BUFFALO GIRL TRAVEL, NOW ON FACEBOOK + 2 NEW WEBSITE ARTICLES

Buffalo Girl Travel has arrived on facebook. The page is Stacey V. Levinson, Buffalo Girl Travel. They're not giving me a direct link yet, so if you have trouble viewing the facebook page, please email me at BuffaloGirl@SeePlacesBeDifferent.com

All announcements about new publications, new articles, new multi-media interactions (photos, videos, audio, etc.), everything new on the website will come out on the facebook page. :) There's something new just about every day on the site - pictures or an article. So it's worth checking the site often. But significant news comes out on facebook if you're unable to check in with www.SeePlacesBeDifferent.com daily.

NEVER BEFORE PUBLISHED:

The Coronado Ghost Hunt:
Part I, How I Met Kate Morgan's Ghost (including photo of the ghost)
Part II, The Hunt (complete photo array and creepy details)
Part III, My Loews Is Haunted (photo array & unexpected visitor)
All 3, complete with multimedia arrangements can be seen by visiting:
www.SeePlacesBeDifferent.com/articles

Preview of 'History, Blood & Ireland's Soul', our adventure at Kilmainham Gaol, pictures and story are now up at www.SeePlacesBeDifferent.com/gaol/! The pics from this place are not to be missed. And neither is the history - my history. It has a special place in my heart.

Niagara Falls is the next adventure! February 2013. The Falls themselves and their roots to the Underground Railroad. Tight rope walkers aren't the only people making their way to Canada via this route, and we've got some help from the Niagara Tourism Board and video guest, acclaimed author Alycia Ripley, joins in! Updates will come on the website and through facebook. Video, audio, photos AND article - a full-on interactive story!

The 'Take the Experience Home' Store is also coming out with new lines of items specifically created to dress you up or down, comfortable, no matter where you are in the world. Signature Scarves, jewelry designed to blend but not appear too gaudy (no attracting unwanted attention) - including new lines of items that are easily stowed and can be added onto boots, jackets, etc. Don't travel with a lot but look like you did. The store is running at www.SeePlacesBeDifferent.com, updates through facebook! ;)

Lots of happenings!! But in the meantime. Stay warm, Stay safe. Have a wonderful Holiday Season!!

Cheers!~

Stacey

Prague: A Vampire, a Sunset and an Electrocution | San Diego Reader!!!!!!!!!!!

Prague: A Vampire, a Sunset and an Electrocution | San Diego Reader

Newly edited and published in the Reader!! Under 1,000 words, so I really chopped away. But I love it. And they incorporated some additional, brand new photos I took on the road!

*NEW* Article, Coronado Ghosts Part II - 'The Hunt'

NOW on www.SeePlacesBeDifferent.com/Del2, the second part of our Coronado ghost hunt adventure! Ghostly images, drunk tourists and a mistress with something to prove. It's a short read not short on creepiness and liquor.


From 'Black, White & Lace All Over, Hauntingly Lovely Coronado - Part II, The Hunt'

"...I had worn them to run from ghosts.

Yes, this is ridiculous, but I make no apologies. When you’re roaming hallways that could double for The Shining, you don’t get caught by the twins because a heel catches on the carpet..." 

See you on the other side!

Cheers!~

Sacred Ground Travel Magazine: Smooth Getaway Postcard From Vienna

Sacred Ground Travel Magazine: Smooth Getaway Postcard From Vienna: When people find out my daughter’s middle name is Vienna, their first question is invariably some version of “You didn’t name her after th...

NEW PUBLICATION!! Critically acclaimed author Lyn Fuchs has added phenomenal pictures and editing to 'Vienna vs. Jane Doe' - how often do you get to see Paris Hilton dressed to the nines at the Vienna Opera House in your travel article? Or have a CNN reviewed journalist edit your work?

Every publication puts a twist on a story, making it a unique Article unto itself. The pictures here are well worth the trip to the site. It's just really exciting. :)

Cheers!~

NEW PUBLICATION - THE SAN DIEGO READER!

'Vienna vs, Jane Doe, Why My Daughter's Middle Name is Vienna' can be see in print and online at http://www.sandiegoreader.com/news/2012/nov/30/travel-my-daughters-name-vienna-austria/ in San Diego's Reader Magazine!

2 more publications coming, on Prague & 'In Flaws & Perfection'!

See them all at www.SeePlacesBeDifferent.com, articles and poems.

Despite the flu, it's been a great weekend! :)

NEW ARTICLE - AT www.SeePlacesBeDifferent.com

New post!! The ghost at the Del, and as it turns out, Loews Coronado. Part 1!!

http://www.seeplacesbedifferent.com/del-1/

3 New Poems on www.SeePlacesBeDifferent.com, Sweeeet Synopsis

A Buffalo Half-Hour - www.SeePlacesBeDifferent.com/Bflo
Probably the second most abstract poem I've ever written (don't be scared), this one is about the loss of first love. Every metaphor has meaning, many have multiples. I was hoping for a visual & visceral reaction when I wrote it. When you have a broken heart you're not thinking so much as feeling your way through for a bit.

Yet - www.SeePlacesBeDifferent.com/Yet
Also abstract but very easy to decipher in comparison. This was written years after "Buffalo", about a longing for lost love - but about no one man in particular.

Yet Again - www.SeePlacesBeDifferent.com/yet-again
This is the story to follow up "Yet." It's the story of a particular memory that my mind went to after writing "Yet."

Both "Yet" and "Yet Again" were written in between travels, and what I've learned about myself is that when I ignore that nomadic throb, the feeling is the same as a break-up - it's one of lost love. I was in a very happily committed relationship when they were written, and the loss is not of a person but of a place - an unrequited love of new adventure.

I hope you enjoy them. I'm attached to them in ways I can't adequately explain and I adore the link.

Cheers!~

www.SeePlacesBeDifferent.com - NEW F'in AWESOME WEBSITE

After 3 months and almost (now over) 3,000 readers from 11 different countries, I've officially launched my own website. I'll post notifications here when there is new material, but the new stuff itself can now be seen at....

www.SeePlacesBeDifferent.com

The new home of Buffalo Girl Travel.

World Prepare.

Invitation - Inspirational & Short Commerical Break

 

Invitation

 

Come to me,

and walk with me

beneath a moonlit sky,

beside roses disguised as perfumed forests

by the darkness of the midnight hour.

 

Come to me,

before the candles are burned

to a pool of useless wax,

and their mystery is replaced

by the glare of the morning sun.

 

And I will show you

dreams without need of sleep,

and walls made transparent

simply because

they were only mirages to begin with.

My Nemesis In Northern Israel

Israeli Rooster

*** Please note this is the 3rd installment of a story on Israel. Please read the previous two articles on Hiking and Uzi's to fully understand the context. Thanks. ***

The first week I slept through it. I was too exhausted from jet lag, ancient staircases built at about a 90 degree angle with a 200 step minimum requirement, and 7 mile fantastic but crazy hikes through various areas in Israel. I didn't know the Rooster was stalking our little dorm room. But he was.

3 AM sometime during the second week I find myself awake. Why the fuck would I be awake? Yesterday was a 5 hour jaunt through a Roman Era cave system in Bethlehem. I should be dead to the world.

Slowly it comes together in a haze and a cacophony - the loud, loud, persistent noise filling our stone-walled room. What in God's name... is that a ROOSTER? I thought roosters crowed at dawn? Don't roosters crow at dawn? That's why they're on farms, weather vanes... this has to be a joke.

Silence.

3:15 AM. I sit straight up in bed as a screech comes in through the windows and seems to inhabit my bones before rattling them and moving onto my head. I look at the windows. They're closed. This is one determined feathery motherfucker, because it takes effort to get that kind of noise through walls and closed windows.

This can not happening because tomorrow we are again waking up at the crack of dawn (when the Rooster should be doing what he's doing now if my childhood storybooks were right) before venturing out on another - slightly insane but awesome at the same time - educational adventure. I need sleep.

It's quiet again, but this time there's hesitation and fear in the air. Is he just resting?

No, he's quiet for the rest of the night. The next morning at breakfast I ask around about the rooster - "Did you hear that thing last night?" No one heard it but my roommates. Why? He was sitting right outside our window. He'd marked us. I eat my fruit in silent thought, the radio, always tuned into national news, just background noise this morning.

The next night, exhausted from a day of debates and cultural confusion, I literally fall into my bunk.

2:07 AM. It's not a cock-a-doodle-doo. Anyone who thinks it is has never heard a rooster crow. It's more like the screeching noise before a car accident. I start to giggle. My roommate in the bed next to me joins in.

4AM. It's been quiet for almost 30 minutes straight. But we all know it's coming again.

No one sleeps much for the next two nights. By then, I'm looking around the room for weapons because in my sleep-deprived mind and drained body, it's him or me.

Day five one of our tour leaders, Eytan, a deeply religious and kind man from South Africa, takes us to the Rooster's "family." Before we leave, he gathers myself and my three suffering roommates and tells us to act like we're really tired so the family understands the depth of the situation. Not a problem.

Only two of us wind up going. I don't remember why. Maybe the others were napping. Or had ear-plugs.

When we arrive, we discover that the Rooster belongs to an Orthodox family living next door and they don't really care one way or the other because - and here's the kicker - they think the Rooster's lucky. Let me repeat that. They think he's lucky.

Look, I'm not unsympathetic to mystical beliefs. I respect them. I have a few myself that I treasure. But I'm sporting under-eye bags dark enough to make me look like I went a round with Mohammed Ali and yawning like I've been regularly deprived of oxygen. He may very well be lucky to them. But something bad's going to happen if there isn't a change in the situation. And I suspect that's why they moved him in the end.

Looking back, I think maybe he was lucky. Not that I want to experience that again, and not that I (admittedly) can look at a Rooster now without picturing dinner, but I will always remember the Rooster of Tzfat. And so will my roommates. He's left an indelible mark on our subconscious, and he brought us even closer together than before. Common enemies tend to do that, after all.

He makes me laugh, remembering him with his chest puffed up before each crow and that beady little look in his eyes. I could've stepped on him and ended his world but he was Israeli to the core. He'd find a way out, and he knew it. And he was protected by a family that loved him on levels they couldn't fully explain.

If that doesn't describe my feelings towards Israel, I don't know what does. So, Cheers! To the Rooster of Tzfat!

I'll bet he would have been tasty.

A Sunday Afternoon - a poem for Halloween

With

pink blaring against the sun

fire ripped from the starting gun,

bullets sprayed skeletons barely alive,

blood whipped across the starting line.

 

Then,

suddenly,

the race was done.

And standing in pools,

the winner began to run.

Uzi's, Oakleys & An Identity With A Side of Roses in Israel

**Note: This is the second in a series of articles on Israel. They're like algebra but fun - they're cumulative. Please read the first article before coming to this one to fully understand the context. Thanks.**

The first time I saw a group of men with sub-machine guns was at the rail station in Jerusalem. They were Israeli soldiers. Spirited, friendly, helpful and scary as hell all at the same time, they sported sleek haircuts and Oakley mirrored sunglasses. They were leaving the Old City after helping to quiet a riot in the Arab sook.

We had been warned by Livnot about the riot and told it was best to stay away from the sook. But we were also told that the army had dispelled the riot, and that was Livnot's first mistake. Their second mistake was giving us a free day in Jerusalem after telling a group of shoppers about the fantastic buys in the Sook the night before - when no one knew there would be a riot. There was no hesitation. We went to the Wailing Wall, the Jewish Quarter shops, and then straight to the sook. Where the shopkeepers were overjoyed at our presence.

It was magical. At least, it was magical to me, a girl in her early 20's whose favorite local shop spot was the mall. We turned a corner and there it was.

Rooms wrapped around corners in a maze-like configuration, each one housing a different shop. It was intimate, with one shop on each side and separated by only a few feet for passage. Intimate.

At one point I separated from my friends and made the mistake of turning a corner and finding the meat section. I wanted shoes. I got fresh goat legs hanging from the ceiling and a smell that made me glad I'd skipped breakfast but brought up memories of dinner the night before. It was a typical middle eastern open air market. But this was not my area of the market. I was not shopping for hooves.

My eyes pooping out of their sockets from shock, I half-dove back around the corner. A few deep breaths of fabric, spice and incense, and I relaxed again into a world of scarves, jewelry, hand-knit bags and multi-colored chamsas.

The shopkeepers called out to me from all directions - I was a rare customer on this day of rioting. Many people, especially single female travellers, would have been uncomfortable here and I wouldn't blame them. These guys (there were no women sellers to be found) were not shy with their requests to come inside and touch their lovely items, the things that only they possess, to lay eyes on the really beautiful things in the back. Sketchy? Yes. Dangerous? To my 20-something brain? No.

I am from New York. I have spent many summers in Manhattan being coaxed or yelled at - sometimes simultaneously - by shop-keepers, taunted by subway riders who make fake Rolexes magically appear, and I have repelled the slurs from guys with card-stands. Feel karmic one day? Casually walk by the guys with cards and talk about how some tourist just told a cop that their stand had taken his money. They disperse into the wind like butterflies before a storm, had the butterflies been adorned in leather and tight corduroys. Fun. During the day.

Goat legs make me run for the hills but pushy salesmen are expected. They're annoying, but they're always open to discussing price and value. We're cool and the gang as long as there's no touching. NO touching. Since nothing inappropriate was happening here, I strolled along, shop to shop, buying far too many souvenirs.

Upon turning a corner, I saw a friend being led by the hand deeper into a shop by an older man clearly invading her personal space for influence. Alarm bells started going off in my head like police sirens the night before your college Philosophy final (or was that just me?). Our bus was leaving in an hour and we were deep in the maze. It was was time to go.

I took her other hand and, giving the man a look of clear determination and disgust, verbally apologized to him and reminded her of our deadline. I was angry but not unaware of risk. I distinctly remember both of us refusing to let go of her hand and a small battle of wills taking place amongst walls of magnets and key chains. She is an immensely nice human being. She was being an immensely nice human being by going into his shop. But he'd broken the No Touching rule. I'd rather have fed my money to the chickens than buy whatever he was selling.

The mini-mind battle lasted only a minute before he let go and I pulled her out of the store. A look of anger found it's way towards my face from inside the room. I turned my back on him as I saw it, arm in arm with my friend. I seriously hoped she remembered how to get out because my sense of direction would likely take me to Detroit before bringing me back around to the group meeting place by the Western Wall some 5 days later.

######## Elevator Music a la Monty Python action break#####
### And we're back. ###

We did not wind up in Detroit. She was much better at navigating than I. We were spared an hour of, "So you go left at the 7th incense stand on the right and then right at the camel with the red cloths..." Thank God. We were then joined by another friend who appeared to have a GPS sown into her shoes. Fifteen minutes later we were back through the Jaffa Gate, out of the Old City and heading towards the bus station.

Which is when the machine guns appeared. It was disconcerting at first. No one was nervous or appeared to think this was out of the ordinary. I'm an American. I grew up in upstate New York. Guys in green fatigues with giant guns and Oakleys would be fearful people in my home town. I would run from them like my hair was on fire, arms waving wildly in the air. Or, more likely, I would freeze in place from the shock while they wondered why the little blond was trying to make things easy. The little blond found the calm around the machine guns discordant and disorienting.

But these heavily armed men were giving up their bus seats to old ladies and having jovial conversations with the drivers. They were vigilant, strong, communal and sporting the latest in Oakley shades. And this wasn't New York.

The camaraderie between the men struck me. In the States there is always the guy who doesn't quite fit in; he doesn't participate in the jokes or group fun. He is the 'excluded one.' Amongst the soldiers, you could tell who he would be. He was quiet and sat a row away from the others, but he was not excluded. The others departed before he did - he was not included in their outing. But each one paused at his seat as they got off, looked at him through dark oblong glasses and briefly clasped his shoulder. They nodded and a few words were exchanged.

He smiled at each, a sense of calmness appeared to restore to his body. He was accepted. He was a fighter, if fighting need be, and he would not be left out. I am certain that if he'd risen and said he wanted to come, he would have been happily included. But he remained seated and onward we went.

I say this in the same article as the Rooster for a reason. Note, the Rooster still lives. And this same communal link is why. He should thank his lucky little feathers he lives where he does. More on him later.

I grew used to the guns because I grew trust and respect for the gun-holders. They had these guns for my protection and the protection of people I cared for. I was just a face in the crowd in jeans and a chamsa necklace. They knew nothing of me. They owed nothing to me. But they would die for me if the need arose. And I was just visiting.

Think of Israel what you will. This was my experience.

Each day, this is what the Israelis did - defend. Every citizen is required to give two years of service to the State. Many stay in service longer. Many are ex-pats who start late. But they all know of the sacrifice.

Women are among those required to serve. 'Defender' is not a man-only role in the 'Jewish' State, and many women serve in fighting units. But Israelis don't see violence as the only form of national defense. Education and community service are also viewed as vital, and women (only) are given the option of serving in these realms instead of the army.

Our two Israeli tour 'helpers' were young women, Lizzie and Jaffa, doing their two years of service through Livnot, educating (mostly) naive young Americans and Canadians about Israeli custom, law, history and security. They made sure we were up at the crack of dawn trying not to pass out in our pancakes and fruit from jetlag and fatigue, they patiently answered our (occasionally ridiculous *cough*) questions about Israeli history and helped guide us on the "hikes."

It was Jaffa's birthday about halfway through the trip and what did she want for her birthday? To hike the wadi (a river - dry, in this case). Of course, a hike. I was just getting the feeling back in my legs from the climb two days before, so the timing was almost perfect.

Have your hamstrings ever been so tight you opted to slide down stairs instead of walk? Has your toe ever bruised green and black from pressing hard against a boot for 7 miles? No? Ask Jaffa to take you on a short walk. I adore this woman, she amazes me to this day. But no more hiking.

######## More Elevator Music... #######
######## And we're back to the regularly scheduled programming#######

Our tour schedule was more fluid than other Birthright experiences, and it was run by Israelis with little regard for the traditional tourist experience. Whereas other tours stayed at high end hotels like the King David, we stayed in a dorm with rock walls and a resident dog named Mimi with new puppies and a desperate need for a multi-nipple bra.

The others went to Yad Vashem, the large Holocaust Museum in Jerusalem - a solemn place that is a memorial of victims at its core. We did not. Instead, our trip took us to an incredibly beautiful building, glazed in pink roses amongst ancient stones in the city of Akko. We were shown exhibits about fighters, not victims. We saw the best of humanity on display in a stained-glass Holocaust museum.

A wedding was ending as we arrived, and the bride and groom, jubilant and love-struck, danced between stone arches and fallen petals. It was almost magical and entirely un-modern. It was something you wanted to remember, not forget. You wanted to put it in pictures as the background to one of the most beloved days of your life.

The museum was built next to a centuries' old theatre with a backdrop of ancient stone arches hundreds of feet tall. As the arches connected, they created a bridge on the top with locking keystones, and one member of our tour ran across them in controlled abandon.

Inside the museum, there was turn after turn of pictures in chronological order from the Ghettos to the Holocaust of the Jews who fought back. They wielded weapons carved from violins and broomsticks and the occasional smuggled firearm. They had set and determined stares. They would not lay down before the Nazis. And here, in this little museum, they gave to me the part of a Jewish identity that I was missing. Because I was not a victim.

Let me be clear. It's important that we remember. Plain and simple, it's important that we keepsake the horror.

I read an article in New York Times recently of how survivors' grandchildren are replicating the tattoos their grandparents were given by the Nazis - the numbers that identified them as things and made them easier to track. They were good record keepers, the Nazi's. It's a good thing, because it made Nuremberg that much easier during the post-war prosecutions and it made people easier to find for surviving family members.

I support this movement of tattoos. I would join it if I had a survivor as a relative.

But it's just as important to my identity as a Jew - 1/2 of my very being - that I am a descendant of a fighter too. That my People did not just lay down. They stood up when others would have crumbled.

It was the first time in my life that I was entirely proud to call myself "Jew." There was no nagging feeling of uncertainty - like there existed some kind of fucked up genetic trait for helplessness and passivity - NO. My people fought guns with books, violins, pitchforks and whatever else they could find, and sometimes - sometimes - they won.


This was my missing piece. The link between the striped pajamas and Mossad.

Thank you, Livnot. For giving me back my history.

Holy Hiking - Israel's Crazy Climbs

Somewhere in Northern Israel, there is an angry rooster roaming the streets. I don't know his name. We'll call him 'Rooster' because I am the queen of creativity. He does not like me.

Which is fine, the feeling is entirely mutual. I would have happily eaten him given the chance - and there are witnesses to confirm that this is more a testament to his character than mine. I think he marked us on the way in, hiding with his hens behind old Roman stones as we walked to our dorm.

There were four of us sharing the room in Tzfat, Israel, an artist's community bordering Southern Lebanon. On the roof at night we had a clear view of mountainous Lebanon. We watched the occasional twinkling lights go on and off and wondered who they belonged to.

During our stay, in an effort to move along peace negotiations with Lebanon, Israeli soldiers were removed by the Government from that very area. Helicopters frequently chopped our silent reveries.We worked briefly with about 50 Southern Lebanese who had helped the Israeli army and were now Israeli refugees. Their assistance made them targets at home. Six years later, Tzfat, also known as 'Safed', was shelled when Hezbollah took advantage of its proximity to Lebanon, and, quite possibly, the absence of an Israeli presence. Thankfully, no one we know was hurt. The city was quickly rebuilt. And the same tour we took part in continues to this day - our dorm still stands.

There was a constant strand of pride, hope for peace & readiness to fight in Tzfat that pervaded the consciousness and bound the people together. The purposes of our Tour were education, fun and work, and there was certainly no lack of opportunities for any of the three.

We were part of a 'Birthright Israel' trip. 'Birthright', as it's commonly known, is a phenomenal opportunity for any Jewish American or Canadian college-aged adult. It's a free 10-14 day educational program that flies participants to Israel. You are fed, housed, transported, educated and guided through a few of the country's hotspots, like the Kotel & Dead Sea.

Our Tour was run by a group called Livnot U'lehibanot, translated from Hebrew as "To Build & To Be Built", and was focused more on nature and community service than the average tour. It was a 14 day adventure centered in Tzfat and Jerusalem with stops at Masada and the Dead Sea along the way. We spent most of our time re-building old or damaged structures - I learned how to lay brick and use tools - and hiking through educationally relevant areas.

When I say 'hiking', let me point out that the Israeli version of a 'hike' is different from the typical American 'hike.' They are at least 6 to 10 miles long, have sketchy climbs up 90-degree grass ledges with loose dirt and "paths" that include jumps onto bolders surrounded by active and angry bee hives, all while carrying a 30 lb. backpack. Snakes, ditches filled with black water, ancient caves, 30 foot waterfall jumps, loose dirt downhill slides - par for the course.

Thank god for the guy who carried my pack towards the end. And although my toe was permanently damaged, thank god my toe was permanently damaged because it got me out of a couple of "hikes", and sent me instead with a friend to the gorgeous Mediterranean city of Nahariya to visit her Israeli friends.

But the pain was worth the trip - I'd take the pain in a heartbeat to go again. We saw cannons during a "hike" in the Golan Heights (this was in 2000, when the Golan belonged to Israel) used during the 6-day war, bullet holes from the British fight & opposition to the State from the late 1940's, and Hebrew graffiti carved into cave walls during the Roman occupation.

I still have a piece of pottery from an archaeological dig beneath the Western Wall. I went caving in Bethlehem, made friends for life. And, honestly, who besides the 30 of us can say they've been tubing down the Jordan River - which is really a big stream that kept aiming my tube (and only my tube) toward the muddy, rocky walls on the River's sides.

We did not sleep. We ate canned tuna and fruit. We sang.

Whereas other tours stayed at high end hotels like the King David in Jerusalem, we slept on bunks with rock walls and hung our unmentionables on cords to dry. Because we'd been tracked by the Birthright people, and determined to be both barely Jewish and in love with nature, we were handed over to Livnot. Livnot, whose PhD level instructors taught me that even questioning the existence of G-d makes you a "good Jew." Because you are questioning. And you are considering G-d while you do it.

If there is a traditional G-d, I owe him big-time for Livnot.

To be continued...

Red Curtains - yes, it's a poem

 

So it's time.

 

Air rides in like

waves above the ocean floor.

Inside this heart

desire screams for more.

Too many chapters were left without end

when Love died

from words unsaid.

 

So it's time,

to scream 'Goodbye' from the tips of Heaven

where no sound is blocked

by Severity or Seven.

 

Adjectives like fire breathe

from our lungs

and we've come to

need them

as an addict

needs his drug.

 

Walls stop smoke

like water

saves a drowning man,

and so shall

the world unveil

when a woman takes a Stand. 

On the poems on this blog and on Twitter -

They are my commercial breaks in between travel articles.

Think of them like the commercials from the Superbowl - adored and looked forward to (by me)almost as much as the main event (although hopefully they dont start to suck halfway through the game).

I LOVE poetry.

I love the way it makes me feel. I love the way the words flow from the page like a dance that I need to see from different angles to understand. I love how one sentence can mean a thousand different simple things, or just one clearly intended thought.

Poetry is not as simple as an article. A poem is far shorter but takes just as much time to consider as an article. It is not for everyone. I totally get that.

My one request is that you pick one and try it out. Take it line by line, give it five or ten minutes. Read, re-read, let it sit, let it settle, let it sink in.

After that, if it's not for you, f*ck it, another article will come shortly. I'll try to I.D. the poems until I figure out how to separate them into another area. Do with them what you will.

Cheers!~

Last note & Disclaimer.

* Note. You can now find me on Twitter at www.twitter.com/StaceyVLevinson! Travel, Family & Buffalo Sabres/Bills Fun in 140 characters or less. Seriously, HOW can you go wrong? :)

*Disclaimer. I am not responsible for missed plays or family milestones caused by time spent on twitter. Thank you.*

Between Covet & Condensation - an old poem

There is a breath

at the end of a sentence

that sets the bell-tones of conversation

before finality

is satiated and set.

 

But there wasn't a thought

 of this or that

when you couldn't

look me in the eyes. 

You breathed

in labored tones -

all attempts

at age appropriation

had long drifted away.

 

A boy

sat before me

dressed in a metallic suit

with grinding brakes

urging to be let go

and oil spilt carelessly

around useless legs.

 Everything was frozen

but the wind from your body.

 

A boy,

with my future

in his fumbling hands

waiting

to be wounded from above.



How to Get Your Shark-phobic Spouse Swimming With Sharks, or, Vacation in La Jolla - the Socially Accepted Place to Get Hammered

I love swimming with sharks. I know that's a shock given that 2 out of 6 articles on this blog are about swimming with sharks. My husband, however, does not share my enthusiasm. So how do you get him in the water with sharks when you really want to swim with sharks, but it is a non-child filled weekend and you also really want to spend time together? How do you get your shark-shaped cake and eat it too? Easy. Take him to La Jolla.

La Jolla, CA is one of the most highly photographed and high-end places on earth, and it is the only place I have been where it is socially accepted, if not expected, that you get absolutely shit-faced when you visit. You start at Jose's Mexican restaurant near the Cove and work your way down to the ocean, trying not to fall in when you get there. Everything serves liquor with a view - even the art galleries. Why? I suspect it's a lot like Vegas. They want you drunk so you will spend money.

It's a parallel tactic that I used to get Mark, my husband, in the water with leopard sharks on a Kayak, Caving & Snorkel tour. Leopard sharks are harmless but Mark's not a big water guy. He will perform his own personal ballet to avoid seaweed on the beach. He will leave the room if I'm watching Shark Week.

He will not agree to partake in shark tours - while sober. But he will enjoy it once in the water. It's a conundrum. How do we get from beach to lovely time with sharks?

We started at Jose's. It was margarita special night (it's always margarita special night). After 5 bowls of chips, 3 shots of Cuervo and an unknown number of margaritas, I asked him about the shark tour by describing it as a "kayak tour, and I know you've always wanted to do that." He has. Then I showed him the Groupon that offered the tour for $15 when it's normally $85 and that sealed the deal, but, "only if we can go on Sunday. I want to go on a Sunday." I immediately booked the (non-refundable) tickets for next Sunday.


It was Friday night. I was drinking Dr. Pepper.

Saturday was his fantasy football draft so he had no time to think about sharks. When it came up later he'd already been back around the margarita wheel because he drafted at Barfly, a bar-during-the-day and club-at-night 'restaurant' with free internet service. And we focused on the "harmless" part of the leopard shark. It is possible I never mentioned the "5ft long" part. Because if I had mentioned the "5ft long" part, that's all we would have talked about for the next 36 hours.

I also may or may not have left out the seals. Seals are prevalent in San Diego and concentrated in La Jolla, and it is possible the area we were snorkeling in was directly below a seal-viewing area. Seals like caves. It was a caving tour.

Mark likes seals. The seals aren't the problem. The problem is that seals, although sleek and nimble in the water, are the main food source for sharks. Seals and sharks. The two are connected in his subconscious like "peanut butter" and "jelly," or, "Ryan Matthews" and "still a good pick".

On Sunday we left with only enough time to get to the tour shop because I am a girl and girls can take as long as they want to get ready even if we are going straight into the ocean.

If we had left with more time, it's possible we would have wound up at the conveniently located Barfly for liquid courage. This would have lead to a constant stream of statements from Mark about how he is not afraid of sharks, and his constant talk about sharks would no doubt begin to freak out the other Shark Tour patrons.

Plus we'd likely be DQ'd from the Tour. They don't let you sign a liability release when reeking of tequila, and the Tour operators were already cranky because we were using Groupon. They weren't going to be sympathetic. (As a sidenote, if you're going to be cranky when people use your Groupon, then don't offer services on Groupon.)

Parking is tricky by La Jolla Cove, so Mark was off finding a parking spot when the earthquake hit. Which is probably a good thing because I was signing the release forms at the time. The quake was centered in Mexicali and registered in at 5.4. We were thankfully far enough away to only get smallish shakes, but they were big enough to shake the pen as I wrote on the counter. If you're already on edge that is not a comforting sensation. Frankly, it's not a comforting sensation when you're not already on edge, because two other words that go together are "earthquake" and "tsunami." But there were several Tours coming back and we were assured that the water was calm.

Mark arrived and we both changed into the best outfit anyone can wear - a wetsuit. Neoprene sucks in everything. You may have sported a muffin-top on the way into the shop but when you leave for the Tour you will have Halle Berry's curves. I LOVE these things.

One girl tried to be really fashionable and wear only the bottom-half zipped to avoid famers' tan-lines. But, if she'd thought about it, the idea of trying to get the top on while in a tiny kayak in the middle of the ocean probably would have stopped her. The waves rock you, your movement rocks you, and the zipper's in the back so you need help. Her boyfriend was not the helpful type and she had to wait for a guide when it was time to zip up and get in the water. It was shameful. Hopefully karma slapped the boy with some seaweed.

All 10 people on the Tour did our sexy neoprene stroll down to the water, where they handed us the helmets and snorkel gear and we were no longer sexy. They showed us how to paddle. We were in a circle and a few people were unintentionally smacked around but they took it in stride. I like the people that go on these things, they're usually adventurous and slightly nervous so they take a lot in stride.

We pushed our 2-person kayak in the water and Mark immediately began to paddle like someone had slipped crack in his coffee. When I sweetly asked him what the hell he was doing, he said, "I want to keep up." I pointed out that we were spinning in circles and maybe this wasn't the best strategy, but he really wanted to get in a work-out (I'm not kidding). So I dug in and went at it with him.

A few minutes later we were a least 50ft ahead of everyone else and had no idea where we were going, but, hey, we were on the water and getting a work-out - life was good.

We eventually wound up in sync with the Tour and, since only half the participants spoke English, the guides spent a lot of time talking to us. They also spent a lot of time pushing our kayak away from them because we were constantly paddling at them, banging our kayak into theirs as we failed to stop paddling in time to avoid them. But the guides too took it all in stride.

They spent the rest of their time trying to keep the non-English speaking contingent from paddling into dangerous cliffs or drifting into other tours. They were mildly successful.

When it came time to get in the water, we stopped at the Seven Caves and listened to the seals as their barks echoed around and through the rocks and water. And then, in we dove. Hands held, we watched the tall underwater grass move like a field in the wind. Colorful fish flitted in every direction and we split to follow different schools. The leopard sharks were hard to see but they were accounted for and a beauty to watch.


About ten minutes later I felt a hand on my back. Mark was pointing to a seal floating in place about 2 feet away that I somehow hadn't noticed. We stayed like that for awhile. The water and nature and warm contact enveloped us and there was only unspoken joy at the incredible all around.

It was one of the most romantic times either of us have experienced and it was all because he kept his word and faced his fears. He could have backed out. We both knew he could have, and we both knew he wouldn't.

We got back into the kayak fairly easily from the water - I got in a lot easier but I am not 6'3 or 185 lbs. There's a reason gymnasts are tiny. We managed a good rhythm on the way back, and, when we arrived at the off-shore starting point, the guides explained how to ride the waves back into shore without tipping over. They made the tipping over thing sound really dramatic. I suspect it's because they were bored with the whole touring bit by then, and they just wanted to go surf already.

Naturally, we tipped over on the way in (we were the only ones). Mark tried to look at a fish and 185 lbs. tips a kayak easily when it's leaning half-way over the edge. But it was warm at the shore and any excuse to get back in that water was a good one.

The tip was all talk. It was about as undramatic as you can get. After falling into the gently rolling waves, we easily righted the boat while gently pushing it to shore. And then we immediately removed the helmets. I now love kayaking.

And that's how you get a shark-phobic spouse in shark infested water and have an amazing time.

Rush, Reasoning, American Dreaming

 

In time and effigy, in opposition to efficacy

walking in step,

walking in sleep

to the American Dream.

In rhythm and resilience, promise and paucity,

lettered by grade and guild and

universally euphemistic

to the American Dream.

I have wanted to walk with you

by shaded walls of merry-go-rounds

and kings and poets popularly crowned.

I have waited for a rush of faith

daring death to my silence

amongst the loudest of fools.

If Rush and reason contend

my friend

time may

heavenly collide,

and radio in hours will crackle the whip

as enigmas in righteousness

start the glass

to tip.

I pray and I take

as my eyes see fit,

as my lips would touch
in shadows,
in symphony,
in sighing sweetness of roses dark with bloom

I take my right of you
as my fingers can find of you,
as my lungs can breathe
in essence of you
from the traces of shapes of you
from the the cradle of your cheek,
the curve of God's horizon of you.

In my daily fix of you,
my nightly remembrance of you
from that time before your breath and mine
when my skin first drew life
that I might know of you
again
and again
in these suns,
these sounds,
these oldest of souls,
I take my piece of you in my life and this love.

Religion Reels - a poem

 

In one ringing brass sound the world conspired.

Blue and Green spinning

four times fast inspired

red angels to smoke and scream

from hundreds of pink carbon fires.

Trumpets into angels floated down to stop

sirens singing from top to top

by black nets of indistinct eyes and body lies

encased in black, once enveloped.

A second, an hour, a century gone.

Indifference salted by romance and song.

Pink shelters bloomed with soft spring tides

and promised un-kept secrets from so many slides

because a walk with fate

would only let you breathe

if your dropped the armor and agreed to bleed.

In Flaws & Perfection - a poem

In Love, sanctimony is condemned and confounded,
understood as intangible skin by grace abounded,
and although my blood may course and race
and time disards in our haste
my pride that was twisted and bent
is straightened now by your feathery taste.

My voice, trembled and shaken
enraptured by your gaze
grows decidedly silent in these midnight morning stays,

and the stone tower once housing
all that I fear to become
crumbles as dust in the wake of your love
and is undone.

These are my imperfections, my gifts, my flaws.
This is my soul righteous, alive and raw.
This is my future now to bend two into one
that we may know God in Life as in Love.

A Vampire, A Sunset & Accessory Electrocution in Prague

Prague City Street

 

It was our second night in Prague and the Old City shops were closing early and making me angry. Prague is not cheap. And if they charge you $25 for soggy buns, the least they can do is have shops that stay open past four. Mark and I were being delayed by my constant diving into shops whose proprietors had forgotten to lock the doors. But even those were few and far between.We were running out of time to get to the real goal - the Charles Bridge at sunset.

So I gave up, handed Mark the map and (with great difficulty) walked by the storefronts. Beautiful glass blown figurines were displayed, jewelry filled with semi-precious stones in circular new inter-locked patterns, metal-workings of knights & Kings - mainly King Wenceslas I imagine. There were amazing works of art and beauty in which I would not partake. Because our hotel shuttle was run by a drunk vampire with lambchops and we got to the Old City far too late.

He got us here at 2pm (it was supposed to be 10am, but I imagine the sun angled wrong for him at that hour). I was irritated. We'd learned our lesson and would never again stay outside the Old or New City areas. But. How was I to know that there were only 2 shopping hours remaining when we he dropped us off? We saw sights for 2 hours. And then we went to the shopping areas and found them closed for no reason. No guidebook had shared this tidbit, this unique shopkeeper habit, and we had done our homework.

I was almost ready to break a storefront window from the increasing mix of no-shopping induced rage and helplessness when we turned a corner, and everything went quiet. There, without warning, was the Prague Castle at the other end of the Charles Bridge.

It looked as if someone had taken every Modern era castle, combined them with fairytale touches and drawings, before combining it all in a whirlwind of brick and mortar to create something breathtaking in description and detail. I was frozen, my mind blank at the sight of it.

The sun was just beginning its rendezvous with the horizon. The castle's red spires and candelit windows were highlighted by a mix of sun and approaching moonlight. The red-velvet towers and golden tributes to past leaders and religious icons glowed but still shined in the fading sun, and a meeting of castle and sea created something akin to a lovely ledge - the bottom part of an intricate frame. Of everything I've seen and done, this ranks only below the Kotel in Jerusalem and Michelangelo's David in pure beauty of experience.

And I was surprised because I am not a castle girl. Not big on tapestries. And the extravagance gets old sometimes. But not here. This was not a severely over-the-top display of wealth for the sake of displaying wealth (or, as the Project Runway judges would say, "your castle really would have benefited from some editing... I'm worried about your taste level."). This was a work of art honoring a royal family and the people. And, thankfully, there were no tapestries.

Once we'd gotten as many photos as the nice Asian couple behind us would take, we turned, and there was the entrance to the Charles Bridge.

The Bridge is fantastically designed with religious, political and historical artwork incorporated into the structure's very iron - like much of the Old City. There are beautiful crosses, gold workings inter-mixed with the regular lines and curves of a bridge, and artists lining each side selling stories, paintings and music.

It has an odd feel to it, this place. The Soviets weren't kind and driving into the main City areas there are still the sqaure, jail-like "Khrushchevki" apartments. They span the City outskirts as barren and demoralizing tributes to the dead Soviet leader and his precursor, Joseph Stalin. They are small, cement square rooms grouped together to form a larger cement square with dead grass in the center and no forseeable signs of life. Perhaps this is where the Vampires gather at sunset.

Inside the Old & New City areas of Prague there is a much warmer, more vibrant vibrant feel, although certainly not the feel of Western Europe or the US. This is a place that has suffered and it makes almost no effort to cover the pain. It wears it instead as a badge of survival. The people endured. They fought back. They won but they paid a price.

People are generally slow to help because there is distrust lingering in the air. Lost boys in the train station ask for money disguised as station employees, their eyes too glossy to be real. In transportation stations and the New City especially, there are more than the average scam artists - although, as a whole, they're not very committed to what they do. And I suspect some of that is because their hearts aren't in it. They feel they were meant to stand taller. There is the scam, and then there is guilt. I've never seen this anywhere else. There is desperation and then there is a very old soul waiting to reclaim the people.

And that Bridge. It felt like the home of the ghost, the soul waiting impatiently to take back its own. The people would likely say it was Wenceslas himself, the people's King, dead but not gone. As the sun set, one side claimed a view of the castle increasingly and ethereally lit from the inside as old oil-lamps were set ablaze. The sky exploded in a mix of pink, blue, yellow and red, each element growing more defined as the sun sank lower into the river. From the other side, a modern skylight was modestly lit from afar and barren trees collided with the fusion in the sky like something from Picasso's widely unknown (because it's non-existent) 'Bright Color' phase.

The musicians, skilled and enthralled in music, still proudly played for anyone or for no one. A few clearly trained and talented artists remained to sell paintings and sketches to whatever tourists remained. Old men walked the night talking about whatever it is that older European men talk to each other about on their nightly walks.

With the snap of a finger, the sunlit sky was gone, and along with the moonlight, a mist came to escort us back across the bridge. To our hotel. Where I really didnt want to go. Where there was the Czech version of a mojito created 2 days ago still gracing my bedside table because the cleaning staff's general motto was, 'Welcome! Now go f*ck off.'

We made it to the hotel shuttle pick-up location and our vampire was not there. Perhaps he was hungry and Americans are too salty for his palette. As the pick-up time passed, two Northern Irish couples, the men clearly souced, indicated through slurs and points that they too were now waiting for the shuttle. About 30 minutes after it was supposed to arrive we tried to call the hotel, but of course nothing was open to sell us a phone card after a payphone ate the one I had. Someone got ahold of them somehow, and they said he'd already been there... which was only true if the driver, along with his van, was invisible. Vampire or not, he wasn't coming back.

So, with no tickets (because the stores that sold them closed at 4 or 5), we all decided it would be a great idea to ride the buses back to the hotel. We had no idea where each bus went because we couldn't read the signs, but, honestly, why not? Taxis had long ago disappeared.

Hours were spent getting on and off buses and trying to read ridiculously complicated station maps, some of them in English. Two hours in, one of the men said what we were all thinking - "Well, there's six of us without tickets, they can't arrest all of us, right? Hahaha.... Right?"

I don't know how exactly, but a short four hours later, we were back at the hotel (for better or worse, I'm not entirely sure which). And, as predicted, there was my "mojito." We'd had some fun with our new North Irish friends and we'd arrived safely. I decided to just have a drink at the bar, take a shower and call it an interesting travel night.

And that's when I set the room on fire.

The room outlets were old and my appropriately outlet-fitted hairdryer proved too much. It started with a spark and a 'holy sh*t' from Mark, and then the cord was burning. Someone got the great idea to pour the mojito on it - because alcohol is always what you should turn to when extinguishing fires.

I learned something else then. My $20 "mojito" had little to no alcohol in it (it tasted like a Communist did something bad in a glass and added mint so I hadn't had a whole lot) because out went the flame like it had been doused in water. Thank God my hair was wet. Thank God nothing flammable wants to hang out in old-school Soviet hotel rooms. Mark called the desk and was told someone would probably come by tomorrow to take a look. 'Kay.

At least we'd seen what we'd seen. And we had some new North Irish friends. I would have requested a refund on the hotel, but you know what? I don't like vampires with drinking problems who have my credit card information angry at me. So we called it a stay, and the next day just headed out for London. London, where the wall sockets don't try to kill you.

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Buffalo Girl Travel Tips: When staying in Prague, and please do, stay in the Old City if you want old historical sights, including the infamous (and highly offensive) gorgeous blue clock. If you want more recent history, like the Velvet Revolution or Prague's general fight against the Soviets (astray bullet holes included), stay in the New City. But really, to understand the context of the latter, you have to see the former.

If you want local, albeit somewhat touristy, shopping, go to the Old City - but beware the menus of local restaurants if you're not intersted in learning whether you like things like boar testicles. If you want high end fashion boutiques, then the New City's your place.

DO NOT STAY IN A HOTEL OUTSIDE OF THESE TWO AREAS IF YOU DO NOT WANT  SOMETHING TO CATCH ON FIRE WITHOUT ANYONE REALLY CARING IF YOU LIVE OR DIE.

As always, your safest bet is to google recent pictures of the place you're visiting and dress like a stylish local.

Adoration - a short poem

Lively iron & ocean

layered before eyes

and sunlight, the

future begins to kiss

hello again,

my love.

 

Hoping desire will flow

from second story

windows & sacred

rooftops of once again,

remember me,

my love.

 

Silence in thought

and emotional construction as

the oxygen net is heavy

before the storm,

water and blood of

a soul's reprieve,

my love.

Prague, Part One - Six degrees of Josefov

 

 

“Josefov.” The center of Jewish influence in Prague. A few other temples are scattered around the oldest part of the city, but “Josefov” is the vortex of Prague’s Jewish past. It was this name of the Jewish quarter, a name stringing together letters sounding so remarkably Jewish, arranged on a street sign like any other, hanging on a building like any other - inconspicuous but startlingly familiar in this place so unlike home, that brought to me a shadow of earthly belonging. Of a place of Jews. A place where people like me live.

As an American, I have so many ancestral ties that I tend to get this feeling a lot - an Irish pub in Dublin, a rooftop in Jerusalem, poet’s corner in Westminster Abbey. Usually, I adore these places. I am drawn, lovingly, almost ethereally to these places. It is like being led inside from a new and sometimes discordant rain - the stepping stones of ancestors’ byways warm you, bring you back to yourself, and somehow restore stability through a kind of raw and sanguine strength.

But here I had procrastinated. This was the virtual first step of the Holocaust, and these are stones of horror as much as honor of family past. I am not big on horrors. Hick-ups in life are one thing, and I do my best to avoid them. Horrors are not hick-ups. For me it was a big step onto these stones, and my husband and I, although we never said why, had left this for last. We finally made it to the first temple within an hour of closing.

Surprisingly, there was a high security alert that day. When is there not a high security alert around a regularly visited Jewish site? So we had to give our ID, and then we happily paid the entrance fee granting us access to centuries old temples, museums and the infamous overcrowded graveyard. It was like paying a fee at any other attraction. There was the bored ticket-taker. The turn-styles. The poles designating the proper place to line up had there been a line. But, security alerts being what they are, the poles really served no purpose other than to make it clear that, should a line appear, this was the proper cueing place and formation. We took our tickets, glad to be contributing to restored old places, and went inside the first part of the 'attraction', the Pinkas Synagogue.

 

 

And attractive it was. An old, high-ceilinged temple with twists and turns through manicured arches, beautiful candlelight, and walls a pleasant cream color with a stylized, ragged appearance. There were writings on the walls - an instant joy for someone who covered her bedroom walls with quotes from artists like Whitman and Bono. There were beautiful words collected and arranged into beautiful phrases about life and loss. All before even the first arch. Before the first turn.

Through the first arch and around the turn, and we had fallen into a rabbit hole with the depth of death without leaving the ground. There were still the stylized walls, the warm light, the beautiful ceilings, and a welcoming, almost beckoning, resonance in the air. There were still beautifully collected writings on the walls. But here they were intensely organized and virtually covering the room.

 

They were names. Etched in red and printed just large enough to read. It was as if the designer had tried to list as many names as possible, because every last one was as real as the one before and the thousands to come, but there was only this limited space. They had to be big enough to read, big enough to be remembered, big enough to remind anyone who saw one that this person was not just ash dispersed into the skyline but a soul that had lived and breathed and meant someone to at least one other person. A problem of space. A fight between giving a ghost her justice and imposition of spatial limitation. Not an uncommon problem in the world.

These were the names of the lost people of Prague. The Jews at the center of the Nazi whirlwind who, it was likely, had actually been whirled away and turned to wind. Ground zero, I guess we might call it now. Names of people, real people, carefully inked in columns on the walls, listed by community and listed alphabetically to make them easy to find.

And find them we did. My husband’s family.

It became almost like a game, like a surreal Where’s Waldo search as we went from wall to wall, room to room, arch to arch, looking at the people from different communities. Here’s a Berman. I think it was Miriam. There’s another. I think it was Benjamin. And another. And another. And another. Until finally we had to leave if we were going to see anything else.

I stood under the last arch and looked at my husband. This tall, beautiful, jet-lagged man was seemingly undisturbed, more curious than anything else. Like he had been looking through an old family photo album of relatives he had never met. I looked back at the red people living on the walls and had a sudden momentary feeling that his blood had been used as the ink. And then I thought how strange that was. And how upside down it was, because it had been their blood that gave life to him, not the other way around. Not that they would ever know. But I know now. I know they gave him to me.

So I said a quiet thank you, and passed through the arch.

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Travel Absolutes: When visiting Jewish holy or religious sites, cover your shoulders and legs (legs if you can, the shoulders are the main thing), and feel free to go all out with the cover. That silver and gold sequined silk scark with shiny red thread that was a little too much for New Years but you're dying to put on? Bust it out, they don't care. You may not even have to worry about revenge pics, because many Jewish sites no longer permit photography for security (and gift shop) reasons. Speak quietly and answer any security questions directly - don't get offended, it's normal to be questioned but well worth the minute of squirming.

If you have any questions about anything, ask. The people who run these sites are phenomenally dedicated to their work, proud of their heritage, will love you for asking and probably share other things hidden from the average tourist, maybe even a fresh bowl of matzoh ball soup in the back. It's the Jewish way - warm fuzziness on the inside hidden by a hard yet somehow flirtatious outside shell.