My Top Three Travel Memories

After my good friend Alex, founder of Travel Fashion Girl passed the Blogger Relay Baton to me, I realized what a predicament I was in. Choosing my three favorite travel memories was a difficult exercise in elimination. With a memory that is saturated in rich colors, exotic flavors, and unforgettable moments spent all over this globe, how am I supposed to pick only three?

As many of you know, it’s not always the “must-see” sites that leave indelible marks on our soul, but the small exchanges of humanity that bridge cultural gaps and leave your mind and heart melted into a pool of happiness. These are my top three travel memories. Enjoy.

Travel Memory #1 – Prayer Time at the Blue Mosque, Istanbul

photo: curious expeditions

Istanbul is a busy city, full of life, color and sounds. The most recognizable sound is the ezan; the call to prayer which rings out from the minarets of the mosques, and covers the city in a blanket of chants.

When the ezan is sounded, the city moves a little differently. People rush to the public fountains, washing their hands and feet in preparation for prayer at the nearest mosque. As a rule, tourists are not permitted to enter mosques during prayer time out of respect for those worshiping.

I was in the Blue Mosque 30 minutes before the ezan; bathing in the architecture; running my hands along the cold pillars, feeling the rich, red carpet soft on the soles of my feet. I was blind to the clicks of fellow travelers cameras, and transported myself into a serene world where it was only myself and this immaculate building. Before I knew it, the travelers had been ushered out, and people were entering to pray.

I hid myself in a corner of the mosque and watched the people pour in: unfolding their prayer rugs, situating themselves, rising and falling, pressing their foreheads to the floor, repeating. The motions were similar to that of a yoga class, but the feeling that pervaded the air was one of stillness and tranquility. I sat in silence, unseen.

After the prayers has finished, people folded up their rugs, some shared greetings amongst each other, and they all headed back out the door to resume their daily lives, refreshed by their faith.

I was watching an older man, taking his time folding his rug, partly out of precision and partly due to his advanced age. He walked to the door – holding his body with dignity, refusing to give into the brittleness of his aged bones, he walked slowly, and then saw me kneeling in the corner.

He looked at me, knowing I had been in the room when I was not supposed to be, invading the privacy of their prayers, and I prepared myself for a chastising, for I deserved it.

He looked at my eyes, curious blue eyes of a foreigner. I slowly lowered my head out of respect. I raised my eyes and he was standing in front of me, his hand on his heart, smiling. I put my hand over my heart, and felt a smile wash over my face.

We stayed that way for a moment, until I removed my hand from my chest to wipe the tears that were coming from my eyes. I used both hands to wipe away the tears that were silently falling on the plush red carpet, and when I blinked them open again, he was gone.

Travel Memory #2 – Greek Hospitality

Driving a car through the countryside of Greece is an incredible experience in and of itself. My friend and I had been driving for several hours, when nature called. (Nature must have conference calling, we both got the call). Driving along what the map called a “highway”, but was more like an old country road, we finally arrived at a tavern nestled into a small village surrounded by olive trees. We parked in the olive grove and raced to the restroom.

Once inside, we each ordered a glass of wine as we felt the need to patronize the place, and not just avail ourselves of the restroom.The owner of the tavern was so pleased with his foreign guests, which he doesn’t see many of, that he upgraded our two glasses to a carafe of house wine.

One of the fellow patrons, not to be outdone with this display of hospitality, went to his home and returned with a jug of wine, which the five of us in the tavern easily drank. The third Greek man also went to his home, and brought back moonshine made from apricots, this bottle was also drunk while sharing stories, and obscenely loud laughter. Next came the Metaxa, and lastly the ouzo. Finally, my friend and I turned down any more alcohol and decided it was time to go rest in the car.

I woke up some time later- the passenger (my side) door was wide open; I had one foot in the car and the rest of me was laying face up in the olive grove. Didn’t quite make it in the car. Ouch. How long had I been this way?

I woke my friend and said it was time we get out of there. Declaring that she was “fine to drive, after sleeping it off”, we continued along the windy country road. Ten minutes and several turns later, we had arrived at a lovely outdoor market. The street had vendors on both sides, and their wares hung on beams covering the length of the street. There were piles of fresh herbs in handwoven baskets, chickens and their freshly laid eggs for sale. What luck!

not to be confused with a drive-thru market
photo: Rob W

We excitedly pointed at the trinkets we’d love to buy, and were eventually stopped by hordes of people shouting at us and making fervent hand motions. “Wow, they’re REALLY excited to see us!” I said in my still drunken state.
Wrong. Very wrong. They were shouting because we were driving through a WALKING market.
By the time we realized this, the street had narrowed so much that the car was now stuck, and there was no room for us to open the doors. My friend could not get out of the drivers seat, and definitely was unable to reverse out of the market.

There was much shouting, laughing, pointing, and of course finger wagging from the old women. We were still stuck, and used charades to tell them we could not move the car. A gentleman finally had to tell us to roll down the window, he then climbed inside and delicately reversed us out of the walking market.

Travel Memory # 3 – The scent of the coffee fields in the cloud forest of Panama.

The bus dropped us off at the edge of a road an hour before dawn. The driver pointed up the mountain. “Here. Go up.” Our bags were

Here comes the sun…

untethered from the roof of the bus, and tossed down. They landed with a thud, and with sleep still in our eyes, we heaved them on our backs and began the hike up into the cloud forest of Fortuna, Panama.

We’d hiked for 2 kilometers through the coffee plantation, when we came upon a yellow sign with a red arrow pointing up, always up.

By this time the sun was beginning to creep up into the sky, waking as lazily as we were hiking. The morning dew made everything fresh and shiny. The red coffee berries glistened with a fresh sheen of life. The air was clean and had the weight of morning fog. As we ascended higher, the sun rose with us. Once we arrived at the eco-lodge, we turned around to see the sun coming through the thick clouds in the shape of a rainbow.

We set our bags down, and sat in silence on the tree house deck watching the sun rise over the Baru Volcano. My hand was wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee, fresh from the plantation that now laid below us.  The moments of stillness spent watching the sun wake up is a pinnacle of peace I strive to reach again and again on my travels.

Now, to continue the blogging relay, I’d like to pass the #teamred baton to Flora Baker of Thirty One Distant. Flora is a phenomenal writer, and I can’t wait to read her three favorite travel memories.