When the 2020 COVID winter\’s short days and cold nights sucked away at our souls until we started ripping into each other, we knew it was time to go. But where? Good question. Anywhere that wasn\’t here and was COVID free. But that doesn\’t exist. We agreed on a socially distant, health responsible road trip. To where?
\”South.\”
\”West.\”
We went Southwest.

Rosinante, the 22-foot RV we got a dog ago, when we planned to celebrate our Gypsy\’s last winter with a road trip, has been wilting in the driveway for two years. Gypsy didn\’t make it to the winter, and Rosinante didn\’t get to make the trip. But the time had come.

Her better days came when our worst did. We loaded her with everything, from frozen home-cooked meals, Tide pods, bags of quarters, and canned soup, to every junk food known to man. We hit the road, heading South with a vengeance. We rushed towards above-freezing weather and toilet flushing territory. We flew through NY, NJ, and MD into warmer VA, then GA, FL, and T-shirt weather.

Socially distancing was a no-brainer. At home, it was hard to say no to friends and neighbors who wanted to meet. But down south, nobody wanted to see us. In one month, 11K miles, and 20 states, we socialized once. My friend Chris and his family wintered RVing in Texas. They treated us to Ceviche and Pickle Moonshine while keeping six feet apart. All of us, but Guinness and Finn, whose budding romance flourished by smelling each other\’s assets.

Steve never went indoors, except for a couple of hotel rooms when we were too tired to drive. He never bought anything but gas. I masked when provisioning or when talking to people I couldn\’t avoid.

Every day brought a new challenge, from avoiding fire ants in Florida and boondocking in Nevada to finding free dump stations along the way. We ate fried chicken and biscuits for breakfast in Georgia, drank Peach Bourbon in Alabama, and found out that you\’d better like Mexican food in the south. And barbecue.

Interacting with the natives was another challenge. They didn\’t do masks.

In Florida, I ordered take-out from a barbecue joint. I put on my mask and went to get it. A well-fed family of five enjoying dinner on the porch stopped chewing to stare at me. I gave them a wide berth and stepped in. The restaurant was jam-packed with happy people chatting over chicken fried steaks and Texas toast. As I entered, the place fell into silence. You\’d think I was a masked robber with an AR15 rather than a graying woman looking for her baby back ribs. They stared at me with wide eyes. I struggled to stay out of the way. They clearly knew I was deranged; they just didn\’t know what I\’d do next.

Parents covered their kids\’ eyes. Old couples leaned closer to each other. Everyone stopped chewing. I was the life of that party. I didn\’t get an entry like that ever since I went to a fancy-dress party in a full Ebola suit.

My food showed up. When I left, they sighed with relief. So did I.

Steve was waiting back in the camper.
\”How was it?\”
\”Bad.\”
\”You know that Florida has a 20% positivity rate?\”
\”Only?\”

It was remarkable to be there while we, up North, think there\’s a pandemic. People were friendly, polite, and social, just like we used to be before 2020. They laugh, eat out and behave like this COVID thing never happened. They were even kind to deranged people like me.

It was disturbing to see how far apart are the parallel realities we inhabit. I ponder this as we drive past vans advertising mobile COVID testing and listen to Governor DeSantis reassuring Floridians that their vaccines are on the way. Travel is always an eye-opener, even when you travel in your own bubble, since every now and then, bubbles intersect. Seeing these people, you understand why they don\’t believe in COVID. Nobody else there does, to the point that you question your own sanity.

For those of you interested in traveling, I\’ll answer a few recurring questions. Feel free to ask more. For those of you interested in our trip, stay tuned for more.

1. What was your itinerary?
We went south to Assateague, MD, where wild ponies still roam free. They\’re the great-grandkids of the colonists\’ tax-dodging horses. Then further south through the Chesapeake Bay, dodging suicidal seagulls, then further south through GA all the way to Key West (don\’t bother). Back through the Panhandle, then west, to San Diego, and North to Death Valley before heading back home through Tennessee, WV, and Pennsylvania.

2. What did you take with you?
Frozen and canned food. Dog food and snacks. Fruit. Water – lots of it. Wine and Bourbon. Snacks. The winners were pretzels, boiled eggs with hot sauce, microwavable popcorn and cheese and crackers. The loser: salad. It all went bad.

3. What surprised you the most?
Texas. It\’s clean, generous, and polite.

4. What did you find most useful?
Rada: The unlimited data and the apps. Thanks to them, we found places to spend the night, launder, get propane and dump our black tank for free. I love Campendium, Recreation.gov, and JustAhead. The Lifetime Senior America the Beautiful Card saved us hundreds of dollars in park fees and campgrounds.
Steve: NPR FM radio.

5. What was the hardest?
Steve: Driving between the lines. An RV doesn\’t track like a car. It needs to be steered all the time. Any time I glance away, it goes elsewhere.
Rada: Traveling with a puppy is nothing like traveling with an old dog, especially when said puppy manages to snag herself in barbed-wire. Turns out that I forgot the first aid kit. That was the lowest moment on my trip. Thank God for Duct Tape.

6. What did you enjoy the most?
Steve: Big Bend State Park. I loved sitting in my lawn chair sipping Bourbon and looking at the Rio Grande.
Rada: The change. Every day was a challenge; every night was different. I never got bored. I even fell behind on my writing since I couldn\’t switch off.

7. What did you hate the most?
Steve: Driving through cities.
Rada: I didn\’t love Virginia.

8. What did you learn?
Steve: Propane tanks fill very slowly, and few places do it. Our success rate was 1:3. Three tries before getting the tank filled.
Rada: Sanitary wipes work wonders when there\’s no water.

9. What would you do differently next time?
Steve: Skip Florida.
Rada: I\’d have a first aid kit that could cure cancer. Or close.

10. Would you do it again?
Steve: Absolutely. Will do it again.
Rada: We\’re planning for Alaska this summer.

11. What would you tell someone who\’s never done it?

Rada: Be flexible. Every day is different. Make sure to have paper maps for when the internets get iffy. Be prepared to spend the night along the road.
Steve: Get off the interstate and travel the back roads if you want to see what it\’s all about. It takes longer, but it\’s so worth it.

12. What is a must in your book?

Rada: Assateague. Texas is amazing. Organ Pipe Cactus. Death Valley. Steve:Barbecue. Not that good, but it\’s a must.

13. The best food on the trip?
Steve: Barbecue. Hilton in North Carolina. Boy, did that guy know how to cook.
Rada: Indian food in a truck stop where they played cricket.

14. Any advice you want to share?
Steve: Don\’t hook up hoses when things may freeze. For that matter, don\’t bother with hookups. They\’re nothing but trouble.
Rada: Beware of getting locked in together for a month in a space the size of an elevator. Lots of togetherness with no place to go. But boy, does being home feel luxurious!

Stay safe and stay sane. See you all on the other side.

Rada

P.S. Let me know if you\’re interested in an ARC, Advanced Reader Copy of my new book, BECOMING K-9, a bomb dog\’s memoir. It\’s the story of a puppy\’s training written from the point of view of the dog. You could get a free copy before publication if you agree to leave an early review.

I miss Thailand and my Chiang Mai friends. I miss the spices, the heat, and swimming before the pool opening time. I miss the orange-clad monks collecting alms as I returned from the market loaded with fruit, vegetables, and the meat-du-jour: anything from beef tongue to pig head via fried chicken. I miss the jasmine leis around my neck and the orchids, an armful for one dollar. I miss always trying something new: spiky fruits, stuffed bitter cucumber, crispy golden triangles with a spicy-sweet sauce. It took me months to learn they were fried tofu. I miss the back massages at Kad Suan Kaew, coffee with Steve, and chatting to my writer friends. I miss Thailand.

But that was then, and this is now. We got back for the last golden days of the fall, the final lawn mowing, the last hauntingly beautiful kayak trip before fall falls apart into winter.

We hugged our son that we hadn\’t seen in a year, petted old Paxil, who looks younger thanks to his care, found friends we missed. We raided the wine shop, I savored my best burger in a year, and I got back to Instagramming the sunrise. I try to focus on the things I missed: Cheese. M*A*S*H. Our cabin in the woods.

But nothing is the same. Gone is our Sam\’s membership. Gone are my ski pants. Steve dispoed them with most of my clothes. Gone are my skis, my pots, even the San Marzano peeled tomatoes.

I wasn\’t pleased, and we had a few rough days. It was hard to forgive and compromise, but we did. We had to. It looks like we\’ll be here for a while.

So much happened. COVID 19 – the mourning and the hoax. Fighting over masks. The economy. The elections. Neighbors fighting neighbors. The hate.

We try to make sense of it, and we struggle to deal with it, whether it makes sense or not.

We have to. Thailand is closed because of Covid. So is most of the world these days. Between the growing anger and raising Covid rates, Steve isn\’t into RVing, and I can\’t disagree.

Many have it worse. The sick. The mourning. The jobless. The mentally ill and isolated. The health workers, living in fear for their families. We are lucky, even though it doesn\’t feel that way.

The news suck. Struggling to close my raincoat around the new curves I gained, feasting on Turkish Delight isn\’t as much fun as eating. Looking at the skunks hunting for grubs in the back yard makes me wish they smelled better. Or not at all.

Instead of a birthday party, I took a 20K walk to think about the future. What should I do with myself?

I could spend my time writing a book, reading, watching old movies. Wait for the world to come back to its senses. After all, a year is no big deal.

But there\’s no guarantee. Even less these days. This year may be the last we can still enjoy life. How can we make the most of it?

We\’ll get a dog. We\’re dog people. We\’ve been orphans since Gypsy died two years ago. A dog will fill our hearts and our lives.

We adopted Guinness. She was born to a Mennonite family in Pen Yan twelve weeks ago. She LOVES people, dogs, and cats, but walking? Not so much. She\’d rather be carried. She has a taste for horse manure, grubs, and dead fish, but she\’ll eat whatever she can find, from crocs to carpets—anything but her food.

Gone are the days I wondered what to do with myself. Thanks to Guinness, I ran out of time to watch the news and complain.

So we go on, hoping that once the elections are over, we can be a nation again. Like all of you, I know that my choice is the best. And I hope we win. But, whoever wins, remember we\’re all in the same boat. Bragging, shaming, and humiliating the others, is uncool and unAmerican. Let\’s get ourselves together and move on.

Remember that love trumps hate, kindness trumps judging, and we\’re stronger together.

I wish you health, safety, and love. See you on the other side.

Rada

Rada Jones is an ER doc in Upstate NY, where she lives with her husband and his deaf black cat Paxil. She is the author of three ER thrillers, Overdose, Mercy and Poison, and “Stay Away From My ER,” a collection of medical essays.

After five days spent chasing Mehmet the Conqueror\’s shadow in a scorching Istanbul, haunted by moody cats and hungry carpet sellers, we left for dusty Edirne. The second Ottoman capital is a sleepy town in the tiny, bland European Turkey, and renting a car was a challenge, since they hadn\’t heard of one-way rentals, but we eventually lucked out with Budget.

Our automatic Renault Clio had no power windows or seats, nor GPS, but it did have a Check Engine warning. That got us worried, but the young Turk who set us up couldn\’t care less. He shrugged, bent over his volumes of paperwork and waved us off an hour later.

We made good time on the excellent, empty roads. We caught the ferry across the Dardanelles with minutes to spare and got to watch the cars rolling in. Ferry loading in Eceabat is nothing like the orderly ferry loading on Lake Champlain; it\’s more like Walmart on Black Friday: cars, trucks, and pedestrians wrestle to get in, while the attendants smoke on the dock.

Fortunately, nobody got hurt, and half an hour later we landed in Asia at Canakkale, near Gallipoli, the bloodiest battle of the first world war. There, the allies suffered more than 150K casualties, mostly ANZAC, trying to secure a passage over the Dardanelles. They failed. His career over, the Lord of Admirality, Winston Churchill, got demoted to an obscure cabinet post, resigned, and joined The Royal Scots Fusiliers to fight on the Western Front.

Canakkale\’s other claim to fame is its neighbor, legendary Troy of Homer fame. We saw the Trojan Horse leftover from the 2004 movie, but failed to get in. We acquired some adventurous Turkish wines instead and headed East to Anatolia.

Untouristy Manisa used to be one of the provinces designated as training grounds for the Sehzades, the young Ottoman princes. Here, Mehmet the Conqueror started his governorship at age 5. He came supervised by Huma Hatun, his mother – his father\’s third wife – and some of the most learned people of the day. Muhammad Shams al-Din bin Hamzah – let\’s call him Ak – was a doctor, a philosopher, and a theologian who wrote about germs hundreds of years before the West started washing its hands.

\”It\’s incorrect to assume that diseases appear one by one in humans,\” he said. \”Disease infects by spreading from one to another. Infection occurs through seeds too small to be seen, but still alive.\”

We\’re talking 1400\’s here. Hospital museums in Turkey still display his utensils, books and prescriptions. More than five hundred years ago, he used music and aromatherapy in the care of his patients – alongside using cautery for headaches and dislocated hips. Not sure if that works, since that procedure hasn\’t made it into modern medicine yet.

After Manisa, we proceeded East to Pamukkale, where the ancient ruins struggle to compete with the white travertines and fail. Mineral hot springs coated the hills in calcium, creating a white wonderland. Barefooted tourists crawl over each other, taking unmasked selfies with their new two hundred close friends. Unlike Hieropolis, the place to see, Pamukkale is the place to be seen.

But the place to be is the ancient pool, where ruins meet the mineral waters. You swim in the warm, fizzy mineral water over sculpted marble columns,  you caress ancient artifacts, and immerse yourself in history.

East again, to conservative Konya, the heart of Anatolya, where women are scarved, restaurants dry, and pigs absent. This most conservative Turkish town happens to be the home of Rumi, aka Mevlana, a famous poet, mystic and philosopher. Before he died, eight hundred years ago, Rumi spoke about love and tolerance and taught us to look for God inside ourselves.

\”Looking for God, I went to the temple, where the magi chant for fire. He wasn\’t there.
I went to Jerusalem to see if he was on the cross, but he wasn\’t there either.
I went to Mecca, but he wasn\’t in the sanctuary.
Then I looked into my heart.  And there he was, and nowhere else.\”

His message inspired the Whirling Dervishes, whose mesmerizing dance is a meditation and a prayer to commune with God. Inspired by Rumi\’s uplifting message, we tried to feel love for the vocal carpet sellers harassing us. We failed, so we headed further East.

Capadoccia\’s otherworldly landscape is like nothing else on earth. Thousands of years ago, overactive volcanoes spewed tons of lava that cooled to become tufa, a soft volcanic rock. Winds shaped the tufa into a phallic landscape that guidebooks call \”fairy chimneys.\” Less romantic and more anatomically inclined, I see no chimneys. What do you see?

People dug the soft rock into mazes of dwellings and churches, some still in use. You can walk, ride a horse, or take a four-wheeler to explore, but  THE thing to do is a balloon ride. Hundreds of outfits compete for your business. They\’ll pick you up before sunrise and take you to the launch site, where you watch the balloons come alive, full of flame-heated air. You tumble into the bath-sized basket with your twenty closest new friends. Then, for an hour, you get to ride the wind.

Still further East, perched upon an imposing cliff, the Tokat castle used to be a prison where the ememies of the Ottoman Empire spent miserable years hoping to die. Five hundred years ago, its dark, dingy dungeons hosted Vlad Tepes, the teenage Wallachian prince who, thanks to Bram Stoker\’s morbid imagination, was to, someday, become Dracula.

To find his steps, I navigated us through narrow back streets past scarved women scrubbing Persian carpets, bald angry roosters, and wide-eyed kids. We pushed through until we could go no more. Then, unable to turn, we backed up, until Steve stuck the car sideways. I got to watch, wondering if helicopters can lift cars, as Steve managed to turn it in only two dozen swift moves. Tokat watched breathlessly as a new legend was born.

After Tokat we turned North. Amasya, the city of apples and another former training groung for the Sehzades, is now a quiet small town where the only remnant of its glory days is the well-restored 9th-century castle.

Why all this princely training, you may ask?

Unlike Western states, the Ottoman Empire didn\’t recognise primogeniture. As in, the firstborn son didn\’t walk away with the loot. When a Sultan died, it was all about the survival of the fitest. His sons from many wives would compete for the throne, killing each other and weakening the empire. That went on until Mehmet legalized fratricide, and had his eight-months old brother drowned in his own bath. After that, each sultan\’s death meant immediate death for all their sons, but the one who took the throne. That\’s why Sultan\’s mausoleums all over Turkey are full of tiny coffins.

That makes two thousand miles through the heart of Turkey, before we headed back to Istanbul. As for my highs and lows,

My highs

1. The Turks. From the man who picked us on a dark stormy night in his rickety car and drove us to our hotel, to the one filling up our gas, they all ask: \”Where you\’re from? America? New York?\” and their eyes fill with longing. We can hardly communicate, since their English is no better than my Turkish – yok – but their friendliness always comes through.

2. The sweets. Sweet stores are everywhere, clean, bright, and tempting. Decadent confections like baklava and cataif drip with butter and honey, making your mouth water. Turkish Delight filled with nuts, pistachio, and chocolate cream comes in wobbly cubes or in wiggling sugar-powdered snakes that you cut with scissors to taste before you buy. Sold by the kilo, (2.2 pounds,) they glue your teeth, coat your fingers and stick to your hips.

3. Bathing with the columns in Pamukkale and immersing myself in history. I hope I never forget.
4. Finances. Prices got better the deeper we got into Turkey. So did the exchange rate from 6.9TL for 1$ in Istanbul airport, to 7.65 in last night\’s hotel. Outside Istanbul, a comfortable hotel room with wi-fi, parking, and impressive breakfast runs around $40, a decent dry dinner $25, a good Turkish red wine $10, an ice-cream cone $0.5.
5. The fruit. One fruit stand after another, we ate our way through Turkey: Succulent peaches, golden grapes and fleshy figs gave way to walnuts and crisp green apples, then to wrinkled yellow melons. We\’re back to grapes now, but I can\’t wait to be back in fig land. Fresh figs are to the dry what grapes are to raisins: luscious, decadently delicious, and full of flavor.

My lows

1. Gender segregation. One could be forgiven for thinking that Turkey is a country of men. Men only, wherever you look. They chat on long benches in shaded parks, smoke in front of old houses, mind the stores, ogle you in the street. Women are rare, hurried, and shrouded.
2. Pizza. My worst food memory was a Chinese take-out twenty years ago in Cairo, but our Tokat pizza is a strong contender. Loaded with dry cheese and sliced hot-dogs, it had sticky dough and no tomato sauce. It came with ketchup, mayo, and one set of cutlery. For Steve.
3. Unilingual tourist businesses. People in the street don\’t speak English – why should they? But those working at TI, rental cars, and money changers should.
4. Cardboard policing. At intersections, cardboard police cars flash their lights, fooling drivers, while policemen are nowhere in sight. The locals know it, of course, but we don\’t.
5. Masks. Like everybody else, Turkey struggles with them, too, though they are mandatory in public unless you\’re sitting in a restaurant – we even got stopped to put them on while driving in our car. But people take them off to smoke or take selfies; they wear them around their chin, and they poke holes in them to breathe better.

That\’s all I\’ve got for the heart of Turkey. Sign up if you want the updates. Next time: Turkey\’s many capitals. Hope to see you soon

Rada Jones is an ER doc in Upstate NY, where she lives with her husband and his deaf black cat Paxil. After authoring three ER thrillers, Overdose, Mercy and Poison, and “Stay Away From My ER,” a collection of medical essays, she’s now working on a historical novel featuring Vlad Țepeș, his gay brother Radu, and Mehmet the Conqueror.

A couple months ago, when Steve left Thailand to get our home on the market, we thought Thai borders would soon crack open, to allow him back. We were wrong. These days in Thailand, whoever\’s out stays out. If I wanted to see him again, I had to join him. So I did.

I flew out via Turkey to research my new books. Steve joined me, and we met at Istanbul Airport.

Besides eight boring hours in the empty Bangkok Airport, my trip was excellent: no crowds and no delays. In Doha, I even got a shower.

Twenty hours into my trip, I stepped in the business lounge carrying my old backpack and many worries. The attendant glanced at me.
\”Would you like a shower?\”
I opened my mouth to give him a piece of my mind.
\”Yes, please,\” my mouth said.
I loved the private shower with hot water, clean towels, and nice toiletries. I came out happier and better smelling. Sadly, that effect was mostly gone when I landed in Istanbul, but it didn\’t matter. Steve didn\’t smell any better.

We recognized each other despite masks, shields, and the Sauvignon Blanc Steve admitted to. Our hired car took us to our two-star hotel in Istanbul\’s heart with a splendid view of the Marmara, outstanding breakfast, and lousy Internet, and our hosts dragged us to our first overpriced Turkish dinner at their family\’s restaurant. Here, it\’s all about the family.

For days and days we dragged our achy feet on the cobbled streets of Istanbul, formerly Constantinople, sweating under our masks, to find the history I came here for. We got lost looking for toilets in Topkapi. We stared at incomprehensible Turkish inscriptions of monuments, and we turned down more carpets than I can count. We petted cats, chatted with locals, and fumbled through Istanbul without GPS or a map. No GPS to avoid roaming. No map, since Steve dropped it in a Turkish toilet. You know Turkish toilets? Imagine a toilet without a toilet: two porcelain footprints and a hole in between. The hole is for the maps. Works for pens too. Your legs must be strong enough to hold you in a low squat as you do your business, then stand up without touching the walls. It\’s an experience worth a Turkish lira, about 15 cents, I thought, until I saw people crawling in under the turnstiles. The other way to free pooping is finding a mosque. They provide free toilets and a live show: there, proper black-clad ladies tie their skirts around their waist to keep them from touching the floor, then wash in the sink for the ablution before prayer.

After four days of Istanbul immersion, we left to see the rest of Turkey. We\’ll be back, but for now, these are my highlights and lowlights of Istanbul.

The highlights:

1. The waters. Istanbul lives around its waters. The Bosporus Strait, running from the Black Sea to the Marmara, is alive with ships. Fishing boats, yachts and tankers frolic together over the turquoise (Turkish style) water. The Sea of Marmara starts its day blood-red. The Golden Horn, a dagger of water slicing the old Istanbul from the new, turns yellow at sunset.

2. The cats. Istanbul belongs to cats. Dignified, standoffish, and well-fed, they sun themselves on top of fences and socialize around ruins. They talk back when you speak to them, and show you where to put it if you try to pet them. Just ask Steve, who never met a cat he didn\’t try to touch.

3. The food. The scrumptious breakfast spread in our modest hotel, prepared by a smiling Turkish lady that speaks no English, changes every morning. Fresh pitta, warm pastries, five kinds of cheese, cold cuts, green and black olives, roasted eggplant with red peppers, solid chunks of translucent green cantaloupe, and bright red watermelon with black seeds – they all call your name, delicious and hard to resist.

4. The people. Black-clad women with just a slit for the eyes rub shoulders with tourists exposing soft midriffs and sporting shorts too short to matter. Elderly men drink tea from tulip glasses watching screaming kids throwing water bottles at each other. Istanbul has room for people of all kinds.

5. Pigeons. On Sundays, pigeon lovers meet at the bird market by the old Theodossian walls to sell, buy or trade birds. Tumbling pigeons, doing tricks as they fly, like planes at airshows, cost thousands of dollars for the bird with the right breeding. Sellers outdo each other singing praise for their birds, and negotiations mean long hours of happy shouting, checking every feather of the bird, and drinking tea.

6. Turkish baths. I had my first Turkish Bath in a fifteenth-century hamam, bathhouse built for a long dead Sultan\’s mother. The attendant, a Turkish lady with fading charms loosely packaged in a skimpy bikini, scrubbed me with a rough glove until I turned white, covered me in soapsuds and massaged me, then scrubbed me again. By the end, I had no dirt left and hardly any skin. Her no-nonsense efficiency reminded me of that one time when our cat Paxil got skunked. I washed her in the sink with abandon, dedication, and dishwashing detergent. Unlike Paxil, I didn\’t bite.

The lowlights.

1. The carpets. If I never see another carpet seller, I\’ve seen too many. They lay in wait to leap on you, anytime, anywhere. In the mosque, over lunch, as you cross the street. \”Where are you from? Where are you going? You want to buy a carpet?\” Being polite doesn\’t work. Being rude is rude. And it doesn\’t work either. As they see it, you\’re only here to buy what they sell, so you might as well make yourself useful. They shout at you from far away, they get in your face, they follow you in the street, and they won\’t take no for an answer. I prefer mosquitoes.

2. The Blue Mosque. Whatever there\’s left of it isn\’t blue, it\’s covered in scaffolds and shrouded in cloth. That appears to be its new permanent condition now, since the Turkish government uses eternal restoration projects to keep people employed.

3. The traffic. Istanbul\’s 15 million people – twice as many as NYC – spend up to five hours a day in traffic if they live one side of the Golden Horn and work on the other. The endlessly blowing horns made me wonder if cars here navigate by audio-location, like bats.
4. Hagia Sophia. The 1500 years old former Orthodox Church became a Mosque in 1453, when the Ottomans conquered Constantinople. Half a century later, when Ataturk, the creator of modern Turkey, separated the state from the mosque, it turned into a museum. Then, a couple of months ago, she went back to a mosque. No wonder she\’s struggling with an identity crisis. Posters with Mohammed\’s sayings hide thousand years old Christian Mosaics, while scantily dressed tourists wrapped in hooded paper gowns scramble to find their shoes and stern police officers try to keep men away from the women\’s mosque, while nobody knows which is which.
5. Cold French Fries. There\’s something perverse about the Turkish infatuation with stale fries. They\’re served everywhere, all the time: at breakfast, alongside chalky Turkish yogurt, spicy red pepper paste, and scrumptious sour cherry preserves, stuffed into wraps for lunch, and with the mezze for dinner. BUT WHY?
6. The COVID factor. It isn\’t crowded, and that\’s nice. But walking with a mask in 90 degrees heat gets old soon, and we\’re avoiding public transport to socially distance. And, since our flights to the US  have vanished, we\’re here for now.

That\’s my first take on Istanbul. There\’s much I haven\’t seen, and more I don\’t understand, but I wanted to share my wonder to those stuck at home. Sign up for my update if you want more, since Facebook is not my friend.

Güle Güle – bye-bye for now.

Rada

Rada Jones is an ER doc in Upstate NY, living with her husband and his deaf black cat Paxil. She authored three ER thrillers, Overdose, Mercy and Poison, and “Stay Away From My ER,” a collection of medical essays.

On the way, we stopped in Israel, Jordan, Oman, Emirates, Qatar, India, and Indonesia to explore. We walked the streets, ate the food, bargained and laughed with the locals. Every place forced us to reconsider our preconceptions: Israel is small, desertic and has no plastic recycling. Oman has free education, free healthcare, and a guaranteed basic income. The Emirates built itself out of sand –  and oil – into an inventive modern country with jaw-dropping infrastructure, and no longer relies on oil as its main revenue source. In Qatar there is no crime: you can set your phone to charge in the street, and pick it up as you return. India overwhelms you with color, sound, and flavor, but the air and the water need help. Indonesians have an easy smile and love taking selfies with you.

Everywhere, we learned things we didn\’t know about the people, their lives, and their culture. Everywhere, we learned new things about ourselves.

But, more than exploring the places, this trip was about living the good life. I\’ve got to tell you: if you\’re looking to live the good life, cruising is where it\’s at. Our sea days started with morning yoga on the deck with a soft-spoken guru named Xavier who pretzeled himself into unbelievable shapes for a living. After choosing between smoked salmon and eggs Benedict for breakfast, we lounged and sipped on cappuccinos while deciding where to go for lunch. Then napping, listening to the ocean, followed by painting with acrylics or beading while wondering where to go for cocktails. Then the daily dilemma of where to go for dinner, and whether to go to the show or go to bed. Exhausting. Nothing to break the monotony: no work, no lawn mowing, no cooking, no cat boxes to clean, no dishes to do. Just eat, drink, and relax, then repeat. It was harsh.

The boat was luxurious, the company great, the food abundant, and the wine free-flowing. I\’ve gained 10 pounds, and  Steve\’s liver barely made it. But, as good as it was, we couldn\’t take it anymore. We disembarked three days early, in Phuket.

I felt at home as soon as I set foot in Phuket.  I\’d never been there, but the temples, the markets, the smiles – all were familiar. I fell in love with the airport – and I hate airports almost as much as I hate planes. Six dollars got us a Thai beer and a delicious lunch for two that put to shame every thick steak and fancy French dish we\’d had on the boat.

We landed in Chiang Mai two hours later. Another half-hour to our condo. Everything was sparkling clean, and there were flowers, bananas, and the best papaya ever – thank you, Doi. A friend stopped by to invite us for dinner – Thank you, Joyce and  Tommi. And we\’re back to cooking, cleaning, doing dishes and living on our own schedule. It\’s good to be back.

Our enthusiasm cooled over the two days we spent at the Immigration office, dealing with the visa. Three trips and some dead trees later (kilograms of paperwork), we got a provisional visa that we hope to renew in December, then extend in March. Maybe.

We\’re back to our friends and old places. Our lunch lady serves Steve his cold beer with ice without asking. My vegetable lady gave me some hot peppers  – just because. The miraculous Kad Suan Keaw supermarket is as labyrinthic as ever, and the prices haven\’t changed much. The Thai Baht has, however. It went from 33 baht to the dollar to 29 – that\’s an 11% increase (or the dollar fell 12%. It\’s all in the eye of the beholder.)

We\’ve been busy. We hiked, we had coffee at the temple, we cried from spicy curry and soothed our parched tongues with sweet bananas looking like chubby fingers. We inhaled the foul, cadaveric aroma of Durian and bought an armful of orchids for less than $3. Our social calendar is packed. December is busier than an understaffed ER.

I also finished POISON. It\’s with the proofreader, and I hope to have it out for Christmas, in case you\’re looking for a gift. Same with MERCY, the audiobook. So, now I\’m looking for something to do. Any ideas?

Life is good. But I miss you, my friends. I miss our camaraderie, your smiles, and your stories. Please keep in touch. I hope to see you in the spring.

Wishing you all a wonderful Christmas season, good health and lots of love.

Rada Jones MD. is an Emergency  Doc in Upstate NY and the author of three ER thrillers: OVERDOSE, MERCY, and POISON.

Athens, the second stop on our long trip east, isn\’t Paris.

Just as Paris is profoundly Western in its gallic snotty attitude, rich flavor and fastidiousness, Athens belongs to the East. The sun is hotter, the streets narrower, the decibels roar. Neighbors shout at each other from across the street, motorcycles rev their stinky engines, dogs bark from high-rise condos, vendors compete in singing praises for their merchandise.

For years, the Greek economy has been in a world of hurt. The austerity imposed by the  IMF is starting to bear fruit, but it made the Greeks resent the EU and cherish Brexit. Austerity or not, efficiency still comes after job security here. It takes three people to sell you a museum ticket.

We spent four hot days canvassing Athens, visiting world-class museums loaded with priceless artifacts, resting our feet in noisy street cafes, eating Souvlaki and drinking ouzo and retsina.

The famous Acropolis is in a state of perpetual renovation – the scaffold hasn’t changed since we last saw it, ten years ago. The cranes are still there. The Caryatids’ necks are stiff from carrying the Erechtheion on their heads like they have for two thousand years. Athens is littered with archeological sites inhabited by cats, and tavernas with sharp-eyed owners lying in wait in the doorways like spiders watching for fat flies. They sweet-talk you into coming in, then ignore you to look for their next victim. In a place where one-time tourists abound, it’s not about the quality, but about the numbers.

Dark traditional Orthodox churches are scattered everywhere, from the quiet squares to the pedestrian commercial streets. Skinny yellow candles smoke emaciated saints sporting circular auras perched on their heads at impossible angles. In crowded streets, personal space diminishes to nothing. Friendly passers-by will check your pockets and relieve you of any extra weight. They kindly relieved Steve of all the cash burdening him.

The Greeks speak – you guessed it – Greek. Even worse, they also write in it. That makes the street-signs hard to figure. For the first time ever, I was grateful for my high-school Algebra. It allowed me to identify the Ds, the Gs, and the Ts and find our way through complicated labyrinths of narrow alleys.

My most significant accomplishments in Athens were three.

• I bought an evening gown. I needed it since the cruise requires it for the formal nights. Ten euros and previously-loved, it allows me in the restaurant so I can eat.
• I got a pedicure. You may think that’s easy, but try saying pedicure in Greek
• I ate a sheep head.

While looking for dinner one evening, we found a nearby restaurant advertising their rotisserie. Golden roasted chunks of meat twirled gently, dripping sizzling fat over the fire and over three scary-looking sheep heads. We had found our place. We shared a Greek salad and a bottle of the house white. Steve got a Gyro. I ordered a sheep head. It was on the menu, only four euros. I had never had a sheep head before. And I’m always up for a challenge.

The waiter got worried. Not sure why, but I seem to often worry waiters.

“Sheep head?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Have you had one before?”

“No.”

He shrugged and poured the wine. My sheep head arrived split in two with a hatchet and covered with French Fries. That was good, since the Americans at the next table looked queasy, but couldn\’t take their eyes off my plate.

“It’s better with the hands,” the waiter said. “Not knife and fork.”

I looked at the skull on my plate. I couldn’t disagree. My knife didn’t look like it would get through that. I put it down to wrestle my dinner bare-handed. Twenty minutes later, all that was left was a pile of clean white bones. The folks at the next table were just as white but weren’t piled yet. The waiter came. I took his wide eyes and slack jaw for a sign of admiration. I must be the first American sheep-head-eater he’s seen, and maybe the last. How was it? Mild, crispy and well-seasoned. One of my best Greek meals.

Communication turned out to be challenging in Greece. Not only with the natives.

“It’s down there, by the Stigmata,” Steve said, looking for the Acropolis Museum.

“Where?”

“By the Stigmata. The place we went to yesterday. The square.”

“Syntagma. You mean Syntagma Square?”

“Yea. Stigmata. Where the blood pours out of their eyes.”

“We could go see the last Leprechaun,” Steve said, as we planned our day in Crete. “It’s a day trip.”

“I thought those were in Ireland. Do they take you to Ireland?” I asked.

“It is an island. Spinalonga. The island of tears.”

“No, I meant Irish. I thought Leprechauns were Irish.”

“Leprechauns? No. I\’m talking about those people whose arms fall off. The last Leper Colony.”

Finally, a few tips on Athens.

1. Keep your hands in your pockets. If you don’t, somebody else might.
2. Don’t order a sheep head unless you plan to take a shower.
3. The main ingredient of Greek salads is Feta Cheese. Vegetables are optional.
4. Ouzo is sweet, it smells like fennel, and water turns it cloudy. It’s an acquired taste.
5. Retsina is white wine sealed with pine resin. It smells like the forest.
6. Take a picture of the menu when you order. When you pay, check that the bill includes only what you ordered and the prices haven’t changed.
7. Greek Leprechauns don’t have a pot of gold.

Thank you for being with us. I hope you had fun. See you soon in Israel.

Rada Jones is an Emergency Doc in Upstate NY where she lives with her husband, Steve, and his black deaf cat Paxil. She authored three ER thrillers, OVERDOSE, MERCY, and POISON.

Athens, the second stop on our long trip east, isn\’t Paris.

Just as Paris is profoundly Western in its gallic snotty attitude, rich flavor and fastidiousness, Athens belongs to the East. The sun is hotter, the streets narrower, the decibels roar. Neighbors shout at each other from across the street, motorcycles rev their stinky engines, dogs bark from high-rise condos, vendors compete in singing praises for their merchandise.

For years, the Greek economy has been in a world of hurt. The austerity imposed by the  IMF is starting to bear fruit, but it made the Greeks resent the EU and cherish Brexit. Austerity or not, efficiency still comes after job security here. It takes three people to sell you a museum ticket.

We spent four hot days canvassing Athens, visiting world-class museums loaded with priceless artifacts, resting our feet in noisy street cafes, eating Souvlaki and drinking ouzo and retsina.

The famous Acropolis is in a state of perpetual renovation – the scaffold hasn’t changed since we last saw it, ten years ago. The cranes are still there. The Caryatids’ necks are stiff from carrying the Erechtheion on their heads like they have for two thousand years. Athens is littered with archeological sites inhabited by cats, and tavernas with sharp-eyed owners lying in wait in the doorways like spiders watching for fat flies. They sweet-talk you into coming in, then ignore you to look for their next victim. In a place where one-time tourists abound, it’s not about the quality, but about the numbers.

Dark traditional Orthodox churches are scattered everywhere, from the quiet squares to the pedestrian commercial streets. Skinny yellow candles smoke emaciated saints sporting circular auras perched on their heads at impossible angles. In crowded streets, personal space diminishes to nothing. Friendly passers-by will check your pockets and relieve you of any extra weight. They kindly relieved Steve of all the cash burdening him.

The Greeks speak – you guessed it – Greek. Even worse, they also write in it. That makes the street-signs hard to figure. For the first time ever, I was grateful for my high-school Algebra. It allowed me to identify the Ds, the Gs, and the Ts and find our way through complicated labyrinths of narrow alleys.

My most significant accomplishments in Athens were three.

• I bought an evening gown. I needed it since the cruise requires it for the formal nights. Ten euros and previously-loved, it allows me in the restaurant so I can eat.
• I got a pedicure. You may think that’s easy, but try saying pedicure in Greek
• I ate a sheep head.

While looking for dinner one evening, we found a nearby restaurant advertising their rotisserie. Golden roasted chunks of meat twirled gently, dripping sizzling fat over the fire and over three scary-looking sheep heads. We had found our place. We shared a Greek salad and a bottle of the house white. Steve got a Gyro. I ordered a sheep head. It was on the menu, only four euros. I had never had a sheep head before. And I’m always up for a challenge.

The waiter got worried. Not sure why, but I seem to often worry waiters.

“Sheep head?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Have you had one before?”

“No.”

He shrugged and poured the wine. My sheep head arrived split in two with a hatchet and covered with French Fries. That was good, since the Americans at the next table looked queasy, but couldn\’t take their eyes off my plate.

“It’s better with the hands,” the waiter said. “Not knife and fork.”

I looked at the skull on my plate. I couldn’t disagree. My knife didn’t look like it would get through that. I put it down to wrestle my dinner bare-handed. Twenty minutes later, all that was left was a pile of clean white bones. The folks at the next table were just as white but weren’t piled yet. The waiter came. I took his wide eyes and slack jaw for a sign of admiration. I must be the first American sheep-head-eater he’s seen, and maybe the last. How was it? Mild, crispy and well-seasoned. One of my best Greek meals.

Communication turned out to be challenging in Greece. Not only with the natives.

“It’s down there, by the Stigmata,” Steve said, looking for the Acropolis Museum.

“Where?”

“By the Stigmata. The place we went to yesterday. The square.”

“Syntagma. You mean Syntagma Square?”

“Yea. Stigmata. Where the blood pours out of their eyes.”

“We could go see the last Leprechaun,” Steve said, as we planned our day in Crete. “It’s a day trip.”

“I thought those were in Ireland. Do they take you to Ireland?” I asked.

“It is an island. Spinalonga. The island of tears.”

“No, I meant Irish. I thought Leprechauns were Irish.”

“Leprechauns? No. I\’m talking about those people whose arms fall off. The last Leper Colony.”

Finally, a few tips on Athens.

1. Keep your hands in your pockets. If you don’t, somebody else might.
2. Don’t order a sheep head unless you plan to take a shower.
3. The main ingredient of Greek salads is Feta Cheese. Vegetables are optional.
4. Ouzo is sweet, it smells like fennel, and water turns it cloudy. It’s an acquired taste.
5. Retsina is white wine sealed with pine resin. It smells like the forest.
6. Take a picture of the menu when you order. When you pay, check that the bill includes only what you ordered and the prices haven’t changed.
7. Greek Leprechauns don’t have a pot of gold.

Thank you for being with us. I hope you had fun. See you soon in Israel.

Rada Jones is an Emergency Doc in Upstate NY where she lives with her husband, Steve, and his black deaf cat Paxil. She authored three ER thrillers, OVERDOSE, MERCY, and POISON.

Athens, the second stop on our long trip east, isn\’t Paris.

Just as Paris is profoundly Western in its gallic snotty attitude, rich flavor and fastidiousness, Athens belongs to the East. The sun is hotter, the streets narrower, the decibels roar. Neighbors shout at each other from across the street, motorcycles rev their stinky engines, dogs bark from high-rise condos, vendors compete in singing praises for their merchandise.

For years, the Greek economy has been in a world of hurt. The austerity imposed by the  IMF is starting to bear fruit, but it made the Greeks resent the EU and cherish Brexit. Austerity or not, efficiency still comes after job security here. It takes three people to sell you a museum ticket.

We spent four hot days canvassing Athens, visiting world-class museums loaded with priceless artifacts, resting our feet in noisy street cafes, eating Souvlaki and drinking ouzo and retsina.

The famous Acropolis is in a state of perpetual renovation – the scaffold hasn’t changed since we last saw it, ten years ago. The cranes are still there. The Caryatids’ necks are stiff from carrying the Erechtheion on their heads like they have for two thousand years. Athens is littered with archeological sites inhabited by cats, and tavernas with sharp-eyed owners lying in wait in the doorways like spiders watching for fat flies. They sweet-talk you into coming in, then ignore you to look for their next victim. In a place where one-time tourists abound, it’s not about the quality, but about the numbers.

Dark traditional Orthodox churches are scattered everywhere, from the quiet squares to the pedestrian commercial streets. Skinny yellow candles smoke emaciated saints sporting circular auras perched on their heads at impossible angles. In crowded streets, personal space diminishes to nothing. Friendly passers-by will check your pockets and relieve you of any extra weight. They kindly relieved Steve of all the cash burdening him.

The Greeks speak – you guessed it – Greek. Even worse, they also write in it. That makes the street-signs hard to figure. For the first time ever, I was grateful for my high-school Algebra. It allowed me to identify the Ds, the Gs, and the Ts and find our way through complicated labyrinths of narrow alleys.

My most significant accomplishments in Athens were three.

• I bought an evening gown. I needed it since the cruise requires it for the formal nights. Ten euros and previously-loved, it allows me in the restaurant so I can eat.
• I got a pedicure. You may think that’s easy, but try saying pedicure in Greek
• I ate a sheep head.

While looking for dinner one evening, we found a nearby restaurant advertising their rotisserie. Golden roasted chunks of meat twirled gently, dripping sizzling fat over the fire and over three scary-looking sheep heads. We had found our place. We shared a Greek salad and a bottle of the house white. Steve got a Gyro. I ordered a sheep head. It was on the menu, only four euros. I had never had a sheep head before. And I’m always up for a challenge.

The waiter got worried. Not sure why, but I seem to often worry waiters.

“Sheep head?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Have you had one before?”

“No.”

He shrugged and poured the wine. My sheep head arrived split in two with a hatchet and covered with French Fries. That was good, since the Americans at the next table looked queasy, but couldn\’t take their eyes off my plate.

“It’s better with the hands,” the waiter said. “Not knife and fork.”

I looked at the skull on my plate. I couldn’t disagree. My knife didn’t look like it would get through that. I put it down to wrestle my dinner bare-handed. Twenty minutes later, all that was left was a pile of clean white bones. The folks at the next table were just as white but weren’t piled yet. The waiter came. I took his wide eyes and slack jaw for a sign of admiration. I must be the first American sheep-head-eater he’s seen, and maybe the last. How was it? Mild, crispy and well-seasoned. One of my best Greek meals.

Communication turned out to be challenging in Greece. Not only with the natives.

“It’s down there, by the Stigmata,” Steve said, looking for the Acropolis Museum.

“Where?”

“By the Stigmata. The place we went to yesterday. The square.”

“Syntagma. You mean Syntagma Square?”

“Yea. Stigmata. Where the blood pours out of their eyes.”

“We could go see the last Leprechaun,” Steve said, as we planned our day in Crete. “It’s a day trip.”

“I thought those were in Ireland. Do they take you to Ireland?” I asked.

“It is an island. Spinalonga. The island of tears.”

“No, I meant Irish. I thought Leprechauns were Irish.”

“Leprechauns? No. I\’m talking about those people whose arms fall off. The last Leper Colony.”

Finally, a few tips on Athens.

1. Keep your hands in your pockets. If you don’t, somebody else might.
2. Don’t order a sheep head unless you plan to take a shower.
3. The main ingredient of Greek salads is Feta Cheese. Vegetables are optional.
4. Ouzo is sweet, it smells like fennel, and water turns it cloudy. It’s an acquired taste.
5. Retsina is white wine sealed with pine resin. It smells like the forest.
6. Take a picture of the menu when you order. When you pay, check that the bill includes only what you ordered and the prices haven’t changed.
7. Greek Leprechauns don’t have a pot of gold.

Thank you for being with us. I hope you had fun. See you soon in Israel.

Rada Jones is an Emergency Doc in Upstate NY where she lives with her husband, Steve, and his black deaf cat Paxil. She authored three ER thrillers, OVERDOSE, MERCY, and POISON.

Drying chilis on the sidewalk. Where else? Garlic, bananas, and sunflower seeds too.

Rada Jones is an Emergency Doc in Upstate NY, where she lives with her husband, Steve, and his cat Paxil. Her ER thriller OVERDOSE is now on Amazon.com.