Liberty. The harbour cranes are leaning towards each other like giraffes in love, and I push my way through the forest of phones to take pictures as well.

Giraffes in Love

Ghosts begin to roam the night. Unconquered by progress, they still live here and wake up with the shadows under flickering street lamps, with the soft sighs of the cranes, with the hard labour infused storage buildings. And in the depth of Red Hook, there are many gems, but you have to make the commitment to dig through the junkyard.

A slow ride in the dark takes me back into the heart of Manhattan. At home, I pull the wrinkled flyers & maps out of my pockets and all the impressions of the day spill with them, making me feel light, intrigued and peaceful.

Through the garden

Spooning in the PioneerWorks garden

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The Neon Kitty seen in one of the art studios

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Please note: All articles and photographs contained here are property of © Gypsy Letters, 2014 unless otherwise noted. No part of this website may be reproduced without the explicit permission of the copyright holder.

She

...about the City, the relationship with Her and a Monday evening in July

I’m out with friends and we’ve just met these nice Australian travelers. We join them for a drink at a random East Village speakeasy. It’s way too early for a bar, the room is empty and unusually quiet for a New York drinking spot. The silence is welcome for a change, as I don’t have to yell at my speaking partner from the bottom of my lungs. Beginning a conversation with strangers will often gravitate around jobs, weather, sights of New York. These girls are way too cool for small talk. I’m happy we skip that screening process and strike a more real conversation about a different aspect of the city. One of them comments on her observation about how people, who live in New York, speak about it as if it’s a being, a She that they have a relationship with, and everything a person goes through - break ups, auditions, spiritual trips, euphoria, rage, fear - it’s all part of that relationship. Her words stick with me. I do refer to the city in a similar way. There is just so much intensity to living in New York that after all the names of people have worn out of our consciousness, after all the buzz has quieted down, after all the visitors have left, She is still here, somehow unchanged in her overall existence. While skimming through my journal, I found this piece written not long ago, when New York and I flirted through the Summer, and I scribbled some words to describe what a simple Monday Night can turn into in the city. Adventures are never too far, if you keep your eyes and heart open, because that’s what She does.

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The View of 2 Bridges - Manhattan & Brooklyn bridge

Nothing in this city happens out of pure luck or simply by chance. Everything is connected, where it wants to be - the subway, the people, even the inevitable heat in July has a sense of belonging. They are all part of a most complex living and breathing organism, a powerful creature that becomes a part of you the moment you set foot on the island. The stories of strangers become your memories, their zest for life and success becomes your thirst, your affair with the city becomes another heartfelt romance for the books.

It’s just Monday somewhere else in the world. People buy food at the supermarket, talk about taxes, discuss the neighbourhood gossips or maybe the latest movie they’ve seen. But not in New York. The city grabs you by the hand and pulls you closer to her beating heart. And it’s throbbing with power that becomes your drug.

“I know it’s warm” She whispers playfully in your ear “But follow me” adding with another promiscuous giggle.

It’s after dark already, yet the heat is not letting go, so the only escape is at the embrace of the West Side breeze. The Hudson River, muddy and lazy, is licking the shore like a kitten. An old boat, docked in Chelsea, is rusting nonchalantly. They call it the Frying Pan for what it turns into on any given sunny day. But at night, when the Devil loosens his grip, you can sway on the boat in the slow jazz rhythm of the waves, under the lights of the thousand skyscrapers from Jersey to Midtown.

View of Jersey's skyline over the Hudson River

It’s getting late… Does it ever get late in New York? Is it ever too late for anything in here? Drunkenly She lures you to to visit the McKittrick Hotel. It’s not far and there is always some time for the McKittrick’s mystery. It’s not exactly a hotel - it’s one of those morphed creatures with a twisted face that can haunt you or excite you, depending on your emotional bearings. Your eyes are tired but you want to see what the fuss is all about. An elevator ride takes you to Gallow Green, the roof top bar of the establishment. The year 2015 can’t be found in here. Some smoky jazz lyrics have poised the air with desire and under the influence the lights of the city go dim. Plants have weaved their hair into the skeleton of this old brick building, making it look cosy. An old train car is tossed in the corner and serves as an extra dinner seating. A chain of lights is passing through it, spreading innuendo - sharp so to give couples the courage to touch, yet subtle enough to leave some mystery between them for later hours. The servers are looking way too good in their 1920s jackets and before you sink into the comfort of the aging evening, She grabs you by the hand again and rushes you to follow the music, down the stairs, into that hidden bar. You know the song, which the walls are humming. It’s old and sweet and the singer is pouring his voice into it:“And I think to myself, what a wonderful world…”

The corner table calls your name, a cocktail accompanies you for the next few songs. The 2 singers on stage are in a good mood. The lady is sassy and the gentleman couldn’t be more English, if he were paid for it. They are turning good tricks for a few laughs, talking and singing to a gentle rhythm. The hall is filled with the clinking of glasses.

Manderley Bar at McKittrick Hotel

The hours slip without searching for you. You suddenly realize all practical aspects of life have been forgotten - work, laundry, the weather. Where are we again? How did we end up here …on a Monday? Oh yes, I followed her...

She’s a special woman that one. There is so much for the heart to take in when you are with her. She can be cruel and dirty, and then turn around and transform into a sophisticated lady with the highest demands. She can rush you from the filthy streets of Lower East Side to the neatly arranged corners of Upper West, She can play with you like a child through the green drape of Central Park and abandon you for someone else on the corner of Houston and Broadway. You can live with her for 7 years and She will still erase your traces faster than footsteps on a beach. She promises nothing and gives you only the will to live with her now. You proclaim love and hate for her at the same time, get the best and the worst of you pulled, twisted and returned. E.B.White’s words echo through you. After so many things have changed, moved, been torn down, become obsolete and come back into fashion - his words unveil a bittersweet truth about New York - a face you get to see clearly from under all the noise, chase, rush, will, yearning, ambiguity, redemption:

“It can destroy an individual, or it can fulfill him, depending a good deal on luck. No one should come to New York to live unless he is willing to be lucky.”

And after all is done, after you’ve chased her ghost through the streets, maybe you will find your true self somewhere within her as well. Isn’t it why so many of us come here - to find that special Something? And maybe some details will fade away along the journey, maybe you will forget the name of the rusty boat or the hotel that is not really a hotel, but you will hopefully never forget how the City made you feel, when She grabbed you by the hand and pulled you into the night, into the heat of July ...and it was only Monday.

View of Midtown Skyline from Ink48 Hotel

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Please note: All articles and photographs contained here are property of © Gypsy Letters, 2014 unless otherwise noted. No part of this website may be reproduced without the explicit permission of the copyright holder.

A Studio in Chelsea

Hello Stranger,

Before moving to New York, like every person eager to join the Big Apple crowd, I played with the image of what living in it would be like, generously borrowing details from the extensive amount of unrealistic movies shot in the city. I had prepared myself for the possibility of cramped space, extravagant & loud neighbours (that I will never get to know) and the glamour oozing from the abundance of odd entertainment one can invest savings and free time in.

Almost a year ago, after 2 frantic weeks of apartment hunting, I opted in for a small studio in the heart of Chelsea. I considered it affordable enough so I don't scream every time I look at my monthly balance, and also central enough so I have Manhattan at my disposal. However, I dare to believe that there is no such thing as a bargain in this city, and surely my choice of living space began contributing with comedy material from day 1.

Glance through the window

Today I wake up to a rainy Sunday, gushing water onto my window. With my first glance, I spot a pigeon nesting right on top of the AC, cuddling tightly to the window pane and looking miserably wet. I’m almost driven out of bed with the need to get a towel and let him in to dry up. With the second glance I notice that none of the power outlets are glaring in their usual red light, which means I have no electricity. I pull the blanket back on top of my head and give out a prolonged sigh. This is the second time the power has gone out in the past 7 days. The snow last Friday didn’t last, but it left my apartment dark, just as the rain is doing today.

I stagger out of bed, unwilling to succumb to the routine that will follow - calling the Super, not reaching him, calling the emergency hotline, having to spell my name at least 4 times until they get it right (even though I know they have it on file from all of my previous calls), having to deal with the questions, that will inevitable induce the answer: “We will get there someone as soon as we can”, which translated means - “Get out of the house, you won’t have electricity any time soon”. Snap, I had planned a lazy morning in bed with a generic movie - bad enough to wake up my inner critic and let it drop sarcastic comments in my head, but OK-ish enough to overcome the need to do anything else like clean, cook or dwell on what’s wrong in my life and blow these thoughts out of proportions. 

The "Horo" dance at Golden Festival

I am in a way too good of a mood this morning to succumb to dark weekend thoughts though. I went to the Golden Festival in Brooklyn the night before and spent more than 6 hours dancing to live Balkan music with an incredibly cheerful crowd of all ages. Grand Prospect Hall, where the festival was held, had transform from a lavishly decorated wedding venue to the home of thousands fellow "Balkaners" and many eccentric Brooklyners, who were there just for the good show. The event was the perfect example of the things you can stumble onto in this city and transform into a memorable story you tell for months to people who didn’t make it to the party and for years to people who’ve never been to New York.  

Giving into the fact that I live alone and I loathe complete silence for prolonged periods of time, I dust up an old audiobook, which by the second chapter manages to catch my complete curiosity and attention. I'm switching between listening to it intently and trying to figure out which necessary daily routines I can perform in the lack of electrical power. Last week I found out that my tin can of an apartment is wired in a very creative way. The outlets, microwave, stove and fridge are out cold, so is the light in the bathroom. The light in my bedroom and the dishwasher, however, seem to be working perfectly well. I settle for a shower in candlelight. Even though its 11 a.m., the rain has thrown a thick grey layer over Midtown, which mixed with all the concrete makes the scenery appear like a 1920s black & white movie set. I rock “Walk of life” by Dire Straits under the hot water and proceed onto applying some makeup. In the meantime the Super has called already twice and has texted me another 5 times with status updates on the progress made to resolve the problem. It appears to be something outside of the building, probably an issue with the connection running from the street. The rain seems to be triggering a short circuit. I nod in the speaker understandingly but I have no intention to wait in my apartment for the outcome. In the lack of light and visual entertainment the studio looks sad, small and not glam at all.

Of course, having living space conflicts is an inseparable part of the New York experience. It’s a necessary CV entry for anybody, looking for a thrill and conversion material. And renting a “cheap” (in New York real estate currency) apartment in Chelsea promises by default quirky side effects, such as the fact that hot water, heat and electricity come and go whenever they please, something that I experienced as a child in Bulgaria during the water and electricity regime back in the early 90s.

The apartment comes with a “Mr. Heckles” as well (for everyone who didn’t grow up in the 90s, this a reference to the sitcom Friends), my hispanic neighbour from downstairs, who pays me a visit every time I take a bath. And despite the fact that our conversations always go the same way, he doesn’t give up on his ritual. Now I’m always prepared for his insisting knock on my door about 10 mins after I’ve settled into the bathtub. He’s never impolite though. On the contrary, his skinny frame, a head shorter than me, always throws an apologetic glance and a smile in my direction. 

“There is water coming down the wall. I’m just checking to see what you are doing that is causing the leak.” 

“Bath again, Mr. Rodriguez”, I reply back with an uneasy smile, as my feet leave soapy prints all over the floor, “Just call the Super and let him fix that leaking pipe”.

New York by Night

There have been many times when I've looked over my belongings, which after the move from Germany have shrunk to the most necessary clothes & books, and I've wondered if New York is the answer to all prayers for exciting living and if one misses out for not being here. After all I exchanged an envious closet space and a 2 bedroom apartment in Hamburg for this studio, which came with the garbage truck sound at 1 a.m., the angry cab horns all around the clock and all the additional sass provided by the aging body of my building. And I've been on both sides of the pros & cons arguments about the city. What keeps me here is the novelty - New York does feel like the centre of the universe, with its cold beauty and constant international point of reference in all topics of human life from fashion to politics to wealth. This modern day Babylon is filled with the chatter in hundreds of languages, it echoes the dreams of so many relentless souls, who are here because they WANT to be exactly here and nowhere else. This circulating energy is a drug that I, in particular, am uncontrollably addicted to. 

My most wonderful memories have originated from a place of discomfort and this tiny Chelsea studio provides just the right amount of that to drive me out in search of the odd New York life. I love this noisy rat hole.

...and BTW, the electricity came back at 7 p.m.

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Please note: All articles and photographs contained here are property of © Gypsy Letters, 2014 unless otherwise noted. No part of this website may be reproduced without the explicit permission of the copyright holder.

To Fall

...& other protagonists of a wonderful Sunday outside of New York

Dear Stranger,

The heat of the city finally gives into the embrace of Fall. Sunday arrives with a blissful blue sky and strips 10 degrees off the precious New York weekend. At the same time 4 girls in the need of escape and some Nature, embark on a road trip and head Upstate in the early hours of the day.

We meet in a coffee shop on 86th and Broadway, which seems like the only place with a heartbeat at 9 am on a Sunday. I’m waking my brain gradually by pouring cinnamon tea into my body. My 3 trip companions gather from various corners, arriving one by one all the way from Brooklyn, Financial District and New Jersey, all 3 of them bundled to the bone, prepared for some outdoor action away from the concrete hug of the city. We fill the blue vehicle (of course, as a cliche woman, that’s the only characteristic of the car that I can recollect) squishing bodies, jackets, bags and unnecessary amount of reading materials into its interiors. I’m amused by our roadtrip accessories. Mine include also a kilo of apples and a change of yoga clothes, cause why not? Like every yoga junkie, I’ve programmed myself to look for any opportunity to shoot a leg up the sky.

4 girls, 4 countries

The car zooms through George Washington bridge, crossing Hudson’s murky face like a lightning. Just 10 minutes into our trip, Fall unfolds its colourful grace. Trees have engaged into a dazzling stritease - losing attire in a vibrant dance. I’m following their frames, hissing pass our car, till I lose them from my sight. My head is swiping from left to right, like a dog following a tennis ball. I’m realizing I’ve been staring at a whole lot of buildings in the last few months. This tree show is relaxing for both my eyes and my brain.

The girls are chatting cheerfully. The 4 of us represent four different countries of the former Eastern Block. A Romanian, a Bulgarian, a Moldovan and a Russian somehow have ended up across the ocean, into one tiny car together, thousands of miles away from their birth spot. I like how different and how alike we are. We don’t speak the same language or have the profession, nor do we have the same interests. Yet, we speak of similar past and somehow their childhood memories seem to be mine as well. This inexplicable closeness makes me feel so at ease, and so far away from anything familiar, it gives me a sense of home.

The Storm King Art Center

Our trip has a destination. We high five the Storm King Art Center sign in recognition of our arrival. A long string of cars checks in with the ticket booth, which looks like a dwarf house in a middle of vast open field. The first sculptures are in sight. They look like giants, lying carelessly amidst a valley of grass and wheat. In the Art Center’s own words, it is:

“Widely celebrated as one of the world’s leading sculpture parks, Storm King Art Center has welcomed visitors from across the globe for fifty years. It is located only one hour north of New York City, in the lower Hudson Valley, where its pristine 500-acre landscape of fields, hills, and woodlands provides the setting for a collection of more than 100 carefully sited sculptures created by some of the most acclaimed artists of our time.”

...and indeed it is. 

Dancer pose with the Pyramidian 

We wander around the specimen scattered at comfortable distance from each other. Each one of them occupies a space at least 3 times the size of my apartment. We are gazing profoundly at their ambiguous names, exclaiming at the age proof (some are dated back to 1969). They astonish us with their ahead-of-time ideas, as well as with the length of their creation period. The “Pyramidian” says it took about 10 years to emerge.

 "Created from four steel beams, Pyramidium points to earth and sky, west and east, north and south—the six Chinese directions. Its geometric lines and moving center form a Zen koan: more transparent than the ancient pyramids yet just as secretive."

I dig the sculpture and take my “Dancer Pose” in front of it, coming back to those unlimited yoga opportunities.

We move onto a forest, which is sheltering the exhibition of an artist called Zhang Huan. That’s my zen moment of today. Buddhist statues and symbols are dispersed around, all in pieces. The walk through them is highly meditative, not because of the spiritually inspired art, simply because it’s freaking awesome to walk through a park, in the first cold yet sunny day of Fall and stare at giant statues. 

Three legged Buddha, Zhang Huan

“Three legged Buddha” has gathered a fan club, which is selfie-ing it away. The decomposition, which the artist has achieved is striking, underlined by the size of the achievement. Buddha has stepped on his head. The interpretation of this act is left to the spectators.

I’m the self-proclaimed tour guide of our group and I’ve taken ownership of the map. The girls are stamping through the uneven grounds, while I’m chasing the paper every time the wind decide to snatch it off my hands. He’s been our frenemy today. He has definitely managed to clear our head of any unnecessary thoughts, but the unexpected intensity is sweeping right through the clothing and into the bones.

View of The Storm King Art Center

After 2 hours of chills & thrills we decide to call it a day, congratulating ourselves for the efforts to feast on some art as we head off to Cornwall-on-the-Hudson to feed the flesh as well. We follow the recommendations of locals and end up in a quaint restaurant that hasn’t forgone the gluten-free mania, nor the choice of eggs preparation styles. There’s hardly anything else that can add to this wonderful day out of the Metropolitan zoo. We are 4 happy wild hens returning back to the premises of our luxurious coop.

As we part, I roll out of the car followed by a collection of leaves that I’ve stashed into my bag. They carry the scent of a wet cow, but I don’t mind it. I want a recollection of today to follow me home so I can share the sweet Fall melancholy with a glass of whiskey and a jazz song.

To Fall

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Please note: All articles and photographs contained here are property of © Gypsy Letters, 2014 unless otherwise noted. No part of this website may be reproduced without the explicit permission of the copyright holder.

Why I travel?

Hello Stranger,

I disappeared for a while. 

Travel anticipation

Summer has been good in keeping me away from the computer. The pages of my journal filled. When I go back to them now, they look like reshuffled thoughts of a clown. I will probably spend all winter sorting them out, going through the travels and savoring the taste of the different places. 

I’ve been asked many times why I travel so much. I’ve always taken the question with a moment of retrospect. Do I really travel so much? I guess, I move around often. I often revisit places of significance. I’m often a guest in cities that have been my home. But I’ve never crossed the Amazon or dined with the ancient dwellers of Australia. I haven’t flown across the Grand Canyon, nor have I chased antelopes in South Africa. Maybe all these adventurous images work as levers in my being, pushing the urge that make my Nature unsettling.

Mermaid Parade, Coney Island

For now the exploration takes me mostly to the jungle within cities, where the only animals running in the open wear shiny collars and barcode tattoos. An adventure is considered crossing a street on a red traffic light, smiling at a handsome stranger walking in the opposite direction, finding myself in the wrong quarter or trying that thing from the food cart, which looks like a fried bug.

Observing strangers in their habitat is another thing that travel gives me. Being anonymous releases me from common duties, which can turn even the most beautiful surrounding in an annoying impediment between me and the completion of an errand. When I travel there is no schedule, no particular place I need to be. I am free like a ghost sliding in the crowds. And this ghost likes to plunge into the madness of street festivals and flashmobs, mess with street musicians and chalk artists. It likes to see couples in love, dog owners acting as parents, the ability of pedestrians to walk and text at the same time, the noise of exclamations in different languages.

Street Band & a Dog, New Orleans

And there’s nothing better than striking random conversations with elderly philosophers, animal rights activists or cupcake sellers. A sunny table of a shabby cafe in any city can offer romance and even the sudden rain is no longer an annoyance.

When I travel I still find the patience to read the signs of shops or hit the big questions of humanity. Why do we compare ourselves? Why do we seek and want the things we don’t have? Why do we become blind to what we have? And I am still both fascinated and scared of the impact we have on our planet and how irresponsible anything we do is, as long as it is justified with making money. 

I travel for all these unreasonable questions.

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Please note: All articles and photographs contained here are property of © Gypsy Letters, 2014 unless otherwise noted. No part of this website may be reproduced without the explicit permission of the copyright holder.

The Travel to Becoming a Yoga Teacher

Hello Stranger,

I'm running up 6th avenue, my backpack bouncing up and down my back, as if wishing to break free. After a busy office day, I'm both happy and thrilled to sit through my first yoga class observation. It's close to 7 p.m. and I'm searching on the display of my phone further instructions on how to find the studio of 38th street. New York, despite its neatly ordered streets, still confuses me. The order by itself hides so much creative chaos, it sends out my head spinning in all directions.

I'm running down in direction of 7th Avenue - no sign of a Nail Shop. The YTTP website promises an entrance behind an acrylic workshop to transform into the world of Yoga to the People, like a speakeasy from the 1920s. I surrender after 5 min of searching, asking a woman for directions. Luckily she knows where to point me to and I enter up the narrow stairway, panting and pushing through students who are waiting calmly in a line to enter for class.

View of 6th Avenue at Night

In a matter of seconds I free myself from the pile of winter clothes and park my overheated body onto a stack of neatly folded mats. I'm trying to stay out of the way of students, but also be available to help James, tonight's teacher, register and get the students organized for class. Matt, towel, water - multiple times. I take on my duty with a smile, feeling like the task is more rewarding than the 10 hours I've spent sitting at a desk today. Now that desk is a million of miles away and the class is about to begin. The presence of so many faces - tranquil and smiling puts me into a complete state of zen.

"Child's pose, please". All bodies sink into the floor of colorful patches created by the variety of mats. "Let's take our first collective breath". The breath of the entire room comes and goes through me. I inhale the hot air, feeling my heart working like a madman, I exhale - welcoming the first drops of sweat rush down my spine. In the dim light of the room and the oozing sound of the heating machine, the gentle flow of yoga poses transforms the bodies into tender dancers, searching for the farthest corners of their abilities. Some move in complete harmony and easiness, others struggle to unite their willful spirit under the protests of their bodies. In the haze of the struggle and the dance, I can only feel my own body possessed completely by the beauty of the moment.

Yoga to The People, St. Mark's Place

My mind begins to wonder. Being an observer of this class is such an unique opportunity. I experience every constrain, exploration and achievement of the students through the blinking routine of my eyes, seeing so clear the physical and the mental part of us join and depart, and then join and depart again. It's like a passionate relationship, a doomed love, a fight among lovers to find the same language. Under the soft guidance of the teacher's voice everyone has undertaken their own private journey for transformation and the energy fills the room, making the air heavy, sticky, liberating...

My head gets stuck onto the sentence "Every pose is an invitation...". Deep inside of me it opens room for compassion and love that reminds me of my childhood - when I wasn't afraid to be vulnerable. I've lost this ability, somewhere along the road of growing up, putting all emotions under a shield, under a magnificent mental barricade. They are all now banging on that door, asking to be part of this body again. It's like the yoga poses, the energy of this room have created a tunnel leading straight to this sacred forgotten place within me. And I'm thankful to all these people that are sharing their personal battle, their own twisting dance performance, their own sacred path with me. It's moving, powerful, unforgettable...

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Please note: All articles and photographs contained here are property of © Gypsy Letters, 2014 unless otherwise noted. No part of this website may be reproduced without the explicit permission of the copyright holder.

White

Hello Stranger,

It’s -20°C outside and according to the weather broadcast it “feels like -28°C”. This must be the coldest I’ve ever been. My body is wrapped in so many layers that looking down requires a real effort from my neck muscles. I’m trying to shape a handful of snow into a ball. The powder-like consistence is so dry, it breaks and runs away through my fingers, forming a scoop on my boots instead. No chance to build a snowman. Any other outside activities are limited by the weather, the fast sunset and my inability to cope with these temperatures. But there are about 12.000 lakes crossing the state of Minnesota and their cold whisper traps and allures you to exploit what’s out there beyond the snow.

Lake Minnetonka

I’m standing on the bank of Lake Minnetonka wondering if crossing its waters on foot would be a good idea. There is barely any water in sight. The surface is covered by a thick layer of ice. The view is absolutely perfect. The lake is not part of the ground one can step on, it has become a part of the horizon, merging deceitfully with the grey sky. The entire water landscape of Minnesota seems to have been wiped out by a clean white sheet of nothingness. It’s like someone has pressed DELETE and has presented me with a great empty canvas to play with.

I’ve stepped on a frozen lake once but I’m having trouble recalling my courage. My brain has selected the channel playing horrific scenarios of ice breaking and people falling into the depths of frozen tongues. Hesitantly I let my toes test the safeness of the white coat. I’m keeping my eyes focused on the big trucks parked on the ice ahead. A lonesome little house is smoking in the middle of the lake. It’s one of these fish huts nested on it temporarily for ice fishing. I’m overwhelmed by the wish to peak through the sweaty window pane and see if there is an old man kneeling over a hole he’s drilled in the ice.

Ice fishing hut

The perfect surface of the frozen lake makes me want to run like a child – without the feeling of boundaries, really fast towards the endless horizon that has dipped its corners into the edge of the sleeping waters. I run until my lungs have been filled with so much cold air, I have to stop and breathe into my scarf. I run in circles and watch my steps tattoo a trail into the comfortable skin of the snow. Undisturbed and silent, the scenery responds to my intrusion with nothing but tiny echo dying in the naked branches of the shore trees. Twisted and crooked into poses, the sculptures of the only plants that have survived the kiss of winter tell the stories about the severity and the beauty of the North. Nothing escapes its frosty hug. Its presence transforms the buzz of life into an endless WHITE whisper.

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Please note: All articles and photographs contained here are property of © Gypsy Letters, 2014 unless otherwise noted. No part of this website may be reproduced without the explicit permission of the copyright holder.