The Shrines of Tokyo

Very much ingrained in Japanese life and culture, Shinto, the ancient original religion of Japan has millions of devotees.

Placing heavy value on harmony with nature, the serene philosophy of the Shinto religion resonates through the open spaces of the shrines which allow one to revel in nature while being inspired by the divine. Shrines in Tokyo are both simple and ornate, placid and stimulating.

One is struck by an overwhelming sense of peace, the distinct impression that you are entering a sacred space. Architectural marvels, I was struck  by the immaculate attention to detail, the feeling of age and might.

Crossing through the main arch of a shrine, you have many paths to choose before reaching the main altar. You may find a water fountain containing holy water in which to cleanse your hands and face before approaching the featured altar. Often your nose will be seduced by the ethereal aroma of spicy incense, simultaneously grounding and uplifting. There may be nooks with statues and mini altars, or perhaps you will be rewarded with wide open forested paths.

Whichever the case may be, each shrine is unique. Each structure holds its own recipe for peace, for re-connecting with one’s self. Be still, allow each shrine reveal itself to you, to slowly disarm you with its gifts.

Not sure if you’ve encountered a shrine or a temple? Here’s an easy formula. All of the shrines that you will encounter in Japan are Shinto, just as all temples are Buddhist. If you are surrounded by statues of Buddha, chances are you’ve found a temple (my temple post is coming soon).

The following three shrines left a great impression on me.

1. Togo Shrine- Located in Harajuku, this compact shrine is nestled in an unobtrusive nook between two buildings. A quick retreat from the hustle and bustle of the busy electric streets of Harajuku, the Togo Shrine, dedicated to Admiral Tōgō Heihachirō is unexpected and lovely.

2. Meiji Shrine- One of Tokyo’s most famous and elaborate shrines, I couldn’t get enough of this woodsy retreat. Located in the middle of acres of green forest, it’s hard to believe once inside that you are still in Tokyo. Visiting the Meiji Shrine is like stepping into another world. The rambling footpaths are ideal for engaging in a walking meditation. The forest smells different, feels wonderfully vibrant. In the summer you’ll be lulled by a symphony of locusts, cicadas, birds, and frogs. As you ramble over the stony path towards the shrine, sunlight cascades downwards casting iridescent cocoons of light. The Meiji Shrine, built in 1920 in honor of Emperor and Empress Meiji is my favorite Tokyo shrine (I tried to not pick favorites, but I couldn’t help it!).

3. Toshogu Shrine in Ueno Park- Built in 1616, in dedication to Tokugawa Ieyasu, the founder of the Edo Shogunate, this woodsy open shrine feels very much like a playful tree house. Located in the center of busy Ueno park, the shrine is elevated slightly so that you are on level with the leaves of the trees around its periphery. This shrine radiates energy and offers great views of the park.

With dozens to choose from, the shrines of Tokyo, offer a unique glimpse into the culture and traditions of Japan. A visit to Tokyo isn't complete without a visit to at least one shrine.

The Tokyo Metro: One smooth ride, almost

Once you get past the somewhat unintelligible twists and turns of the many lines taking you to and from. Once you are able to discern a path through the throngs of people snaking around (and at times into) each other, and once you grasp the concept of checking the maps to see which exit to use (less you be sent off miles from your intended destination), the Tokyo metro can be quite a pleasing experience.

Almost everything about the metro is designed for your comfort and convenience. The trains glide gracefully into the station without the typical grinding squeaking clamor. When the doors open, a brief classical music tune can be heard. Each station has a song, this is to assist the blind and young school children who ride the metro to school find their stops.

Many of the stations have gates surrounding the platform, you do not have to worry about a crazy person pushing you into the tracks, or fainting before an oncoming train in the humid heat of August.

Before boarding the train, awaiting passengers on the platform form civilized queues. There is often a conductor, with white gloves, to help ensure all passengers make it into their cars.

Each train can be tracked. You know exactly when your chariot is scheduled to arrive. If you are in for a long wait, no worries. You can help yourself to a coffee, a beer, or a soda, from one of the many vending machines. Or perhaps you’d like to patron the waiting station, an enclosed  (in case it is winter) area with seats.

Once you’ve boarded your train, upholstered seats await you. The trains are clean, as are the stations; you will not see roaches or rats.

Are you pregnant, elderly, on crutches or riding with a small child? No worries. There is a designated seating area just for you. Usually people will move aside so that you can take a seat.

[youtube]http://youtu.be/j0pZfOB06Ps[/youtube]

Darn, couldn’t grab a seat and you’ve got a purse and a grocery bag, perhaps a brief case and a suit jacket? No problem. There are ledges above the seats where you may place your items, nobody will take your belongings, and you are free to relax. In fact, feel free to pull out your I-phone without worrying about it being snatched from your hands by a gang of teenagers.

Halfway into your commute and suddenly have to use the restroom? Well you’re in luck; every few cars are equipped with a bathroom (yes they’re clean). Transitioning from car to car is easy, most trains are open, and the doors separating the cars remain unhinged to allow for smooth passage.

Sound too good to be true? There are no catches here, this is more than a commuter’s fantasy, it is real. Welcome to Tokyo, where the metro is designed for your comfort- almost. The metro is, to be fair, a navigational nightmare if you don’t speak Japanese and are unable to decipher characters.

And warning to the night owls, the trains completely stop running at one am. Wherever you are in your commute, at one, even if you are on a train and are halfway to your destination, the service will shut down. Luckily taxis are lined up outside of the stations but they are very expensive, very, very expensive. Many a late-night club-hopper can be found sound asleep on the sidewalks near the train stations on weekend mornings.

Shibuya Crossing

Waiting to cross, I see my mark. I’m thrilled I have the option to cross diagonally. I don't have to cross the intersection twice, how efficient I gleam to myself. I wait eagerly. The funny thing about Tokyo is despite its size, there is order. Rules are for the most part strictly adhered to. If the light says do not cross, people wait, even when there are no cars coming. So we stand and wait. A large crowd quickly amasses.

The light turns green, the white outline of a person is illuminated, the sound of chirping birds serenades sweetly, a cue for the blind. I step forth onto the cross walk pushing Ohm in his stroller. All is well. I’m making my way along the diagonal strip thinking to myself how handy one of these would be in New York.

Suddenly there is a whiz on my right and then a whoosh on my left. I'm caught off-guard as bicycles barrel through the foot traffic, pedestrians scurry and push. Caught in a frenzy, I'm disoriented in a sea of people. I can no longer see my diagonal cross walk path. I can no longer see the building I am trying to walk towards. People jostle each other about. Legs and bags bump into Ohm’s stroller. Ohm looks up at me . His enormous brown eyes form question marks. His little knuckles bulge from the tight fists he's formed as he grasps his seat for dear life. I'm dizzy. I'm being pushed along by the momentum of the crowd. I have no idea what direction I'm being moved towards.  I thought I was accustomed to crowds, I'm a New Yorker.

The light begins to flash. People sprint and thrash banging into each other, into cyclists and into me.  Racing towards a curb, any curb, I make it just in time. The cross walk once again belongs to the motorists. The morning traffic hums into action. The curbs emerge again, serene, as if nothing has happened. As if hundreds of people hadn’t stampeded seconds ago.

Shibuya crossing is one of the busiest intersections in the world.

It is quite the experience, but it's not for the meek. My advice: know your mark, run-walk, keep your eye out for cyclists who cross aggressively with pedestrians and don’t push a stroller!

I was able to capture the madness from my hotel window in this video.

[youtube]http://youtu.be/IcaA-Ai2cVk[/youtube]

Shibuya Crossing at night. I don't even know where to begin!

[youtube]http://youtu.be/Pi31TWkcAPk[/youtube]

What is the busiest cross walk or area  you’ve encountered on your travels?

New Giveaway

Good Morning Readers, As I type this post, my bangles, three in total, wooden and carved,  prized purchases from a bazaar in Zanzibar tap against my keyboard.

I have just finished packaging the little Mayan Sorrow Doll to send off to the winner of my first giveaway.

Now I have another.

I purchased some beautiful origami geisha bookmarks in Japan to share with two of my loyal readers. To enter to win  post a response to this question: What is your most prized souvenir from your travels?

Winners will be chosen next week. Thanks for tuning in.

Happy Trails,

Sojourner

Akihabara: Electric City

Imagine for a moment, the hustle and bustle of New York’s Time Square. The seemingly endless wall-to-wall parade of people, the constant flash of bright neon lights. Feel the energy, the constant go..go…go…

Now multiply the frenzy, the clamor and the flash by ten and you will have Tokyo’s Akihabara, also known as Electric City.

“This place is like New York on crack!” – Mark Williams aka "The Hubby" on Akihabara

If Electric is what you want, electric is what you will get. Everything glows, everything flashes. The noise is loud and intense. People scurry and crowd.

Akihabara has earned fame as the place to go to purchase the latest and most innovative electronics in the world. If you can dream it, you can probably find it here.

This is also the place for cheap (albeit somewhat tacky) souvenirs. Whatever your motivation, whatever your pleasure, Akihabara hosts some of the most intense window shopping and people watching in Tokyo.

Elbows out, chin-up, forge forth!

Tokyo's Tsukiji Fish Market

It’s best to go early. It’s wise to be fully caffeinated and alert. Do not, as we learned the hard way wear flip-flops. Come to accept the fact that your olfactory nerves will be wildly over-stimulated. Have an open mind. Prepare to be over-stimulated and dazzled.

If you’re a lover of flavors, texture, colors, culture and local goods, Tokyo’s Tsukiji Fish Market will be a unique and charming delight. The largest of its kind in the world, a trip to the market is a full event.

Simply stated, Tsukiji is a fish market; fisherman catch a mind boggling variety of fish and sea creatures and then they sell them.

Walking up and down the congested aisles, dodging men on mopeds, bicycles, trucks and rolling flats, I saw the most astonishing variety of fish and sea creatures. Some were dead, some were alive, and some were being butchered. Some I recognized, others looked like beasts from science fiction movies. I’d never seen so many tentacles. My senses were in overdrive. There was yelling and bargaining, there was blood and guts; around every turn a bike raced this way, a truck backed up that way.  The concrete floor is coated in a thick layer of fish-gut-goo. One must concentrate hard not to wipe out. The fish market, which seems to extend for miles, is an aquatic zoo of organized chaos. I use the term organized lightly.

[youtube]http://youtu.be/NeRzOBXdJV4[/youtube]

The fish market proper doesn’t open to the public until 9am (there is an auction at 5 for businesses). It’s best to arrive early because it gets congested quickly. Having arrived around 7:30, we strolled the central market before entering the fish market. There is a large and vibrant central market right outside of the fish market gates where you can find everything from fresh produce, cosmetic grade rice paper, sake and calculators.

As is the case with most central markets, the restaurants and food stalls within its confines are delectable. Lines rolled down the street and around corners for some of the sushi establishments. We stepped into one sushi bar and enjoyed some of the best tuna rolls I’ve ever tasted. The tuna was warm and soft, and tasted of the ocean. It was the fresh catch from earlier in the morning. We noticed some of the prawns, at the sushi counter were still alive. Check out this video.

[youtube]http://youtu.be/efmbeCgqJAo[/youtube]

The Tsukiji Fish Market and the surrounding central market and food stalls are a must if you visit Tokyo, but there are some rules:

Land of the Rising Sun

The mattress is thin, very firm. Lying awake, I imagine the filling is a sea of buckwheat. The support is amazing. The stage has been set for a perfect night’s rest. Only it is not perfect. At home in New York it is three in the afternoon. My mind and my body are not in sync. Ohm, also awake, crawls over my lifeless limbs, giggling and squealing with delight. Despite the darkness, he is ready to play.

“Go to sleep.” I croak. My voice is horse. I’ve been awake now for 36 hours.

He takes a series of enthusiastic laps around the bed then collapses, head to one side. He’s quiet.

Satisfied I roll over preparing for attempt number 25 of sleep for the night, but something goes terribly wrong. A bright ball of hazy white begins to flood in through the parted curtains. I sit bolt-up, thinking perhaps in my delirium that we have come under nuclear attack.

I look at the glowing red numbers to my left. The alarm clock confirms that its 4:15 am.

“Mark!” I shake the still lump that is my husband. My hand is swatted away.

“Mark. M-a-r-k! Something’s wrong. Look.” I point accusingly towards the window. The white glow grows increasingly intense. The baby is on all fours again. We are all squinting in the direction of the window now, writhing beneath the supernaturally bright glow.

“What’s happening?”

Mark gets up. He staggers towards the window to close the curtains.

“The sun.” He grumbles.

“At four in the morning?” I do a double take at the alarm clock.

“This is the east, land of the rising sun.”

Mayan Sorrow Dolls

Mayan Sorrow Dolls

In the median of a highway I spotted her. Beneath the shade of the scarlet flamboyant tree, dressed in the colorful embroidered clothes of the Mayan, she sat smiling, a woven tan basket on her lap. Curiosity piqued, I crossed.

“Hola,” she beckoned.

“Hola.” I pointed towards the basket in her lap.

She leaned the basket towards me revealing hundreds of tiny cloth dolls. Different shapes and colors, they were dressed in a fashion similar to hers.

“Que?” I asked.

“Mayan sorrow dolls.” She said in English.

Mayan sorrow dolls?

I asked what a sorrow doll was, but her English could carry her no farther, and my Spanish had done for me all that it could. I purchased three, thanked her and was on my way.

At the hotel, I shared my purchases with the woman behind the concierge desk.

“Ah, very beautiful. Sorrow dolls.” Her smile held my answer.

“What is a sorrow doll?”  I was bursting with curiosity.

“What is a sorrow doll? Ah, okay.” Leaning forward, bringing her elbows together, she rested her heart-shaped chin in the palm of her hands.

“The Mayan Indians made these dolls called sorrow dolls. They believed that the dolls got rid of human sorrows. If you tell your sorrows or troubles to a sorrow doll, it will worry or grieve in your place and you are free to be happy. These dolls are very powerful.”

The answer to my question came in the form of an inspiring story. I grinned.

“Thank you for sharing that with me.” I placed my dolls back in their bag, glad that I had noticed the woman beneath the tree in the median of the highway.

“Give one to your baby.” She whispered nodding at Ohm, who was nestled against my chest in his sling. “When he is older, and he has a bad dream, or is worried about school. The doll will help him. You’ll see.”

“I like that.” I beamed. “Thank you. I will.”

I walked away inspired by the story of the sorrow doll. The Mayans were true visionaries a world without sorrow, how about that?

Out of the three sorrow dolls that I purchased, I’m going to try my luck with one. The other I’m going to save for Ohm. I’ll share the story of the sorrow doll with him when he is old enough to appreciate it. The final doll I would like to share with one of you.

On August 25^th, I will choose at random, an email address from my subscriber’s list, a simple thank you for reading and sharing my sojourns with me. If your name is chosen, you’ll receive an email from me letting you know that a sorrow doll is on its way.  It will be your turn to share the story.

Cancun, Mexico: Photo Essay

Cancun, Mexico: Photo Essay

Sandwiched between the rolling crystal waters of the Caribbean Sea and a murky green tinted crocodile inhabited lagoon, Cancun, Mexico is an easy-going destination with many personalities.

Immortalized forever, thanks to MTV's spring break specials as the place to go to engage in debauchery under the sun, Cancun is so much more than a place for undergrads to go to get wasted and wild.

Yes, there are endless strips of bars, there are designer shopping malls and cheap sleazy hotels; but there are also pristine stretches of serene isolated beaches, turtle reserves, iguana sanctuaries, lovely locally owned restaurants offering the freshest days catch, a simple and easy-going downtown area, friendly locals, crocodiles, and Mayan ruins.

Cancun is gritty, romantic,  family friendly, it loves to party, it offers solitude, it's seeped in history, it's slow and easy, it is so many things.

Mercado 28

In the heart of central Cancun, thirty minutes (more or less) past the hotel zone on the R2 bus,  you will stumble across the magnificent Mercado 28. Central market, social hub, the place to be seen, the place to eat delicious and simple local food, Mercado 28 is a little bit of everything.

It's easy to loose yourself in the romantic Spanish colonial architecture. It's easy to get caught up in the sights and sounds as you watch musicians wander the narrow cobblestone paths where local artisans sell their wares in cramped haphazard stalls.  Mayans in colorful woven garments quietly sell indigenous crafts, strolling past farmers proudly displaying freshly harvested produce. Mercado 28 is a special place and it's easy to get caught up in the magic of it all.

[youtube]http://youtu.be/lU0tqv1Op4w[/youtube]

Live music at the Mercado

[youtube]http://youtu.be/lH656xVbgB0[/youtube]

Lunch at the Mercado

[youtube]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mUyP2RYX0nw&feature=youtube_gdata_player[/youtube]

Ohm dances at the Mercado

Finding Serenity in Cancun, Mexico

Cancun is so much more than a spring break party destination. There are several strips of beach that are secluded and peaceful.  

At the very end of the Hotel district, our stretch of beach was never crowded. The sand was clean, the turquoise water magnificently clear. We woke every morning to the roar of raw uninhibited ocean waves.

There is something so cleansing and soothing about water. Simply being near the ocean’s undulating roar can be enough to induce a coma of serenity.

Having a stressful day? Lean back, take a deep breath, and press play

[youtube]http://youtu.be/CXWbQ6cw2mE[/youtube]

“Don’t Drink the Water!” and other Mexico Tips

"Have fun, but don't drink the water!" If I had a peso for every time I heard this statement, I’d be a semi-wealthy woman right now.  Yes, fine, you shouldn’t drink the water, but when it comes to Cancun, there are so many other things to consider to ensure a great trip. If you're headed to Cancun, here are some tips:

1. The locals are lovely. Very used to tourists and overwhelmingly warm,  local people are more than happy to chat with you. Ask questions! Ask for food recommendations, ask for directions, ask for shopping suggestions. Get in there and strike up a conversation.
2. A simple Hola and Gracias go a long way. It’s fine if you are not a fluent speaker of Spanish, a little effort goes a long way. Anyone can learn a few key words or phrases and consciously use them when appropriate. It’s respectful and people are really receptive when you make the attempt to communicate in their language. If your attempts take a swan dive, it will be okay, most people speak English fluently. I never studied Spanish, I memorized a handful of greetings and phrases and improvised from there. Luckily for me, I can get by in Portuguese and many of the words were the same in Spanish.
3. If you allow someone to take your bag, or perform a service such as walking you to your destination, make sure to tip. Tips are expected whenever someone goes above and beyond. If you are just asking for directions, you’re fine, no need to tip, but if the person physically walks you to the destination, a tip is expected. If you don’t want to tip or don’t need to be walked, establish firmly that you are not in need of any further assistance, offer a quick thanks and continue on your way.
4. When shopping in any marketplace you are expected to bargain. Prices go way up, when Westerners are spotted. Go ahead, get in there and haggle.  If you are not satisfied with the price, you don’t need to settle, go ahead and walk away. One of two things will happen, the seller will put forth a counter-offer, or you will find an exact replica of what you wanted at another stall and will be able to bargain a price you are happy with. Most items can be found easily in duplicate. Shop around. Make sure that you are familiar with the exchange rate and be realistic in terms of what you want to pay. You shouldn't be ripped off, but local artisans also need to be paid fairly for their hard work.
5. Taxi fare is negotiable. When a Westerner is spotted, drivers see dollar signs. If a fare sounds outrageous, it probably is. Bargain.
6. Ride the public bus. The buses in Cancun are efficient, cheap, clean and easy to navigate. Don’t be intimidated. Most bus drivers will help you. If you ask, a driver will let you know when your stop has been reached. In many cases, you'll be able to get specific walking instructions as well. The bus is also a great way to check out Central Cancun and interact with locals.
7. If you are going to eat in the market place or off of the street (and I hope you do), patron places that are busy. Lines and activity usually indicate good food. If you don’t see a line or other customers, chances are the food is stale or worse...
8. The fish and seafood in Cancun is amazing. Be adventurous. There are so many flavors and textures out there. You will not like all of them, but some you will love. I now have a new appreciation for octopus and have re-kindled my fondness for ceviche.
9. Get off of the resort! Go ahead and enjoy Cancun, it is so much more than a spring break party destination. Cancun is full of culture, is astonishingly picturesque, and is very safe. Cancun, Mexico is a family friendly and romantic travel destination.
10. And of course, when all else fails, don’t drink the water! Don’t brush your teeth with the water. Ask for a straw. Beware of ice.

Bowery Poetry Club Performance

Writing is a solitary art. Hours, days, weeks, months, years are spent assembling and fine tuning the right combination of words. Often these sessions are not witnessed, go unrecognized. Usually we, the writers, get so caught up in the world of our stories, in our  words, that we are unable to view our work objectively, at times unable to separate its energy from our own. I've always favored the write obsessively, edit feverishly, then remove from sight to give the words a chance to marinate approach. The problem with this is the fact that this cycle can be repeated to ad-nauseum, as a piece will never  be "perfect." My fellow writers and first readers are a sanity saver. I feel fortunate to be surrounded by a strong writing community.

A group of friends and I founded a writer's group that has served simultaneously as my social backbone for the last four years. Once a week we meet, drink wine, and share and repair each others manuscripts. I am also a member of the Women of Color (WOC) Wrtier's group, which is incorporated with the Imani House Inc., in Brooklyn. We are currently working to publish an anthology. I've been involved with both the editorial and publishing committees and the experience has been invaluable.

Today, I had the opportunity to participate in a reading at the legendary Bowery Poetry Club with the women of WOC. I love moments like these, rare moments when I can share the fruits of my labor before a live audience, where I am afforded the opportunity to  take in the energy and reactions of those for whom I write.

Below is a video of the reading. I chose to share a piece of flash fiction titled "Memory of Footsteps," which is set to be the final piece to appear in the collection of short stories I'm in the final phases of editing.

I'd love to hear what you think.

[youtube]http://youtu.be/RKM4cDeQmuY[/youtube]

If You Can't Beat Them, Join Them: A Times Square Photo Essay

“One of the gifts of being a writer is that it gives you an excuse to do things, to go places and explore. Another is that writing motivates you to look closely at life, at life as it lurches by and tramps around. ”  -Anne Lamott

It is in the spirit of A. Lamott that I create this post.

The sun had just disappeared and the sharp pinks, blues and yellows of the billboards and signs, illuminated us at once.  Like Peeps on a rapid conveyer belt, we cruised down pockmarked sidewalks, at times spilling over onto the smoky street. Without warning I was being rushed. Whizzing past my right side, tourists clamored to the street corner, elbows bent like wings, cameras posed as the symphony of snaps and flashes began. Not to be outdone, I joined in. I wasn’t quite sure what I was snapping, but I didn’t want to miss out. It wasn’t until the first two rows of people had cleared, that I discovered I was for better or for worse taking a picture of a man dressed as Edward Scissor Hands as he gave a hair demonstration on the corner of 43^rd. Caught up in the enthusiasm, I had become a tourist all over again.

It was Saturday; I was looking forward to a quiet weekend in Brooklyn. I had a bunch of things to catch up on, a yoga client whose session I needed to prepare for, my sister was in town, writing to do, instead, I found myself hastily packing a weekend bag in full flight mode. Quite unexpectedly I was fleeing my Brooklyn apartment so that an exterminator could step in and work his magic. One of the joys of city living and making a home in an old brownstone is the ever-persistent parade of vermin. Since I have Ohm, who is not yet one, and since you can take the girl out of the suburbs, but you can’t take the suburbs out of the girl, we left for a few days to let the chemical residue subside and for peace of mind.

Dusting off my Starwood points I found a last minute deal at the Four Points Sheraton in Times Square. My stomach lurched, Times Square, with its boisterous parade of clamor and glare was not where I wanted to be, then again, neither was my infested apartment. Times Square won, and so it went, that I found myself heading off to my least favorite part of Manhattan, the tourist trap called Times Square on a Saturday afternoon during the peak of its frenzied lunacy.

On a typical day, under normal circumstances, I avoid Times Square by all means. The only exception to this rule is if I am going to take in a show. When this happens, once I surface above ground after riding the train (good luck finding parking), I dart purposefully towards my desired location weaving expertly around tourists stopping too long and most inconveniently to take photos and around vendors attempting to dazzle rather forcibly said tourists into making purchases they don’t need.  After the show, I embark on the same sprint back to the train, where I shuffle down to the village or back to Brooklyn for after theatre drinks and food. Being jostled about and forcibly packed into narrow, neon, noisy streets (hey alliteration), with a bunch of strangers inevitably too close for comfort I find off-putting.

Times Square is not now, nor has it ever been my scene. My weekend of refuge in Times Square has not changed this fact. It has however changed the way I view the area to the extent that I can now appreciate this part of my city, that I had long ago written off.

Times Square is like a flashy but good-natured cocotte. She holds nothing back to lure you in. The buildings are quite impressive. The amount of energy that is compressed into one tiny space, as long as you’re not in a hurry, can be quite invigorating. There is something fanciful about watching a parade of taxis whirl down Broadway. There’s comfort in the sweet smell of roasted nuts, the melodic harmony of foreign languages, and one does get the sense that they can do anything, be anything beneath the spotlight of Broadway theatres (even if Disney has almost taken over). Times Square has her charm, she has her time and she has her place.

If You Can’t Beat Them, Join Them: A Times Square Photo Essay:

Check out my piece on "Go Girl"

I recently revised a piece that appeared on my blog. It was published on "Go Girl!" an online magazine for adventurous female travelers. Here's the link http://www.travelgogirl.com/2012/07/ten-reasons-to-visit-ghana/.

Enjoy!

Coney Island

You will have to forgive my first attempt at putting together a video. They will get better ;0) [youtube]http://youtu.be/ScajsD-6EDo[/youtube]

On the Merits of Boston Cream Pie

There is something so sinfully indulgent about a decadent and rich dessert. One such dessert can change ones outlook from bleak to optimistic, can slowly whittle away at the sorrows of the world, if taken (quite appropriately in my opinion) before dinner, can make the blandest dish surprisingly tolerable. I love a good dessert.

While in Boston recently, I made it my business to indulge in the official dessert of Massachusetts (fact check me, this is true!)- the legendary Boston Cream Pie.

Not actually a pie at all, but a cake, this magnificent concoction was presented to the world in 1856 by pastry chef M. Sanzian who worked at the Omni Parker House. Ornate and decadent in it's own rite, it is only fitting that such a landmark be the birth place of the Boston Cream Pie.

As the home of the original Boston Cream Pie, the Omni Parker House boasts the best pies in Massachusetts. Served by the slice, whole or as mini individual cakes, you have options when it comes to savoring your official dessert. Opting for a mini individual cake, my senses were delighted upon first sight and first whiff.

My knife sliced effortlessly through the center revealing two layers of moist yellow cake, a thick center of creamy rich custard and a thin spread of dark chocolate glaze. The texture, the flavors, blended perfectly in my mouth. The sweet vanilla of the custard, the intense dark chocolate glaze and the buttery cake braided together and danced on my tongue.

There is something so satisfying about a great dessert. The original Boston Cream Pie at the Omni Parker House is well worth a visit to Boston.

The Omni Parker House

60 School Street

Boston, Massachusetts

Go!

Ghana Slide Show

A few weeks back, I published a post entitled Ten Reasons to Visit Ghana. Since I didn't have all of my pictures organized at that time, I promised a slide show in a future post and here it is. Boy has it been an adventure trying to upload these images. My eyes are crossed. In 2005, I worked as a volunteer at the New Life International Orphanage in the Cape Coast region of Ghana. I returned in 2007, with donations from home and was able to catch up with old friends and guest teach my beloved kiddies. Here's my story in images.

[youtube]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WCp24_278Fg[/youtube]

Hartford, Connecticut: A Partial Photo Essay with some musings on the side

  My blog is called Sojourner’s Sojourns, but in reality these days I am rarely just Sojourner. A time not long ago I was simply Sojourner, a curious traveler, often going solo, usually volunteering, most likely you’d find me in a rural village, bare feet in red earth or floating on my back in the ocean.

Now, I travel always with Ohm, my ten-month-old co-conspirator. He’s a great wingman, a cheerful and easy-going companion. Now, I travel often with Mark, my husband, my partner in crime. Our travel personalities are compatible -usually. After three days I drive him crazy; I’m an interactive traveler, he prefers repose.

I have to take breaks often when I travel with Ohm. Unable to see and do everything, I’ve started to rely on Mark to capture images for me. He’s not too shabby.  He thinks he’s ready to go pro.

While in Hartford recently, due to the Puerto Rican Day parade and a certain Mr. Cranky Pants who is cutting his top teeth, I wasn’t able to shoot as many pictures as needed to complete my photo essay. In stepped Mark who captured the following images. Here is our photo essay.

NEW YORK MINUTE

I was recently looking through my short pieces of fiction to see where I could fill the dead spots in a collection of stories I'm currently working on. While this piece, "New York Minute" didn't make the cut, I figured I'd make a space for it here on the blog. "New York Minute" is a slightly (very slightly)  fictionalized re-telling of an incident that happened a few seasons back.

 

The afternoon was promising. It was one of those rare November days where you could smell the memory of summer in the wind bursts that placidly came and went. It was as if summer had taken an encore. Everyone and everything seemed to glow from within.  We had stumbled upon one of those ever elusive, November, your coat is optional, get up and join all of the happy people in the street before it gets too cold, days.

I enjoy showing off my city, the real city, the splendor and grit that lays beyond the insanity that is Times Square. I relished visits from out of town guests. Hailing from Japan, my group was ecstatic. On their first full day in New York, they were drinking in the full Manhattan experience. Playing tour guide, I led our expedition through narrow crowded streets, over brown mystery puddles, in and out of quirky shops, pointing out my favorite restaurants and bars along the way.

Making a right turn onto Ludlow from Houston, we had a plan. We were on a mission to sample the sweet goodness in the display case at my favorite cupcake bakery.

Suddenly, two teenagers darted out of a skateboarding shop, breaking our stride. That was when I heard the sound, a sound I will never forget. My ears rang as a guttural hacking noise, familiar in a sickening way filled the space around us. I looked up just in time to see one of the teenage boys, one of the cutter-offers, hack an enormous phlegm ball over his left shoulder.

Did I mention there was wind? Did I mention the wind was blowing in my direction and that I stood directly behind the boy’s left shoulder? Did I mention that I was mid-sentence, still raving about the cupcakes we were on our way to try?

What happened next, happened so quickly, I barely had time to react. The phlegm particles, foamy white and sticky began to divide in the air as they flew in the direction of my face. I was powerless. My central nervous system entirely and systematically shut down as I felt the saliva and mucous of a stranger spray my lips and nose. There was nothing I could do to brace myself.

Tamika and Makiko stared helplessly, silently as I ran down the list of possible diseases that could result from having someone spit in your mouth. My lips were teeming. But there was nothing that I could do.

And in a move that surprised me, I took a deep breath through my nose, wiped my face with my scarf, and continued to direct my walking tour. I felt disgusting, I felt violated, but more definitively, I was resilient. Three paces later, I turned to my horrified friends, put on a charming smile and announced, “Welcome to New York!”