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

---

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.

---

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...

---

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.

---

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.

Saturdays in Schanze

Hello Stranger,

It’s Saturday. It’s been a while that I’ve woken up listening on how the rain can quiet down every urban sound outside the window. Life is barely noticeable in the lack of morning light, below the even tap dance of the falling water. My body has sunk into the warmth of 2 cushions and it’s debating whether procrastinating for a bit longer would unleash the dogs of remorse.

There is so much to do on any given Saturday. For everyone who is part of the corporate 5 day working week, life begins only now. That’s why it is hard to cope with these mornings.  The need to catch up on things, that the week was too busy to give me space for, is biting the edges of my semi-conscious body. Lists with errands are filling my head. I should buy stuff, fix stuff, throw away stuff… I should be working out; I should go back to one of the hundred hobbies currently occupying several boxes under my bed. I should read all I’ve put away for “later” or see what the world of Hamburg has to offer.  But the rain is like a drug. I lie in bed listening to the hypnotic rustle outside. The scars of the week are still very present on my back and I’m not ready to give into the lists. I already feel like a slave chained to the Monday and the Tuesday and all the other Day Masters. Saturdays should be different. They are story tellers - irrational. Saturdays are for late wake up calls, watching bad movies in bed, the need to stretch your sleepy limbs or dance like a madman to an 80’s song in the kitchen. Saturdays are for long walks, for coffee at a crowded place and the attempts to read something in Spanish. And in Hamburg, Saturdays are for Schanze.

Schanze is everything that Hamburg has swept under the carpet after ordering its living arrangements into neatly defined categories. It is a symbol of protest against the rational laws of an organized society, the complete opposite of I’ve always associated Germany with. I imagine the great “Hansa city” like a proud and conservative parent, who wouldn't admit of having this rebellious child under its roof. With the years their relationship seems to have grown more cordial, because Schanze has certainly escaped the faith of a shabby quarter and has become one of the coolest spots in town, a place with a strong and vibrant face.

One of these random Schanze images

I somehow always find myself here on a Saturday, attracted to Schanze’s curiosities like a fly to a sugar frosting. I cross Max Brauer Allee and the world full of tasks transforms into an out-of-time soul searching experience. Vintage shops dwelling among the arched entrances to hip Hamburg homes greet me first. Then I follow the thousands of posters announcing events, which are spread on every inch of public space. My mind is catching phrases falling out of their frames, making my eyes follow their dance onto lamp post, walls, supermarket windows, traffic signs. Graffiti messages are scattered wildly onto the building doors, reminding loudly of their creators’ political views. I can identify some regulars at a nearby kiosk. They are smoking yet another afternoon away with a tone of philosophy and the attitude of forgotten cowboys. The disfigured body of the Rote Flora theatre, one of the most prominent symbols of Schanze, seems quiet today. It’s decaying slowly right onto the Schulterblatt street, colouring the air with a sharp and moldy odour. The former theatre building is one of the besetze Haeuser in Hamburg, occupied by a few free souls, who would ask you for a coin or a cigarette, if you dare to pass by closely enough. On a sunny day you might even catch the recital of an unknown poet or hear about the greatest sins of capitalistic societies. The audience that gathers around the chain of cafes & bars on the opposite side of the street welcomes any performance in a relaxed & composed manner.

One can say the reality of Schanze is both cruel and enigmatic. Among the jungle of shattered glass bottles, questionable business affairs, hangover faces you suddenly come across the spiking presence of a coffee shop in uncomfortably feminine colours and its cheerful menu with ultra-modern vegan options. Plenty of exotic brunch spots have also come to existence, each one adding a personal spin to the dining hype. One can always find Susannenstrasse packed in the late weekend mornings. Most guests don’t restrict themselves to the provided seating, using the sidewalk to arrange themselves in a cool pose with a beer in hand.

My exploration continues in direction of the flea market that gathers every Saturday at a square near Neuer Kamp street. I cycle despite the rain, which has chased away some of the smaller vendors. Only the truly dedicated guardians of aging merchandise are still here. Today what’s absolutely hot on display are some passports dating back from before the WWII. Some “experts” have gathered around the stall, creating a buzz like children in front of an ice cream truck. I’m not in the need of anything. The curiosity brought me here. I like seeing what new findings join the flea collection week after week. The eccentricity of Flohschanze is spilling fabrics from the square further onto Marktstrasse. I’m following the trail of clothes, animal horns, singled out shoes, bold psychology books and tacky souvenirs. A skeleton wearing a gas mask is leaning nonchalantly onto a stop sign. The art of nameless painters is piled in the corner of a table. The paintings look sad and full of self-doubt. Their seller is hoping to get a good price at least for their frames…

A walk through Schanze always turns into an overwhelmingly colourful experience. It’s a cocktail of images, different nuances of grey & green, the feeling of a hot mess and missed exit signs, the cruel passion for a vice and indifferent motives for action. I like being yet another anonymous body into this crowd, which seems to be less preoccupied with the need of work morals, clothing aesthetics or rules. Here most people look somehow ageless to me. Everyone seems to be evolving around the borders of their personal destiny instead of following the must-do’s and must-have’s in prescribed age groups.

Flohschanze on a Saturday

The rain continues to reign over the Northern lands. One perceives the world differently through the wet eyes of the sky. It makes it uncomfortably quiet and unconventionally beautiful. And to me Schanze in the rain looks like a woman whose make up is running down her cheeks and every attempt to brush the water away creates big puddles of colour melting into one. I’m pushing my bike through the stains the rain is creating on the pavement, looking for a cup of coffee. 

And all the Saturday lists? They can wait… 

Coffee in Schanze

---

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.

Layers

Hello Stranger,

The Grand Bazaar of Istanbul seems endless. There are more human bodies occupying every floor tile of the fragile building than the London tube during rush hour. Daylight is not welcome in. The traders have covered with rugs every hole in the ceiling that might give access to the stern eye of the sun. It may be a bright morning outside, but inside only the deceiving hand of darkness rules. Never-ending lanes of cashmere scarves, polished cezves, gem stones, spices rush into the periphery of my vision. Tapestry and engravings dance along the wall linings, making the bazaar’s labyrinth more elaborate and enchanting. 

The Grand Bazaar, Istanbul

The sticky air is pressing my shirt tight to my breast. Drop of swear are running down my back and my head is spinning. It’s like all these thousand voices, footsteps, colours have created the perfect voodoo song. A rhythmical chant is arising from the clinging of lamps, the rustle of gems, the gasps of bodies pushing to make way through. I am surrendering to the warm beat, floating slowly with it through the halls. And tugged in the sleeves of the bazaar’s garment, the adventure continues right to the shores of Bosporus. You can’t find a way out by yourself. You have to close eyes and stretch out a hand to the crowd. It will lead you eventually to a spot from where you can see the way home. Only by the time you turn your back, the chaos will have already swallowed the gate to this mystical world.

The Grand Bazaar, Istanbul

Nothing in Istanbul is simply what it seems. Looks on people, buildings, even the hour of the day are deceiving. If you really want to see its true face, you have to dig below the layers. And the city has so many of them. You enter a building that looks like a chic Victorian house, but the 3 flights of narrow stairs invite you into a living room, which has accommodated a stage of a funky Turkish band and a few guests. You follow a noise coming from a nearby garden and you find a dozen of colourful lamps and among them the silhouettes of another twenty something people chatting energetically. Shy side lanes, living in the shadow of the shopping streets' glamour, expose the intriguing life of local men. In the dim light of the corners, they are playing tavla, drinking tea, smoking excessively and throwing lustful glances at the seductively bare legs of female passers-by.

I’ve fallen deep into the layers of oriental mystery and I’m literary devouring every minute spent with the eclectic persona of Istanbul. But after walking for 8 hours straight, I can hardly make another step. I am completely exhausted. Only the city doesn't have the intention to put its body to rest. Even at 11 pm the streets are completely packed. Istanbul’s thirst for attention and novelty is unquenched and it lures strangers to this devilish game far into the most discreet hours of the night. 

---

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 Gate to Orient

Hello Stranger,

I arrived in Istanbul. The city is a big déjà vu for me. It has the face and spirit of Sofia, the sticky air of Bangkok, the mystical story of Granada, the cheeky mentality of the Middle East. The slim figures of two minarets are the first thing I see from the window of the plane. Then the shadows of dozens of ships follow, melting quietly into the water of Bosporus.  My eyes have barely adjusted to the amount of light. And with the landing, I feel like rolling out of a vacuum - face down onto a carpet in the center of a busy bazaar. Thousands of feet are rushing in all directions, signs for “Baggage claim” hang randomly on walls and the passport control area looks like a wild jungle – 8 lines of twisted postures move nervously, hardly awake enough to stand. People are checking watches and moaning like hungry tigers. We all need about 30 minutes to get our small share of the clerks’ attention. Mine looks at me indifferently. He’s on the phone, yet that doesn't disturb his passport stamping routine. I grab my papers and I just say to myself: ‘Welcome to Orient!’

  

Morning buzz, Istanbul

I’ve hardly stepped out of the exit door and a few elderly men jump at me with offers for a cab fare. I know the drill. They are not regular cab drivers, but they are good for a bargain, so I pick one that gives me a decent price and follow him to his car. It’s parked outside the parking area of the airport, at safe distance from the officials, which instead of giving him a fine will simply ask for a small bribe or might even give him a beating. The guy is nice. He tells me his name and what he does. He actually works for the Post Office, but outside his regular hours he’s transporting tourists to help pay for the university fees of his 2 children. Their pictures are exhibited prominently on the car’s deck. I look around the white Skoda. It’s almost factory-clean and the cabbie is dressed in a chic jacket and nice dark brown shoes, not the cab driver attire I would have expected. It’s a false assumption of course. In Turkey what you wear, what you drive, how big your TV is and what phone you use, are quite important social status factors. I used to hate these status indicators; they are pretty similar where I come from. But the easiness of the familiarity right now makes me feel home. I am content that I can navigate in this insecure chaos, which scares many others.

40 long minutes follow through the lunch traffic of Istanbul. We drive on the highway next to buses, which have probably been manufactured in Russia in the 50s and then also next to the latest Audi’s sports car editions. We are not exactly driving straight on the designated lanes. We cut other drivers by speeding right to that killing point and then stopping abruptly at annoying traffic lights that have suddenly sprung out of nowhere. We use the emergency section to secure a faster pass through tunnels and narrow sections. We jump through curbs and yell at surprised pedestrians daring to use the crosswalk to trespass. The hustle of the streets is a complete contradiction to the sudden appearance of the old Constantinople fortress – proud and beautiful, like a crown jewel upon the riverbed. I can see bits of the defense wall. How many battles from my history books I’ve imagined being fought here… I can see Aye Sofia, which is probably the one centuries-old witness of glory, massacre, victory and fall – a former basilica, a former mosque, a former symbol of power worshiped by kings from Bulgaria, Byzantium, the Osman Empire. I can almost hear the whispers of the Christian and Muslim preachers, who have given their lives for their faith, wander between the stones. I can feel the gentle steps of thousand cats, deviously guarding the sanctuaries, like untouchable godly protectors.

The Cool Cat & the City, Istanbul

A sea gull is gliding onto the warm air above the Golden Horn. A soft wind is flirting with the red mane of a big Turkish flag. The car is cutting through the rattling heartbeat of the city and I am falling deep into my infatuation, deep into the anticipation to get lost in the streets of Istanbul.

Istanbul at Sunset

---

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.