A dragonfly just landed on the corner of my computer screen. Gorgeous lacy wings. Long delicately furry tail. I moved slowly to get out of my chair to my camera, but he flew off. I think he paid a visit to say “Don’t give up Robin”, so going to put in 15 more minutes trying to get these beautiful sounds of Bali onto this post. 15 minutes later: Yay!!! Thanks to my angel web design & maintenance guru in San Francisco, Bradley Charbonneau (www.likoma.com), you can hear morning and night sounds from Bali. Scroll down to the post before this one. They’re abbreviated versions and you’ll need to crank up the volume, but they’re there. Yay! Thanks Bradley. (Still open to learning how to perfect putting audios in my blog. Anyone want to share?).

More sounds and videos to come!

Love,
Robin

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Anyone out there know how to upload audio sounds? I borrowed several hours from sleep time last night to find software that would convert my wma files to mp3 for the Mac. Found one called Max and it converted them alright but then wouldn’t upload into my Word Press blog, I am assuming because they are too large (6plus megabytes each). Then found Shift, and it worked, but still the files are too large to load onto this blog.

It ought to be easier. I would rather be writing. Is there a techie out there that can help me avoid re-inventing the wheel? Am eager to share the beautiful sounds of Bali during its day and night of silence.

Robin in Bali

Testing Audio

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[podcast]http://www.robinsparks.com/wp-content/uploads/ds400048.mp3[/podcast]

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morning-sounds-ubu…

imeem.com embed

Robins Next Audio –

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This photo taken a few hours ago outside Bali Buddha where I stocked up on groceries in prep for tomorrow when the whole island of Bali goes into silence. It’s a holiday called Nyepi, celebrated the day before the Balinese New Year. No cars, no one allowed outside, in some villages no electricity. No human-generated noise. No movement outside of people’s personal homes. Nothing open.

It is the day that people go inside their hearts and minds to reflect, pray, and meditate about the past year. And the Balinese are also hoping that by keeping the lights off and minimizing human-generated sound that the evil spirits will be duped into thinking no one is home.

I said no to sailing with friends to the Gili Islands, in order to say yes to this incredibly cool holiday. I will record the day and night sounds of Bali-minus-humans. (I’ve heard that every year someone forgets to tell the birds and insects about Nyepi.) I’ll be uploading the soundscapes on this blog, so check back soon. Now off to Tutmak’s to celebrate the night before the day of silence. (: I’ll be thinking about you.

Love,
Robin

(P.S…Next morning I am fully into this day of silence…I even put up a notice that I won’t be checking email and am not reading as that would be someone talking to me. Right? Hmm. This entry probably counts as talking but I couldn’t resist telling you that as over-prepared as I thought I was for today, ($23 on groceries for one person for one day is nearly impossible here, but I pulled it off) I overlooked the need for dishes and cutlery. I am at this moment eating Bali Buddha organic raw granola and milk out of a sugar bowl with the end of my toothbrush. Back to scooping, slurping, and silence.)

[podcast]http://www.robinsparks.com/wp-content/uploads/830pm.mp3[/podcast]

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Do you have an impossible dream? Here’s how you can make it come true. Self help author, Barbara Sher, is having an online Twitter party beginning Monday, March 23; 8PM to Tuesday March 24; 8PM. The occasion? The 30-year anniversary of her bestselling book Wishcraft. You are invited! Once the party begins you can present YOUR wish and obstacle. Watch the magic as everyone at the party helps you to make your dream come true. See you there!

For directions about how to join the party on Twitter.com: http://www.barbarasherwishcraft.com/

Robin

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Everyday is an extraordinary day in Bali.

I began at 6AM this morning with a one hour holosync meditation, which is (in a nutshell) stereophonic sound designed to put take one quickly into an alpha state.

I then wrote on the terrace outside my room overlooking rice paddies, palm and mango trees, fountains, lotus flowers, a garden, and a pool. The staff brought me a breakfast of banana pancakes with palm sugar syrup and fresh watermelon, papaya, cantaloupe, and bananas. I put on a blouse I bought in Turkey, a skirt from India that I bought in Argentina, and flip flops from Brazil. Then I drove myself on a Yamaha scooter to see a house for rent in Nyuh Kuning, Bali by a guy from Oakland. I scootered through Monkey Forest past monkeys and temples and over bridges and up and around jungle ridges, past a man balancing a huge bag of who knows what on his head walking through a rice paddy and wound my way around tarp after tarp of rice laid out in the street to dry.

I ended the day at the open-air Yoga Barn in Bali participating a Osho-designed (India) Sufi (sect of Islam in Turkey) dance meditation, guided by Selina who is from the UK and has lived in Asia for 18 years.

Only one month left in Bali! Scary but a necessary part of the journey.

It is so easy to be here.

Philosophers’ Notes Discussion Group

The touchstone of my 3 months in Bali has been a discussion group I attend three times a week called Philosophers’ Notes. Brian Johnson from Los Angeles has been in Bali for six months writing Cliff Notes-ish summaries on 100 self-development books and in our group we discuss the big ideas he extracts from each one. He records our discussions and puts them on his website.

[caption id="attachment_827" align="alignright" width="291" caption="Our Philosophers\' Notes discussion group leader, Brian Johnson"][/caption]

There was a new guy in our group today, a fan from London who discovered Brian’s Philosophers’ Notes online and came to Bali expressly to meet him. And not a minute too soon because Brian announced today that he’ll return to Los Angeles in two weeks. (Note: Since this blog was posted, Brian has postponed his return to Los Angeles until August. Yay!) He’s been swamped with requests by authors to add their books in his Philosophers Notes selections. And a big name self-help author is advising Brian to expand Philosophers Notes and has hooked him up with the world’s largest spiritual publisher. In partnership, their mission says Brian, “will be to unify the world around a common set of truths.”

It is Brian’s work he says to challenge people to become fully alive. After being in Bali for 10 months “upgrading” his consciousness, he will return home.

All part of the “Hero’s Journey,” a mythical construct that comes up frequently in our discussions. From the intro in The Hero with a Thousand Faces, Joseph Campbell explains the Hero’s Journey like this: “A hero ventures forth from the world of common day into a region of supernatural wonder (Bali in this case): fabulous forces are there encountered and a decisive victory is won: the hero comes back from this mysterious adventure with the power to bestow boons on his fellow man.” I’m not sure what “boons” are, but I’m sure Brian will do a great job bestowing them. (-; To retain the wisdom gained on the quest, to integrate that wisdom into human life, and then share the wisdom with the world is the most challenging part of the Hero’s Journey.

Go Brian!

Today’s Big Ideas

Today’s featured book was “The Other 90%” by Robert Cooper.
First a caveat…I found myself editing the word “God” from the notes that follow and then I stopped and thought, What’s up with this? Why am I comfortable speaking one way here but feel it’s necessary to edit what I say elsewhere? It has occurred to me lately that almost all my friends in San Francisco and Istanbul are avowed atheists. In Turkey secular atheism is understandable as a reflex to the threat of fundamentalist Islam. In San Francisco, I suppose it is a backlash to fundamentalist America.

In Bali, the people I’ve been hanging with openly refer to God, Jesus consciousness, Buddha, Abraham…all the big names in religious history. People here exist on a level that I can’t quite put words to. It’s a polyglot belief system, beyond Christianity, while oddly similar. The words you hear Bali-ed about are energy, vibration, polarity, consciousness, prayer, Goddess…I’m a kindergartner in this language and “way of being”, but I like it. And actually I think I’ve been an accidental practitioner most of my life.

Two years ago I wrote on my Facebook profile that my religious beliefs are: “spiritual, not religious”. I dislike (I was going to write “I hate” but that sounds decidedly unspiritual) dogma and exclusivity, whether it is in the form of fundamentalist Christianity, New Ageism (I received a reprimand from a friend via text message when he heard I was eating at Naughty Nuri’s, a restaurant that specializes in barbequed ribs) or I’m-gonna-convince-you-or-else atheism. Yes, atheism is a belief too. When you believe that your beliefs are the only right ones, you are practicing dogma and fundamentalism. My opinion of course. (-;

Quickly a little about my beliefs, I have always known that there is more than I can see. Since I can remember I have been able to sense things outside the physical plane. I am highly intuitive. I know in some indefinable way that there is a supra-loving, all knowing power both out there and in here, and well, everywhere, because I have experienced it. Repeatedly. And I believe that this super consciousness has manifested on earth a number of times to different ethnic groups as Jesus Christ, Buddha, Abraham, Mohammad…. and all the other “Greats”…If I had to pick one religion that resonates with me most, it would be Sufiism. Followed closely by Tantra.

Anyway, the word God as used in the notes that follow, means something bigger than yourself, which is in you when you are in tune with it. A something more than we can conceive of at our present level of consciousness that exists in every molecule in the universe. A universal intelligence if you will.

There! That said, let’s go…

The “Notes”:

Syntropy – The innate drive to perfect oneself.

Gradualness kills. If you want to make a change, Do it!

A good question to ask yourself is, are you closer to who you want to be and where you want to go than you were 30 minutes ago?

Winners are superior not to other people but to their former selves.

Your dharma, your highest calling, your raison d’etre is the divine expression of your unique truth. Everyone has it. It is when we shrink from expressing it in our lives, work and play, that we become depressed and frustrated. Most people numb the pain of non-expression through television, alcohol, food, drugs, gratuitous sex… fill in the blank here with your favorite numbing substance or activity.

When you take on the challenge to be and give your highest self to the world, you’ll be enthused, inspired, and happy.

You are the average of the five people you spend the most time with.

What are you five signature strengths? Write them down and then make sure that what you do employs these strengths.

In every moment, we have the choice to step forward into growth or back into fear.

Pain is God’s gift – a challenge that helps us to grow as we reach towards becoming our higher selves, or as Brian puts it, “the unfolding of our awesomeness”.

When we get out of our minds and let the thing that is bigger than us, come through us authentically and truthfully, we are at our most powerful.He tells the story of a piano player who announced to his audience, “I am just a piano player, but tonight God is in the house”… Musicians know about channeling. Writers understand. Painters absolutely know. When you are “in the zone”, something bigger than yourself flows through you and the result is magnificence. By the way, it takes 10,000 hours of practice to master a skill. And it is through letting that bigger thing flow through you that leads to excellence.

Go away for one week of complete silence, just you and your journal, and when you get back into the real world the ideas you wrote in your journal will seem insane. Do them anyway. Those ideas were divinely inspired.

Whenever you feel stressed, ask yourself, “How can I best let God flow through me?”

EGO = Edging God Out

Brian says that personal development guru Gay Hendricks’s affirmation is “I expand in success, abundance, and love as I inspire others to do the same.” Hmm, I wonder, is it ok to steal someone else’s affirmation?

Which leads to this one: If there is a path, know that it is not your path.

Are you a weathervane blown every which direction by circumstance? When everyone is freaking out about the economy are you stressed about it too? Or are you a lighthouse, rock solid beaming your light steadily no matter how hard or from which direction the wind blows?

Two of Brian’s top values he says are authenticity and full expression. Beautiful. I may have to borrow these too. (-;

You can gauge a person’s character by how easily annoyed they are by other people and events. Picture a “character meter” with a 10 at one end representing someone unaffected by anyone or anything, and the number 1 on the other, representing someone who is bothered by everyone and everything.

What is your highest ideal for yourself? In every moment how can you demonstrate this by integrating it into your actions?

Embrace your biggest expressions, surrender to the power that is bigger than you.

Aspire to be a 2,000 watt light bulb that can sustain more of God’s flow without blowing.

Adversity – when overwhelmed, ask yourself, what is one thing I can do to gain some control over this situation? Action kills fear. Postponement feeds fear.

That’s a taste of life in Bali and a nibble on the Big Ideas from one “Philosophy Notes” discussion. More soon!

Over and out, Robin Sparks – Ubud, Bali. March 6, 2009, where everyday is an extraordinary one.

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I’ve been on a news sabbatical ( presidential inauguration excepted) for three months. No newspapers, no television, no internet news.

It’s amazing how little I don’t miss when I go without a media fix. The world goes on and the sad fact that people get murdered and bombs go off, is not affected in the least by whether or not I know about it. So the purpose in filling my head with group hysteria and negativity is… what?

In fact, for the past two years I haven’t had a television and very rarely read newspapers and online news. “Important” news gets filtered to me via email from my American friends. Sometimes even the “good” news comes late. Last year, for instance, I’d heard about this young black dude in the running for the Democratic party nomination, but as far as I could tell, he was inexperienced and an upstart and I figured Hilary was a shoe-in. Imagine my surprise when excited emails began arriving from friends who said they were going to vote for this guy who not only had a Middle Eastern name but who had lived part of his life in the Muslim country of Indonesia . My how the quickly the world is flattening. I am an American based in the Middle East and I currently live in Indonesia. Bring it on. I love this. OneWorld at last!

To get current with the presidential nomination and upcoming election, I delved into the “news” around the election and sure enough, I learned that this man named Obama was indeed a contender. And I began to follow the momentum as he won over the hearts of Americans and created hope throughout the rest of the world.

All right then, so I learn about the most “important” world events later than most. The 99% which isn’t important but creates fear, paranoia and fingernail biting? Gone. Poof. No longer part of my consciousness. Not knowing frees up not only my emotional space but tons of time.

The latest hand wringing news which has begun to filter through is about the crashing economy in America. My sister and at least two friends have lost their jobs. That is not good, but they have savings and they will make it through this. Companies are tightening their belts, individuals are hunkering down and stopping the flow of their money. Like a set of falling dominoes, mass consumerism has come to a grinding halt as massive contraction sets in. The amount of real wealth in the world has not changed one iota. Just the perception of it and its distribution. It’s a natural correction. I am also hearing that the government is trying to save us from ourselves by infusing errant companies with borrowed money. Mistake. But does my knowing about it change it? No.

In Bali, the economic crisis if brought up at all, is discussed as an abstract event that is occurring far away.

Foreigners in Bali
The foreigners living here are happy they got themselves and their money out of Dodge. Each day more people arrive to wait out the storm. (Usually women hoping to find love like Elizabeth Gilbert, author of Eat, Pray, Love, but that’s another subject.). A Wallstreet “head hunter” arrived two weeks ago after losing her job and lots of her savings. Shaken and wondering if she could make it here, I assured her that her income from her Central Park apartment alone, not to mention her Hampshires home would more than support her here. She can hardly believe it. But it is true. As long as the rupiah stays low relative to the dollar, foreigners are living like millionaires on less than $15,000 a year in Bali.

And the Balinese?
I doubt Bali will fall prey to this latest crisis. The Balinese certainly don’t seem worried about it so I’ll take my cue from them. Sure tourism will drop off, but they’re used to that, what with a 70% drop in tourism after the bomb in 2002 followed by another bomb in 2004 and the subsequent drop off in tourism after that. Neither of which the island has fully recovered from. Can’t get too much worse here on the tourist front.

But the main reason Bali won’t feel the recession is that the Balinese are a communal society and with the exception of tourism, they are self sufficient. They grow their own food, a lot of which doesn’t even require growing, because it sprouts of its own volition all over the island. Trees droop under the weight of bananas, coconuts, mangos, and papayas. Rice proliferates in the volcanic rich soil. Each Balinese plays a role in planting, maintaining, harvesting – all to assure a smooth cycle of life. There is more than enough water routed through the centuries old irrigation system, from family to family, rice paddy to rice paddy before completing its trip back to the sea. The Balinese make and repair the things they need like housing, clothing and tools. They take care of their own. There are no complicated financial instruments like mortgages and credit. People pay cash. If they don’t have enough cash, family and friends pitch in. And so in Bali, the basic survival needs are provided by Mother Earth and the need for friends, family and loved ones? It’s an integral part of their society. What more do they need?

Oh yeah, fuel. I’m not sure why, but gasoline is dirt cheap here. It costs 50 cents to fill up my Yamaha scooter. Cheap or not, luckily for them, the Balinese don’t need much of it. 95% of Balinese are not dependent on cars for transport. Homes and buildings are open to nature, designed to take advantage of sea breezes and temperatures that vary little year round, so there is no need for heat or air conditioning. Bali should weather the current economic storm just fine.

Last night my curiosity got the best of me and I broke my sorta news fast to read the local Bali Advertiser. So what is making the headlines in Bali?

Indonesia Bans Yoga for Muslims, Triggers Row
Indonesian yoga teachers disputed on Monday that the practice of yoga was damaging for Muslims after the country’s top Islamic body issued a fatwa banning followers from yoga that includes chanting, mantras or mediation (I’m sure they meant “meditation”)…because of a view it uses Hindu prayers that could erode Muslims faith. The meeting of Indonesia’s Ulema Council stopped short of a full ban and said Muslims could practice it as long as it was only for physical exercise…

Egads. I finally find my religion and someone’s threatening to outlaw it.

Bali Government Issues Guidelines for “Nyepi” – the Official Day of Silence
Nyepi, the absolute day of silence that will mark the dawn of a new year on the Bali Hindu calendar bgins at 6am on March 26….
No lights may be lit.
No work may be performed.
No amusements enjoyed.
Silence must be maintained.
People must not venture outside the sealed and silent quarters.
Hotel service staff must stay at work during the 24 hour period as travel between home and job will not be permitted.
All roads will be closed and emptied except for emergency vehicles.
Hotel guests must stay on their hotel grounds thourhgout the 24 hours…
Guest rooms will have their curtains drawn and outside lighting at hotels will be dimmed or extinguished.
Bali’s Ngurah Rai Airport will be closed with no flight operations allowed. Technical and emergency landings only permitted. Any crew landing at the airport between 6am aon March 26 until 6am the following morning will not be allowed to leave the airport terminal.
All Bali sea ports will be closed.
The once monthly tsunami alarm testing that occurs on the 26th of each month, will not take place in March.

I’ll write more later about this holiday. But here’s the deal. It’s the day that the Balinese hide out from evil spirits who come looking for trouble on that day. The Balinese figure if they hide and the island is quiet and dark, the bad guys will think no one is home and they’ll skip over the island in search of someone else to pick on.

Human Head in a Box Mystifies Authorities
A human skull found in a parcel by authorities when they xrayed the packet at the Ngurah Rai Post Office on January 28th continues to mystify authorities. A spokesman from the Sanglah forensic department said that it appeared that the skull was not a fossil, or intended for medical science or study, but appeared to be part of some sort of ritual as the skull had some kind of markings etched into the bones…

Danpasar Police Crack Down on Shirtless Motorcyclists
…Denpasar’s traffic police will soon be taking action against drivers, presumably male, cruising Bali’s roads bare-chested. Declared “Operation Sympathetic”…a police official confirmed that special attention would be given to foreign male tourists…the police spokesman also said a failure to wear a shirt can result in greater injuries when cyclists fall and make contact with asphalt road surfaces.

The Balinese Haunting Hour
Midday in Balinese is called tengai tepet and is one time of the day to be aware of. Even today many Balinese will not sleep at midday or embark on a a journey for fear of misfortune or being possessed by a demon that may be ‘lurking in the mist’…The ‘haunting hour’… occurs at dusk..Demons are thought to be present in great numbers at this time and it is the best time to put out offerings to them…made up of flowers, and incense stick, rice parcels and liberal splashes of rice wine called arak brem (demons have a penchant for hard liquor, of course.) It is recommended that you not sleep during this time for fear of possession…some Balinese maintain that whistling can attract demons, particularly witches which have transformed themselves into leyak (menacing fireballs or other manifestations of evil.

That’s it! All the news that’s fit to print in Ubud, Bali. Now back to my bubble.

Robin Sparks
just after bathing in the holy springs of the Hindu temple, Tirta Empul in Bali.

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Escape the World – three words that like a siren song tugged at my weary soul. Nine years of life on the road and a recent move to a foreign country had taken their toll. In spite of a multitude of reasons Not To Go, I went anyway, escaping the winter of Istanbul. I’d been in Bali for one month, a virtual paradise in and of itself, when I graduated to heaven by attending an “Escape the World” retreat held at the Kumara Sakti Resort in Ubud, Bali.

Located on the property of a Balinese prince, Kumara Sakti Resort is tucked in and around the jungle on the side of a ravine. From my room with its windowed walls, I can neither hear nor see another human soul except for a tiny dot on the horizon, which upon further inspection, is a farmer leading his ducks through a rice paddy. Just outside my room a tree bends over from the weight of several bunches of bananas. Larger than life waxy leaves dance in the breeze, so brightly hued they appear to be fake. It’s easy to see where the inspiration for the batik textile on my bed came from – the patterns for Bali’s famous ikat sprout all over the island. I stretch out on the hand-carved Balinese bed enveloped by a white mosquito net on the balcony to try something I don’t do very often. Nap.

Hand carved stone paths and steps meander, climb and fall next to streams and tiny waterfalls and statues to the Gods and lead to the dining hall, the yoga pavilion, and further down to the second pool. The only sounds aside from rain pattering on leaves, a rooster crowing, birds tweeting, frogs croaking, and geckos geckoing, is the deep resonant gong, calling us to yoga twice daily, and the tinkling of a bell to wake us at 6:30AM each morning. That’s right — just me and eight others in the jungle hailing from Holland, Jakarta, Australia, France, Sweden, Singapore, and America. The staff quietly attends to our every need and then some. When we return to our rooms each evening after dinner, there is a fresh frangipani blossom on our turned down beds, the candles on our balconies have been lit, and fresh incense placed on our tables. Although it’s a five minute drive to the center of Ubud, we may as well be a million miles away.

On our first evening we meet for tea and desert on the opulent terrace of the residence of the prince. Partners of One World Retreats, Claude Chouinard and Iyan Yaspriyana, introduce themselves and give us a preview of the week ahead. Claude tells us about Balinese rituals and traditions so that we can incorporate them into the upcoming week.

Among a handful of upcoming activities that include not only yoga and spa treatments, but forays into “real” Bali, we learn that we will attend a purification ceremony at a Balinese temple tomorrow night and are shown how to wrap our sarongs and secure them with temple sashes. One sarong for the outside, and one to be worn inside for bathing in the purifying spring waters. Claude encourages each of us to come up with an intention for the week to think about at the ceremony.

The next evening we go together to the temple and kneel behind a Balinese priest. Waving his hands in the smoke of the incense and holding up flower after flower in prayer clasped hands, he chants in Balinese. Whatever he is asking for and whoever he is asking it from, thank you very much. I am sure that I can use it and I accept it gratefully. We then bathe in the holy waters of the temple pausing under each of eleven fountains to make a wish before letting the healing waters rush over us. There is a longer line than most behind the relationship fountain.

Walking through waist-deep water sheathed in white linen and dipping under its surface reminds me of my Christian upbringing – the significance that water plays in cleansing and renewal. I’d been thinking that 2009 would go down as the year that I began a new life. In the year 2000 I began living abroad for months at a time in various countries in order to write about those who leave home to find a new one, as well as the stories of my own inner journey in search of a new tribe. I’ve been telling friends that my book has gestated for nine years and that it is time for it to be born. Two weeks ago, I laid in the middle of a kundalini healing circle and saw an amphibious-like shell falling away, and something raw, tender, and innocent, emerging. Might the book be a metaphor for me?

The next morning at 6:45 am I am stepping gingerly on the beautiful inlaid stones beneath my feet, shimmering wet after all night rain. The smell of jasmine in the air, deep gong signaling the beginning of another day. In the open air yoga pavilion overlooking the jungle, Iyan guides us through meditation and yoga with his deeply resonant voice, both soothing and eerily reminiscent of the chanting of the priest last night. Ommmmmmmmm. Iiifff youuuuur miiiind (up and note or two on the word mind) has gone awayyyyyy (up again on last word) bring it baaaaaack (stretch out the word back and bring it down a half note). One of the attendees has never before done yoga. Two are regular yoginis and the others, like me, are on and off practitioners. Our different levels are seemingly irrelevant. Iyan’s intuitive guidance offers precisely what each one of us needs when we need it.

After yoga, we eat breakfast in the open-air (of course) dining room. Black rice pudding with warm coconut cream. Fresh papaya, mango, pineapple, banana, yogurt, home made crunchy muesli, and a delightful bread that can best be described as crunchy, nutty, wholesome, slightly salty, and yummy. These are but a few of the selections on the menu. Master chef and raw organic cooking specialist, Ceciia Chaimberlan of Sweden, owner of Curly Foods (insert website url here) is training the kitchen staff this month. From the “Happy Salad” with its center of finely chopped green olives, lemon zest, olive oil, black pepper, naked cashews, and a side of tamari sauce, to the chocolate mousse which is so delicious that we raid the refrigerator to scrape the remains from the mixing bowl (imagine our surprise when Cecelia reveals the mousse is actually mashed avocado!), each meal throughout the week is a mouth watering concoction of raw organic ingredients. Cecilia says that for food to be truly nutritious, it is essential that it not only be healthy, but that it be prepared with loving hands. Fete acompli!

Early one morning, we drive up the summit of Mr. Gunung Batur and as the sun’s first rays beam over the rim of the volcano, we do sun salutations. Amazing. We gradually descend on mountain bikes past gob-stoppingly gorgeous rice paddies and through villages where the Balinese are going about their ordinary (albeit extraordinary to us) daily lives.

When first informed about the day of silence, some of us are a bit dubious. What, no talking? No phone calls or instant messaging? For 24 hours? Claude suggests we spend some of the time writing affirmations. (but no reading allowed). As it turns out, it is the day of silence that sets a transformative tone for the rest of the week and we love it. I for one, resolve to make a day of silence a regular ritual in my life. One of the participants, Andra from Jakarta says later, “It was the day of silence that changed my outlook on life. On that day I found that I’ve been searching for happiness in all the wrong places. That I have all the answers within me. It was a real awakening.”

A bridge leads from the resort through the jungle into the rice fields and eventually to one of the most unique, awe-inspiring, delicious, healthy open air restaurants in Bali – Sari Organik – situated next to the farm where it grows its own produce. There surrounded by a palette of colors, smells and sounds that are pure bountiful Bali, we laugh and relax and eat together, and I slurp through a hollow tube of bamboo the best mango lassie I have ever tasted in my life.

The spa treatment rooms are open to views that simply have to be seen and experienced to be believed. It is in this setting where we are expertly and reverently kneaded and massaged. I have never and doubt I will ever again experience anything like the three-hour ayurvedic massage that is the specialty of the trained masseuses at Escape the World retreats. The pedicure and manicure, the hair cream bath, the head and shoulder massage, the crown chakra anointing of oil, oh yes, those too are divine. But the ayurvedic massage not only puts me in a deep state of relaxation, but brings up insights and melts away negativity. I have long dreamed of living in Bali, and now here I am sitting smack dab in the middle of my dream my feet being washed lovingly, my shoulders being massaged looking out at what must be the most beautiful place on the planet. The world is my mirror. What I see, both good and bad, I create. It’s an analogy I’ve heard before. But it is not until this day during this massage at this moment as I sat here looking out at these scalloped mirrored rice paddies that the words take root. The world is my mirror. If I created this, I am one drop dead gorgeous woman!

Instead of ruminating on all the things my boyfriend does that bug me, I begin picturing the perfect loving partner all the way down to his calf muscles. The person in our group who annoys me with her deluge of derogatory comments about Americans? She too is my mirror and all negative thoughts about her go the way of the knot in my back.

Wrapped in a sarong and holding a mug of hot ginger tea, I’m seated on the terrace in a full-on post-massage glow thinking I smell like a frangipani flower and look like an oil spill. I don’t ever want to shower again!Someone emerges from an adjoining treatment room and sits down next to me. Guess who? That’s right. Her face glowing like an angel, we smile at each other, Goddess to Goddess. Duchess to American.

On the last morning we meet in the yoga pavilion to create from palm leaves Balinese offerings like the ones we have seen piled up on altars and stone Gods all over the island. Seated in a circle, we watch in silence as Iyan burns the pieces of paper we have given him, containing lists of things we want to eliminate from our lives. He covers the ashes with flower petals and takes the basket to the river. We watch from above as he first prays and then releases the petals and ashes, allowing them to flutter on the currents down to the river below to be carried out to sea. They back up behind a branch that has fallen across the water, but I turn and walk away in peace, confident that it is but a temporary obstacle that will soon be washed away on the current.

The Escape the World retreat touches parts of your heart and soul that a boot camp-like yoga retreat simply can’t reach. It is more than a meditation workshop, where one spends 99% of their time in their heads. And it is far more than its delicious healthy inventive meals and mesmerizing massages. The Escape the World Retreat is a buffet for all the senses. And isn’t balance what the body and soul craves nearly as much as food and water? Find out all about how to escape your world at www.oneworldretreats.com.

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Do you find yourself waiting to do what you love until after you retire? After the children leave home? After you finish taking care of that other person’s needs? After, after, after…

Are you living the Life Deferment Plan?

You’re not alone. There is a way out.

First, identify what you really want. You know you are doing what You want when you are infused with enthusiasm.The word enthusiasm comes from the Greek word entheos, which means to be inspired by a god. When you are enthused, you are plugged in, and the energy flows. You are in alignment with Source – your purpose for being on the Planet. Not only will you feel good, but everyone around you will benefit as well. Marianne Williamson says that when you let your light shine, you give permission for those around you to do the same.

For those of you who feel it’s your mission to put others first, if you feel any resentment around what you are doing – that you are sacrificing time that you would rather spend on yourself, stop immediately and reconnect to Source, to yourself. Giving comes happily and naturally when you are doing what you love.

How? For some it is exercise, for others art, meditation, yoga, dance, travel, spirituality – whatever it is that takes you back to the place where you remember who you are and what you love. Go there daily to remember and then take at least one action step per day to honor yourself and those around you by taking time for you. Ayn Rand, author of the Fountainhead, says that it is a far greater gift to others to inspire others by being your highest self, than to directly assist them at neglect to yourself.

Your family, your loved ones, your friends, your employers – some of them will resist at first, but those who have your greatest interest at heart will grow to understand that you are not abandoning them. They will eventually rally around what you are doing. Some people, perhaps even a job, will drop away. But do not fear! A void is necessary to draw in the right people and opportunities.

I abandoned my life deferment plan 10 years to begin living and traveling around the world to tell the stories of some of the world’s greatest adventurers. I am not rich. I meet people living uncommon lives all the time and they are usually not rich either. All it takes is creativity and the willingness to look outside of the box, and the courage to go against the grain.

A month ago I moved from my now-home in Istanbul to Bali for the winter. Tons of self-inflicted guilt and resistance came my way, even a last minute injury almost causing me to cancel, but I came anyway, and it has been a precious, nourishing, and so RIGHT experience in every way!

I’ve not entirely mastered this skill of taking time for me. A few weeks ago a gorgeous Venezuelan man living in Bali began courting me. He helped me find a place to live, helped me move, introduced me to a meditation group in an ashram, a philosophy group, in essence he took care of me and I ate it up. Once seduced however, he began trying to convince me that anything that took me away from him should be eliminated. And for two days I found myself at his home in the jungle doing the things that mattered to him. I think I wrote for 20 minutes during those 2 days. We didn’t socialize with anyone else. My yoga classes dropped off. He said I should give up my home in Istanbul and move to Bali to live with him. He even tried to convince me that the offer of a free retreat I’d received in Bali in exchange for writing an article should be turned down because it would mean he couldn’t see me for a week.

Uh-oh, the old familiar feelings of losing myself came flooding back. How many times must I hit my head against this same wall before I finally get it? I “escaped” quite literally from his home in the jungle and am still struggling to resist his persistent overtures. I, like everyone, need love. But must I give up me for love? I’m trying to be ok with a void in my love life, keeping the faith that the right man for me will be in alignment with what I am doing (and me with what he is doing) and will support it, not ask me to abandon it.

As for you, whether it be a spouse or lover a job, a member of your family, societal expectations, whatever – remember that when you do what you love, you are entheos, and not only you, but everyone around you wins.

This is so important that I encourage you to join us this coming March 27-29, 2009 at a Time For Me conference in the Virginia mountains near Washington DC. Best selling author and speaker, Barbara Sher, will be the key note speaker– www.barbarasher.com. I’ll be speaking too, telling the stories of my global adventures these past 10 years and the amazing people I’ve met along the way.

Come take time for you. It will change your life. NoTimeForMe.net

Robin Sparks founder of OneWorld Ltd
Istanbul, Turkey
www.robinsparks.com

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My first night in Bali I struggle to stay awake at 8:12. Like a princess in some kind of eden, I sit perched on my large teak four poster bed, high above the turquoise pool below, the uplit banyon tree, the night sounds of the jungle. (I am the guest of Ketut, owner of Tutmak Restaurant) And the occasional chirp of a gecko. All is quiet except for the night sounds. There is air conditioning, but I have all the windows thrown open wide, have touched my skin with citronella to ward off night insects, and so me who normally cannot sleep, will sleep tonight sans earplugs, plus a chorus of crickets, frogs and who knows what else, and the sound of the dripping rain, just dripping not falling. Gentle as is Bali. On white crisp sheets. I will let down the netting around my bed. And in the morning, light will stream into my room and likely the sounds of the night will wake me, but it will be like camping.

There is AC but I don’t want it. It is not hot. Humid yes, and so you move a little more slowly, but hot, no. Not even warm really. It just is, the temp it might be in a botanical garden with less humidity. I want a life where I live in concert with the outdoors. I don’t want to shut it out.

This is the house that Ketut told me five years ago he was going to build. It is still a work in progress.
And I will read Rumi until I fall asleep.

And so I do. Only to wake up sometime in the soft darkness, rain still tapping the leaves on the tree off my terrace, frogs still croaking, so much softness everwhere holding me. Bali embracing me. I get up in my jet lagged early awake time and rearrange my things. Unpack my bags. Everything now in its place. I look at the clock. It is midnight. Ah, jetlag. I take a sleeping pill. And make a list of what I will do tomorrow. I pad around quietly in the soft night on bare feet. Maude and Harold the dogs sleep outside my window on my private terrace.

First morning 12/13/08

This morning I wake enveloped in the soft muslin hanging around my teak canopy bed, perched high above the banyon trees, sun is out. Soft voices below. Yes, I am in Bali I remember. I get up and move about slowly. There is all the time in the world. Wash face. Lay out clothes, prepare makeup, my things for the day. At some point I glance at the clock on my phone. It is 8am. 8AM! and it feels so right. So rested. 8am only comes at home when I have an appointment, someplace to be. But now i remember how I lived in Bali. How everyday in this equatorial island ends at 6PM and begins again at 6am. Down with the sun, up with the sun.

James Johnson, That’s all right, that’s alright playing in Tutmak’s where I sit having my first cup of Balinese coffee….I sit on platform having removed my pink flip flops.

The quiet of Bali is disturbed only by the motorcycles, everywhere. Too bad they don’t have a law requiring people to ride what they call here pushbikes. Then it would truly be paradise. But not as much fun.
This morning, like in a foreign film, I got up my full skirt, cotton blouse, pink flip flops and simply pointed the boys at the house the direction I want to go. I am handed a helmet, and board the back of the motorcycle. We start and stop up the wending muddy path, stopping only to allow a group of five men who are carrying a large knarly branch, big enough to take up the breadth of the muddy path, and then we go, me watching, trying to memorize landmarks so that I can find my way back.

Off the muddy path, we turn right at a gas station, and a something Gengis Guest house sign. Soon we pass the Arma museum on the right and we keep going until we turn at , eeks, what was there where we turned? I hope to remember when I go again. Straight along until soon we have pulled up in front of Tutmak’s.

Drums, beeps, American jazz, and buzzing, buzzing motorcycles.

breakfast – fresh papaya juice. #2 breakfast, toast, avodacdos, eggs, arguala, bacon, chives, grilled tomatoe. Sitting crosslegged on cusions on a platform at a low teak table.

Today I will rent a motorcycle. Get millions of rupiahs (you take off the last four digits to get the equivalent in dollars). Go get a massage ($6!) and pedicure and manicure and facial. I will check in with Marcioux the fat frenchman who owns Highway internet cafe. I will get him to help me send photos to my doctor of the not quite healed open wound from recent surgery. I will find a pharmacy and steri strips, and a health food store where I will stock up on vitamins and natural skin creams.

I will write. Complete assignments 8 and 9 before requesting number 10. I am so inspired to write here. I wrote my forum yesterday:

“Made it! None of the horrific things that even I worry about before taking a big trip happened. I am sitting barefoot outside drinking a fresh mango lassi, watching women walk up the hill balancing towers of fruit on their head. Across the street is an ornate temple gate leading to someone’s home with some kind Hindi god statues, and out walks a woman just now and she’s placing burning incense and tiny offerings everywhere on the ground. And who’s on the sound system but Waylon Jennings… You can run but you can never really hide.

Anyway, here I am ready to get back to work. I’m in that first excited phase before jetlag kicks in. I did a lot of work in good old pen and ink enroute (couldn’t find an adaptor to fit a Turkish plug so computer was useless, but guess what? They use the same size plugs in Bali so I’m golden here) on Assignments 8 and 9 and will transfer them to ‘puter tonight and request #10 tomorrow.

And for those of you who are thinking, how lucky… must be nice to have that kind of money. I flew here on frequent flyer miiles and I am the guest of the owner of a restaurant here who I let stay in my SF apartment years ago. My flats are rented in Istanbul, and even if I were paying for my own place here, which eventually I will be, I save money because the cost of living is so much lower here than “home”. My bedroom – a huge canopy bed and tile bathroom open to the outdoors, and just outside my bedroom is a garden with a pool. The living room has a stream running thru it with koi fish and goldfish…The owner won’t be here for a few days, but told his staff to take care of me.

Point is, magic is free (or very cheap). You don’t have to settle for ordinary. – Robin”

A member of the forum replied:

“Dear ObiWan-Cinderella,

Please teach me how! I long to drink a fresh mango lassis in Bali,
instead of sipping weak coffee from a styrofoam cup in a Comfort Inn
in rainy PA.

Oh, my! Do I!

I’m happy for you and thankful you made it there safely and in one
piece. I’m happy to just to read about your life, for it brings a
moment of fantasy and sunshine and escape into my dull gray one.

I dream of following you on a journey, and having you be the tour
guide that opens my eyes to a life I can barely imagine. And the funny
part is – I know you can do it.

And I am so thankful that I know you! You are a tonic for my tired soul.

Please write more – and often.

Much love and gratitude,
Jennifer”

I will go home late this afternoon or evening and swim.
So few distractions. If there is daylight after writing, I will visit the Yoga Barn where I will meet a friend and sign up for classes next week.

I will shower and dress and return on this Saturday night to the Jazz Cafe. The first place I went 5 years ago and ended the evening on the back of a motorcycle with a woman with long flowing red hair, tatoos up and down her ankles, leaning into the turns on a cool Balinese night, the smell of jasmine and clove cigarettes in the air, a full moon illuminating the way.

Robin in Bali
Saturday, Dec. 13, 2008

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http://thanksgivingstory.weebly.com/index.html

Refugees

by Robin Sparks

I am up before the sun speeding in a taxi to the Istanbul airport to work with Iraqi refugees who are headed to, of all places, the United States, the country that I have voluntarily left behind. I am a refugee from America.

Refugee: One who has crossed an international border and is unwilling or unable to return home because of persecution or a well-founded fear of persecution on account of race, religion, nationality, membership in a particular social group, or political opinion.

Well, if I count all the rednecks in America including some who have been in power recently… Nah, I probably still wouldn’t qualify as a bonafide refugee, although I certainly feel like one.

So who are these Iraqi refugees and why are they leaving, and why for the USA for god’s sake?

(more…)

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Well, here I am again at long last. It’s as if I deserted my soul when I left this blog untended….You’ve even stopped writing to ask why no recent updates. I’ve lived in Argentina and Turkey these past 18 months. My website update time was gobbled up with the new job of acting editor and columnist for EscapeArtist.com’s new travel zine. It was great, I learned a lot. We’ve now parted ways and I’m here to say, it’s good to be back.

I’ve got some major tales to catch us up!

Best of all, I think I’ve found IT. Home. In the most unlikely, or the not so unlikely of places. At the center. In the first country I came to after abruptly leaving the old tribe 10 years ago. My new home is perhaps not so surprisingly, geopolitically smack dab in the middle of the undeclared West vs. Middle Eastern war. That’s right. I’m in the middle where I most like to be. I’m in Istanbul, Turkey and it rocks.

But let’s get started connecting the dots to how I got here. Come along!

Robin

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January 26, 2006 was the departure date on my airplane ticket from San Francisco to Bangkok. From Bangkok, I’d go to India, and from there to Bali.

India has beckoned me for years, especially Kerala. With more and more jobs being exported to India every day and with its new role as an emerging world power, India seems destined to be a next best place. I wanted to meet the Americans and Europeans who are moving to India, to get a glimpse of what their lives are like.

Bali – On this island I’d felt so at home during my five months there, that I left some money in a bank account and a box of personal effects with a friend. How is it that three years later, I’ve yet to return? There have been things like bombs that went off in the night. And the sticky web of time and commitments in the States. But maybe its just that at some level, I fear that I will discover that, Yes, Bali is home. Which means taking the final (or first?) step and going.

On January 30: A week before my planned departure, I received a call from EscapeArtist.com. They were hatching a new online travel magazine and wanted to know if I’d be interested in wearing an editor’s hat.

And so, one week before departure date, I aked my travel agent to re-route my trip to Argentina.

Two months later, March 26, 2006 – I began my stay in Argentina last month on a 75-acre farm in the wine and orchard region of Mendoza.

Today I am sitting in my lovely apartment in Buenos Aires, Argentina finishing what will be the first issue of EscapeArtist Travel Magazine.

There have been rabbit trails, oh yes. Like the emergency appendectomy I had in a rural hospital, followed by a move to Buenos Aires, and a trip to Uruguay for an international real estate conference. I’ll tell you all about it in EscapeArtist Travel Magazine, www.escapeartist.com.

See you in Turkey June 3 for the experience of a lifetime!!! Sign up now!

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Make your choice, adventurous stranger:
strike the bell and bide the danger
or wonder, till it drives you mad,
what would have happened if you had”

–the quote is from C.S. Lewis, author of
“The Chronicles of Narnia”.

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I picked the movie for its title, but it was the story that wedged its way into my heart.

A HOME AT THE END OF THE WORLD is about how loved ones enter and exit our lives not always on schedule. It re-examines the definition of family, of friends, and lovers. And finally, it argues that home isn’t so much about the Where as about the Who. A Home at the End of the World reinforces what I was beginning to suspect, that Home is People, Community and Love. (All in a warm place of course!)

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August 22, 2005

Why have I moved from checking the pulse of Asia to revisiting South America? And why Brazil?

Brazil is categorized in investing circles as a developing country. Which means it’s a poor country with lousy infrastructure and unfathomable corruption OR it is a country overflowing with natural resources and on its way to becoming a first world country.

Brazil is both, the former being a legacy of its past, and the latter its growing reality. From developing country to an emerging one. While America has focused post 9-11 on security and imperializing Iraq, Brazil has been busy setting up a partnership with China – one based on supplying the world’s growing super power with raw materials.

Why should Americans consider moving to Brazil?

Europeans rediscovered Brazil and have been moving and investing there in droves, most noticeably over the past five years. In fact, so many Portuguese have bought up Northeast Brazilian land lately, that lawmakers in Brasilia are trying to pass laws limiting the amount of Brazilian land that can be purchased by the former colonizers.

In Brazil I repeatedly met with surprise when people learned that I was American. So few Americans visit Brazil, much less live there. Yet, certain regions are filled with French, others with Portuguese., and although I didn’t make it there, Southern Brazil is full up with Germans.

Sixty-nine percent of North America’s population is between the ages of 40 and 59. That’s a lot of aging baby boomers who are or will soon be concluding that their dream of owning a home is a pipedream. And that they’re going to have to continue working like indentured servants just to stay even.

There is hope though, that by moving across the U.S. border, an American’s financial picture can brighten considerably. Not only can one buy a house, but they’ll have access to quality health care, delicious fresh food, clothing, a warm, laid-back environment – and still have money left over to squirrel away in savings! The cost of living in America has soared, while the benefits of being an American dwindled.

I’m betting that American zenophobia will have dissipated within the next five years – after most of America’s corporations have taken many of their (American) employees with them. As anyone who reads or watches the news knows, this process is well underway.

While immigrants chasing the American dream will continue to stream across North America’s borders, I believe that aging Americans who have tired of the game, not to mention gone broke, will head South. Younger ones will follow as business opportunities and a better life beckon them.

Case in point: Huge numbers of retirees travel regularly over our northern and southern borders to buy medications, to have dental work done, to have surgery, to buy second homes. How long will it be until they decide it’s cheaper and easier just to move acrossthe border? And how about the number of major corporations moving to foreign countries, and the jobs opening in those countries. How long will it take young Americans to realize that an American salary goes 10 times further in a foreign country?

Planned foreign communities are popping up in exotic locations. Foreign banks are beginning to offer mortgage financing abroad. And hey, consider the sheer numbers of expatriates who have already retired to Mexico and Costa Rica.

The mass migration has not only begun, it is in full swing. “Go west young man!” has become “Go South Old Man.”

I am back in Brazil to meet the expatriates who have already arrived. To get a feel for the land, the community, the culture, the politics, the economy, and ultimately to find out if Brazil is a place where I’d be willing to tie up my horse.

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I have a soul connection with other expats I meet in the world, an unspoken understanding that I don’t have with non-traveling Americans. When I meet another world traveler, it’s as if I have come home, found my tribe. It is not uncommon for me to run into someone in one country that I met in another. And I can tell within a moment of conversation back home if a person is a citizen of the world. It’s not so much what they say, as a way of being.

My gypsy soul rules my roost – home is here, it is there, it is everywhere! I really do need a base, or so I think sometimes, and so I am told nearly all of the time.And so I continue to look for community, and a place where I can live comfortably doing work I love. (Or at least leave my stuff while I’m gone.) Maybe I should consider hard core journalism being on the scene to report what’s happening behind the scenes at the planet’s latest disaster. Maybe not. Working for a non-profit? Perhaps. But non-profits as far as I can tell, are in serious need of good business managers and an army of organizers, not more story tellers.

As for San Francisco, I love the intellectual stimulation I get living here sometimes, though, I wonder if I’d like NY better or at east as well. I’m a little up to here with the disproportionate number of gays in this part of California (that is sooo non- P.C. to write much less say, that I’ll probably be banned from the Bay) and the waaay left political leaning, so far they’re about to fall into the Pacific, non-tolerant of any other point of view than their own, and the way we are so serious (lighten up San Franciscans! Wear some color for God’s sake! Get out of your heads and into your bodies!) I sometimes wonder why I am living in one of the places where numbers-wise, I am least likely to find a partner. And even if I were to meet a wonderful straight man, he would have to be a traveler – how many American men do you know who can travel more than 2 weeks a year? But the biggest obstacle to my settling into this wonderful city, is it’s high cost, and it’s low opportunity to earn money as a writer.

If I were only willing to trade my time for money, I could call this most expensive of cities, San Francisco, home.

I do love the fact that on any given day or night, there is a dizzying array of things to do from the literary, to the artistic, to the crazed and silly, to the outdoors. I could never be bored here. And that’s huge.

Ideally, I can do both. Live in SF and elsewhere. I’m also enjoying a new friendship with a wonderful gal who I sense is growing wary after my last trip to Brazil, and my two upcoming trips in the next two months, and my constant musing about where to go next. Is she going to disappear again? I can feel her thinking.

A friend emailed me today with the solution. The live aboard boating life!. A sailboat – a home that I can live in while I follow the sun, explore the world, and with the right pilot for a mate, we’d be at home, among a fleet of sea gypsies. Sort of like my parents’ generation with their RV’s. Only instead of big wheels, we’d have big sails.

But what about storage?

I sailed today between the Golden Gate Bridge and the Bay Bridge with an international group of six. Lots of interesting talk about life in Europe. I can’t wait to get back to the Mediterranean. This summer! Beginning with the June trip in Turkey. That is (as everyone on the boat agreed) one of the most amazing countries, a bridge between east and west. Turkey has a quality that will not last, indeed, is already changing as it prepares for acceptance into the EU. There is no city like Istanbul.

It’s lonely being an American who wants to be an International. Most of my country kin are entirely happy, never living a day anywhere outside of our borders. And they are suspicious and wary of those who want to leave, at least that’s been my experience. I’ve gone through a number of friends and boyfriends, each gradually pulling away as I leave again and again. If I’d just stay, they say I’d grow an army of friends here. I say, if you’d just travel, we’d be closer.

Almost all Europeans leave their country to live elsewhere for at least one month per year – it is the reason I believe that they have a wiser perspective about world affairs and personal values.

I am most inspired to write when I am on the move, literally, as when riding on a train, a bus, or sailing on a boat. Who knows? With a little wind in my sails, maybe I will finally finish The Book.

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September 24, 2005 Back in San Francisco

Well y’all, I’m back from Brazil. I guess you’ve noticed I didn’t post anything while I was gone, much to my self-flogging chagrin. I’m resisting the urge to lay out reams of excuses here, so let’s just say that the world is not yet San Francisco. My plans for being the blazing road blogger went the way of my four-wheel on the dunes of Northeastern Brazil. It sunk.

I did however, write like a maniac . Daily and multi-daily. Even while bouncing up and over shifting moonscapes through lost-in-time-towns, I was seen making chicken scratches in notepad after notepad.

The challenge about writing a blog, and now that I think about it, in all good writing, is how to coalesce scads of material into one or two nuggets of epiphany.

Blogs weren’t meant to be Pulitzer Prize fodder. Yet I can’t bring myself to sign my name to a diary of drivel, grammatical and spelling-errored musings. I respect your time way too much and I am way too vain.

In search of the middle way, I will back-blog a few thoughts, emails, experiences, and perhaps an insight or two from this past month in Brazil. Keep in mind the words a few. Otherwise, I’ll be here until I’m 80 years old writing, for God’s sake, a blog.

It is good to be back….You know you’ve got wanderlust bad when you’re dreaming about the next best place two days after getting home. I have two more trips planned before the New Year. But then that’s another story.

Hang on. Here we go, back to Brazil. Starting at the beginning.

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Auguest 26, 2005

Rio de Janeiro, Brazil

I took my Apple to the new highly touted Mac Spa in San Francisco. When I picked it up the night before leaving for Brazil, my Mac G4 had received a new brain called Tiger. I added lots of new and improved memory, and a mic so that with Garage Band, it could function not only as my secretary, but as my traveling sound studio.

My Mac had received a new iLife!

Brazil bound and ready to blog!. There´s more than one way to tell a story I´ve been heard to say (a lot) lately.

But when I tried to rouse Mac the morning of our flight, it stirred but would not wake up! It had been too much, too fast, and now it was in a coma. I tried everything to revive it! Then I did a reinstall. Mac opened his eyes and came to. Thank God!

Later on the plane, I discovered that Mac’s memory of everything from its past had disappeared – Names, events, people, Mac remembered nada!

Hopefully it’s all there, buried deeply in its subconscious. And hopefully with the right care and treatment, it will remember everything.

Meanwhile, I’m on a planet called Paraty where I’ve yet to see one laptop, never mind an iPod or a computer rehab clinic.

And so in an internet cafe, I am desperately pecking out this S.O.S. to you.

Any recommendations for treatment? I’m trying to reach the mac docs in San Francisco, but so far no luck. Those Mac Geniuses are great – when they’re around.

And to think I just edited a book called the Portable Professional!

Right. There are a few kinks yet to work out.

Assuming that over the next few day I will have to use a foreign computer, how do i upload audio files, not to mention words, photos, and video clips onto this site? I’d even settle for just words at this point. Can I send files to someone to upload to my site until my computer recovers?

Desperately seeking solutions,

Robin

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Posted: August 28, 2005

Ilha Grande, Brazil

I’m pecking this out during a quick pitstop on an island called Ilha Grande just off the coast of Brazil, located halfway between Rio de Janeiro and Sao Paulo. My son, his girlfriend, and I have been sailing for two days among the 300 plus islands of Angra dos Reis aboard the Leo Louca, a private 42-ft. schooner. Ry and Jess will remain on the island an extra day to explore its trails and remote beaches. Reinaldo, Bernadette, and I will set sail for the city of Angra dos Reis, where I’ll check back in with you via the internet. Tomorrow, Jess and Ry will arrive here on the ferry, and together we’ll bus to Rio.

Just moments ago, I read that some kind of disaster – a storm? – has hit New Orleans. Not a word about it until now, despite the fact that Bernadette has received numerous birthday wish calls aboard the boat. It’s unsettling AND a relief to know that it is possible to be out of the reach of CNN and BBC, if only for a few days. I am reminded once again, that the U.S. is not the center of the universe.

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August 30, 2005

Rio de Janeiro, Brazil

I was out till late last night with Ryan and Jessica. We attended a huge street party in Lapa. THIS is what I didn’t get to do when I was in Rio alone last year. There was olundum drumming and bossa nova and people crowded in the streets and fresh caipirinhas and dancing all night long. And my son sending me home in a cab at 2AM.

Rio a city aptly named Ciudade Marvillosa – Marvelous City. You can feel it breathe, heave like the vital city that it is. It is winter and it is hot – not too bad today as it´s overcast, but I can go out at night wearing sleeveless tops, shorts, and sandals, and not get cold. Love it!

I´m having an entirely different experience in Rio this go-around because I’m in Copacabana among the tourists. Last year I stayed in Santa Theresa, where I will move later today. We’ve decided to stretch our stay here to a week. And so to save a money, I will move up the hill. It will be interesting to see if my experience of Rio changes with the neighborhood.

I now understand all the readers who wrote last year to tell me that they didn’t experience Rio as a dangerous city in the way I had. Even one of my American female friends told me she had a blast when she visited Rio, partying until late in the night. What I am learning this time in Rio, is that your perspective depends on what part of Rio you are living in.

NEXT DAY -

Copacabana – I can walk about safely with a minimal amount of watchfulness. Especially if I gesture, dress, and look Brazilian.

However, there WAS this incident our very first night in Rio, not two blocks from my hotel. As we stood at a street corner waiting for the light to change, a bus lurched to a stop. Inside the lit interior 0f the bus, people were standing, fists flying, shoving, jumping over turnstiles, pouring out of the bus, chasing some hapless soul down the street. Probably someone who got caught picking the pocket of a Brazilian on the bus. It served as a reminder, just a couple hours after our arrival, that Rio is a city that can at any moment break out in song OR a shooting.

Today I’m in bohemian, artist-centric Santa Teresa among the old houses that crawl up the hills, the streets that snake around and around. This old bohemian hood, it’s houses walled off, guarded by rottweilers, is surrounded on two sides by favelas. I ask Louis about the fireworks I hear going off. “Oh that,” he says. “That means that the drugs have arrived.” What about the occasional firecracker?” I ask him. “That’s to signal inhabitants of the favela that the police have arrived.”

I don’t carry my laptop in this neighborhood. Nor anything that I don’t mind giving away at gunpoint or a shard of glass.

I ask Adrianna why an end isn’t put to this terrifying hold that the favelas have on the city. She says that the police don’t do anything because they know that the favelas are as well armed as they are, maybe more so. “How can that be?” I ask. “Some say that there are insiders in the military who are selling arms to the favelas.”" Adriana, a woman who has lived in Rio all of her life tells me that the fear is always there. She says that just two weeks ago favela lords duked it out from different ends of the ????? Tunnel, a heavily used road through the ?????Mountain from Leblon to ?????. “Brazilians caught in the tunnel panicked, abandoning their cars and running for their lives.

There you have it. The Marvelous City. Heaving with vitality and set to go off at any moment.

 

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September 6, 2005
Rio de Janeiro, Brazil

Oi! (Brazilian Portuguese for hello).

I have a computer bloated with stories and photos meant to be passed on from me in South America to you in North America. But there is a language problem. My Mac speaks a different language than Brazilian PC’s. I spent hours last night trying to get online. Macs are as rare here as glaciers so you can forget about Mac support. The host of the home (castle actually) where I am staying works in I.T., but since he has a PC, he doesn’t speak Mac-ease and I don’t speak PC. He speaks Brazilian Portuguese with a smattering of English and I speak English with a tiny splash of Brazilian Portuguese. We gotta a major communication problem here.

I hired a taxi today to take me “somewhere where there is internet” pronounced internetchi. Through tunnels, speeding along highways, down residential sidestreets, our mission was to find an internet connection! He pulled up in front of “Shopping” – the Brazilian moniker for shopping mall. And he assured me that here I would find internetchi.

I walked the floors of that mall back and forth, first floor, second floor, but no internet cafe. Internet? I asked security. I asked security. They pointed me to a MacDonald’s restaurant at the end of the mall. Huh?, but sure enough, when I stuck my head inside, there were three computers for customer use. Now that’s one way to get me into a MacDonald’s.

I don’t understand. Usually the more remote a place, the more internet cafes. Perhaps the deal with Brazil is that it has gone in the past few years from third world to second, meaning lots of folks now have their own computers, resulting in little need for internet cafes, sort of like in the U.S. (ever try to find an internet cafe in San Francisco?) And so I stepped under those Golden Arches prepared to sell my soul in order to get online. Maybe I could skip the burger part I thought sneaking over to the bank of computers.

But no, a gal with a pointed paper hat motioned to me that I’d have to buy something to earn 20 minutes on the computer. I mentally reviewed the list of menu items. I don’t like coke and I wasn’t hungry. I could probably be bribed into eating a Big Mac – but there was a long snake of a line of eager Brazilians in line ahead of me. There’s only so far I’ll go to get online. I hailed a taxi and returned to Ipanema. Later that afternoon I found a book store with computers. They weren’t cheap, but they were there.

I´ll be in Rio another day or two…

Ciou (Brazilian Portuguese for goodbye.)

.
Robin

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September 2, 2005
Rio de Janiero, Brazil

I´ve just moved into a castle. No joke! I moved out of a non-descript hotel room in Copacabana, to my own little Rapunzel room high up on a hill in a castle complete with everything but a moat. You can see the Valentin Castle from most of Rio and from the castle you can see almost all of Rio – a great place to watch Carnivale, as you have a dead-on view of the Sambadrome. There is a quaint, if noisy trolley car that jerks and sputters up a steep Santa Teresa to its front door. After entering through the heavy wooden door of the castle, you walk down a long, curving underground tunnel which ends at an old metal gated elevator. One day a maid in the castle refused to leave until I walked out with her. She said there were ghosts. I believe her.

The castle has arched doorways, 14 foot ceilings, parquay floors, pointed gazebos, a pool, verandahs. My hosts are Adriana and Louis, a young working couple, the latter grandson of the architect who built Valentin Castle over 200 years ago. Louis’s mother, an government employee, occupies the ground floor flat. She finances maintancence of the castle that was handed down to her and her siblings, by renting out sections of the castle as apartments, and my room, located in the third floor flat of Louis and Adriana. My room including breakfast is $25 less than the hotel room I’ve just vacated. The castle is backed up to a mountain, surrounded by jungle foliage complete with monkeys who steal bananas from the kitchen. The neighborhood is Santa Teresa – bohemian, hip, teeming with artists and musicians. But on either side of Santa Teresa, are favelas, which lend a certain edginess to the neighborhood, especially after dark.

Carlos, a young Brazilian, began the self-sustainable Santa Teresa-based bed and breakfast business called Cama e Cafe, that is responsible for my room in the castle. The idea behind the business is that tourists’ dollars remain in the community that drew them in the first place. Since tourists demand restaurants, shopping, transportation, business, and therefore the community thrives. Best of all, tourist revenue remains in the community that generatged the ambience that drew the tourists in the first place – not to hotel chains. This great concept of self-sustainable tourism, is the reason I’m now living in a castle for less money than it costs to rent a room in San Francisco’s Tenderloin.

The day I am going to move into the castle, Carlos takes me out to a local restaurant. It turns out that eating out on a Saturday afternoon is a Carioca (what they call Brazilians who live in Rio) tradition – that and getting your car washed. Sudsy, wet cars were parked all up and down the streets of Rio surrounded by kids weilding hoses and sponges. We ate an amazing meal of fresh fish, the name of which I forget, and carne del sol (sun-dried meat), feijuadas (long cooked with meat beans), farofa (a fried kasava grain that is to Brazilians, what ketchup is to Americans), rice, salad, and Bohemia beer. All around us were happy boistrous Brazilian families and friends consuming like us, unbelievable quantities of food and beer . We finished with two shots of ginger juice, a traditional Brazilian apertif . Then slightly drunk in the middele of the afternoon, and full to bursting, we walked up and around, and up and around the hill pulling my bags until we had reached the castle at the summit. We pounded on the big wooden door until Adriana rang us in. A long, dark medieval tunnel through the mountain, led us to the elevator. Up, up, up we crept, until the elevator creaked to a stop on the third floor. The door to the elevator would not open. Jammed. Now what? I was trapped in a tiny elevator with a 27-year old guy who´s been coming on to me since the last time I was in Brazil, two years ago.

Which reminds me, Carlos asked me during our meal if I was a virgin. “What?!!!” I asked, almost choking on my Bobo Camarao. “Are you a virgin?” he repeated. Then it dawned on me that he was talking astrologically. Yes, I was a Virgo I told him. He invited me to a rave on a farm outside of Rio for my birthday. I told him I’d have to see. I hadn’t decided yet when I’d be leaving Rio for Fortaleza.

At last the elevator door opened, and Carlos emerged unmolested.

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September 9, 2005
Fortaleza, Brazil –

Maybe I’m just tired from arriving in Fortaleza at 2 AM last night only to be told my hotel was full. Or maybe it’s the constant wind. It could be the random sprouting of multi-story buildings blocking the view of what I’ve heard is a beautiful blue-green ocean. But I’m not overly impressed with Fortaleza.

It hasn’t even been 24 hours. I’ll give it another day.

My two contacts in Fortaleza are middleaged North Americans with young Brazilian wives.  "Charlie" emailed me over two years ago to ask for advice about his upcoming trip to Brazil. He’d just gone through a gruesome divorce in Canada and was going to Brazil to recover for a couple months.  Should he take his computer? How much equipment would customs let him enter with?   Charlie does voice overs and wanted to set up shop even if temporarily while in Brazil. Fast forward two years. Charlie emailed me a photo of him and his new wife standing in front of a building where they now lived. The forty year age difference was obvious in the photo, but then so was his bliss.

Since moving here, Charlie has helped so many foreign men do the same, that he’s decided he may as well turn it into a business. I am his first client. He finds me a hotel, shows me the best restaurants in town, gives me recommendations about what to see and do in Fortaleza.

Charlie is driving me around the Beira Mar neighborhood when he points out a very tall apartment building facing the sea. "A millionaire American  lives in the penthouse," he says. "Why?" I ask, wondering why anyone with lots of money would choose to live in Fortaleza. "Same reason anyone lives here," Charlie says.  "He’s 70 years old, and he’s got a 31-year old Brasilera wife, and a nine-month old baby. " Well, of course. What was I thinking.

"Charlie, are you going to have kids too?" I ask.

"Well sure," he says. "Lord knows I have enough already, but why not?  You only go around once. Besides, it comes with the package when you marry a Brasilera."

I brace myself against the wind as we step out of the car . "Is this wind the reason that kitesurfing is so popular here?" I yell. "Absolutely right!" he yells back over the wind. The palm trees look like inside-out umbrellas.

Charlie says, "Fortaleza is the number one vacation spot for Europeans. Americans would be here too but they’ve got Cancun."

I knew something smelled familiar. Fortaleza is Cancun in a convection oven.

I ask about The Thing that Louis in Rio told me was the biggest problem in Fortaleza.

"Are the rumors about prostitution here true?" I ask. "No, there’s way more to Fortaleza," he says. "The Brazilian government has passed strict laws to end it. People vacation here for many reasons."

"So where are the white women?" I ask looking around. I haven’t seen so many middleaged white men with brown-skinned women since Bangkok.  Oblivious to what I see, Charlie continues,"There are 100,000 more women in this city of 2 million than men. The Brasileras come from the interior hoping to meet a foreign man. They actually LIKE older men."

Fortaleza, where men are assured of getting laid without the hassle of three dates, dinner and a movie. Even counting airfare, a guy can save money and time dating here. The girls? I’m guessing they’d call it an even trade. The men offer them hope, otherwise called survival. And they offer the men another swipe at life.

But then, I’m a little grumpy.  I’ll sleep on it another night.

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September 9, 2005
Fortaleza, Brazil

A man in the hotel lobby introduced himself as Steven. He was a stocky American with a Brooklyn accent, mid 60’s, wearing a wife beater shirt, baggy shorts that ended below chubby knees, and teva sandals. He had a voice that bespoke thousands, maybe millions of cigarettes.

Steven had a project – a yacht harbor he wanted to build near Fortaleza. He’d called me in the US before I left to tell me about it, to talk me into coming to Fortaleza. He hoped that my stories would attract investors, and eventually hordes of foreigners to Fortaleza. Since I’d been thinking about it anyway, I tacked Fortaleza onto the end of my itinerary.

“I have a proposal for you,” he said leaning forward on the couch. “My partner and I and our wives are taking off tomorrow morning to scout out sites. We’ve rented two four-wheel drive jeeps and we’re gonna drive all the way up to Jericoacoara, with a few stops in between. I’d like to invite you to join us.”

I’d just arrived. My clothes were dirty. I needed a bikini wax to go with my new itty bitty Brazilian bikini. (You know the world’s gone global when you can’t find a Brazilian bikini wax in Brazil, yet every Vietnamese-run salon in San Francisco offers them.) I needed a pedicure (make that a sandblaster), and there was the updating of my website to do, not to mention wading through hundreds of emails. But with Northeastern Brazil being known for having the most beautiful beaches in Brazil, some would say in the world, it was a generous offer, and a chance to see a part of Brazil I might not otherwise have the chance to.

Steven suggested I meet the gang that very evening. I accepted. Meeting the players ahead of time, would allow me to switch on my intuitive pilot before taking off for Who knows Where with Who knows Whom.

I met the women, one Russian, the other Brazilian, and Steven’s partner Dan, a Brit. The partner, like Steven, is a mid-life, post-divorce anglo man. He was reserved and seemed more egghead scientist than yacht designer. Both struck me as middle-aged men who had stepped into an adult version of Never Never Land. The kind of place where young exotic women desire you even though you are old and have seen better days. I couldn’t blame them. They seemed to be, like so many other men I’d seen here already, taking a last swipe at life. taking their last swipe at life, Tania, Dan’s “wife” was a towering, buxomy, heavily made up, blonde with hair that verged on huge, and a blouse that opened to her belly button. She was wearing four- inch platform shoes. She rolled herRrrrrrr’s; she was Russian. And yes, that’s what I was thinking too. The group was rounded out by Yvonne, the Brasilera. A tiny, bubbly, chocolate woman who spoke English with E’s on the end of every word: “like-y” and “My name-y is Yvonet-chi”, and who took it upon herself to be the caretaker of us all. Were we happy, would we like this, some more of that? Like Steven, she was a chain smoker. The story of how she and Steven met went like this. She was the family maid in Steven’s US household when he decided to divorce his wife and marry her. His kids were still pissed off, but Yvonne and the ex-wife were now friends. The Frenchman, Dierdre, would join us in the morning.

Steven didn’t look or sound the part of a bigtime bank investor, but it was clear he was in love with this part of Brazil.
“Can you believe this Robin?” he said repeatedly. “Believe what?” I’d answered. “This!” he’d say looking about him dreamily, sweeping his arm, taking in the whole of Fortaleza. “Sure.” I’d answer. Truth was, I hadn’t made up my mind yet. I needed to see more. “The Northeast” – are words that are spoken by Brazilians with a mixture of affection and….and, something else I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Sort of like how one might speak of a “special” relative in the family.

At the end of the evening, they wanted to know, was I in or was I out? I thought about it for a second…

There were the famed white beaches and turquoise waters, the sand dunes waiting to be topped in four-wheel drive jeeps, and there were the five merry pranksters I hadn’t known two hours earlier.

“In” I said. We were on.

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September 18, 2005
Fortaleza, Brazil

I did my traditional foreign country beauty shop visit today. It’s the best way to get the pulse of a place and a cheap hair cut.

I’d asked Francesca to take me to the best salon in Fortaleza, but here we were pulling up to a small shop called Claudio’s in an alley. When we walked into the salon, she pointed out the owner and chief stylist. I recoiled. Claudio was buzzing a guy’s head with an electric razor and he himself sported a comb-over, wore cloudy glasses, and had the body of a middle aged barber. He was not at all a pretty boy like I am used to. The brushes were full of hair, scissors were scattered willy nilly about the shop. I noticed that Claudio was doing all the hair washing, conditioning, coloring, cutting, and styling, chair to chair, client to client. Where I’m from, the shi-shi quotient of a salon is measured by how many specialists it takes to do one woman’s hair. There is one to wash it, one to color, one to blow dry, and then the main one to cut and style. I’ve never really understood why, but that’s how it is.

“This is a barbershop not a salon!” I thought panicked. I began to think up all the ways I could make a graceful exit. But short of being a complete snob, I could not think my way out of this. And so I consoled myself with “It will grow back in” and settled in to wait for my turn.

I stretched my neck over the plastic lip of the sink, surrendering my head for what felt like a guillotine. But it was icy water that hit instead. I waited for it to warm up, and then remembered that it wasn’t going to. In Brazil, there is hot water in showers, but rarely in sinks. Could cold water dissolve oil from dirty hair? I wondered.

For the next two hours, Claudio sudsed, rinsed, colored, snipped, dried, and ironed my hair Around me the neighborhood ladies were transformed into Cinderella’s for Friday night. Claudio’s helpers painted their eyes, reddened their cheeks, lined their lips, smoothed and sprayed their hair. Women that barely looked in the mirror when they first arrived, begin to sneak longer and longer looks at their reflections, to tilt their heads this way and that, smiling at their new selves. The other women circulated around them commenting on their transformations. Then the women began to look at me and to nod approvingly at Claudio, looking at my hair front and back, and then standing back to admire me in the mirror.

Claudio untied my apron and motioned for me to get up. I paid him an inflated price for Brazil, but a third of what I would have paid in the States. Then I walked tall to the waiting taxi with the cutest, bounciest, shiniest, best looking hairstyle I’d had in years.

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Sept. 16, 2005
On a plane out of Rio de Janeiro, headed to Fortaleza, Brazil

A few hours after saying goodbye to my son before he boarded a bus in Rio, I was on a GOL plane headed to Northeastern Brazil. A debonnaire Brazilian man I’d met and spoken to briefly in the airport, tapped me on the shoulder shortly after takeoff. He said he had arranged for the seat next to him to be vacated and would I like to sit next to him? Why not? I thought and followed him down the isle to his seat. The thing about traveling alone is that you’ll talk to just about anybody after awhile. Especially when that anybody looks like Julio and happens to live in the city where you are headed. Talking to Julio on the plane would give me a preview of Fortaleza, a city of almost 3 million located several thousand miles north of Rio on the coast of Brazil.

After I wedged myself in next to Julio, he began to tell me about his business and and progressed to his dreams for his future. I looked down at his hand. (I haven’t been single all that long, and so sometimes I forget.) Yep. There it was, the golden signifier that he was collared. “So you’re married?” I said. “Sure,” he answered, casually telling me that she was his third, and he hoped final wife, and that she’d be at the airport to pick him up. OK, I thought, a little disappointed. Julio, then, was friendship material, nothing more.

The sleeping pill kicked in and I began to nod off. Julio said, touching his shoulder, “You can put your head here.”

I just smiled, blew up my little neck thing and placed it behind my neck. When we arrived, Julio gave me his number and said to call if I needed anything, anything at all.

Julio’s behavior didn’t surprise me all that much. Brazilian men have a reputation for incongruity with monogamy. And Brazilian women are (no surprise) prone to extreme jealousy.

My first sign of what were to me, bizarre Brazilian mating rituals, was at an outdoor musical concert in Paraty. A woman suddenly appeared between me and a man who upon hearing I was American, had begun practicing his English on me. I said to the woman, “Hi, do you speak English too?” She held a clenched fist up to my face.

I took that as a No.

A few weeks later, a Canadian whose business was helping foreigners settle in Fortaleza, had to sneak away from his young Braziilian wife to show me around the city. He glanced at his watch furtively and said he had to be quick. “Why don’t you bring her with you?” I asked. “Uh, she would never understand,” he said.

There was the foursome in Fortaleza – two men, two women , the latter glaring at me when I approached their table to interview the men, who had forgotten to tell them I was coming. One of the women kicked her boyfriend under the table because he kept looking at me when he was answering my questions. Two days after inviting me to join them on a journey to Jericoacora, all four suddenly stopped speaking to me. When I saw one of the men a few nights later at a nightclub, he apologized saying that his wife had become insanely jealous, sure that I had fallen in love with him. Amazing! It would have been plausible if he was anywhere near my age, even remotely attractive, or single.

The Brazilian Mating Game. It’s a game I don’t get.

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My mom and dad are selling their mountain home to move back to the Bay Area – close to health care and their children. Real estate is a strange animal – it’s value has little to do with the actual property, and everything to do with current trends and times. The house my parents are selling is a beautiful three-bedroom home in the Sierra Mountains of California that my father built himself nail by nail, beam by beam. It was their retirement dream home, near Lassen National Forest, close to trout fishing, where deer frequently sauntered across the lawn. But my father had a stroke and the fact that good health care was hours away, as were family and close friends, became suddenly relevant.

The money they will earn on the sale of their mountain home will buy them a pre-fab house on a tiny rectangle lot in Livermore, California and close proximity to Kaiser Hospital and my sister, and a year-round temperate climate. But from my vantage point in Brazil, where a stunning house costs a third of the tiny home in Livermore, and where retired people live well on less than $2,000 a month, it just seems crazy.

I emailed Mom and Dad today: Just wanted to let you know I am well and fine in Brazil with Ryan and his girlfriend. We are having a wonderful time.

Check out the following recent newspaper quotes. What I saw coming in 1999 has taken off full steam. I am in a town I was in 2 years ago called Paraty. The Europeans have learned about it, moved in, and prices have levitated to the level of a mid-western house in the U.S. But there are so many many other places that are beautiful yet inexpensive to live in, in countries outside of the U.S.

You should think about investing in a house to live your retirement years where you can live very well on under $1000 a month, build a huge house if you want, and live with other interesting foreigners like yourselves. I am looking for ways to capitalize on this trend. Too bad I waited to buy on the coast of Turkey, Spain and Portugal. Europe has in the past two years bought up all the coastal property in those countries – and the prices of land and homes have skyrocketed. Still… prices remain a fraction of the prices in California. There are communities of Yuma, Arizona types.

Love, Robin

I attached the following excerpt from an article I saw on International Living’s site:

GLOBAL LAND RUSH TO LIVE IN THE SUN
“Aging, wealthy Baby Boomers from cold and Northern climates will increasingly want to spend large parts of their working/non-working lives in warmer regions, longing for an abundance of sun, comfort, and companionship.” Trendwatchers.com reports that this trend first showed its face in Florida. They call it “Floridasation”. But whatever you call it, it’s apparent that this has become a worldwide trend. Brits, French, and Germans are buying in Spain, Italy, and Croatia. But it isn’t just an isolated trend in a few countries. No – Baby Boomers from colder climates are moving, too – investing in and buying second homes in warmer climates all over the world. It’s impossible to imagine this trend coming to an abrupt halt. If anything, it should gain momentum. As booming capital appreciation in Florida and Southern California priced beachfront land outside the reach of average Americans, they began to look farther South… to Mexico, Belize, and Costa Rica. Prices in those markets have risen accordingly. As demand goes up, so do the prices. In some parts of Costa Rica property can cost almost as much as in California! Buying in Nicaragua today is like getting into Costa Rica 15 years ago… or California 60 years ago. The prices are low because Americans haven’t been willing to consider Nicaragua before. The country suffers from a horrible reputation that scares people… but that situation is changing quickly. It Starts with Tourism… and the Tourists are Coming! Until 1990, there was virtually no tourism in Nicaragua. That is changing. Tourism is growing by over 10% annually. It still has a long way to go, but in 2003 the country earned $150 million in tourist dollars. Finally, even the mainstream press is beginning to notice what a great value Nicaragua offers. [It's a] "beautiful and peaceful place now courting tourism.’ – Chicago Tribune ‘ Nicaragua is a hot new travel destination.’ – U.S. News & World Report …. According to the Wall Street Journal, "As legions of Baby Boomers prepare to retire and relocate to warmer climates, a widening range of Central American countries are vying to be their new home. While places like Costa Rica, Mexico, and Belize have long lured U.S. retirees with pristine beaches and cheap living, prices in those countries have risen sharply during recent years. As a result, a new breed of intrepid retirees is branching out to countries including Panama, Honduras, and Nicaragua." Nicaragua encourages U.S. retirees to relocate with an extremely generous package of retiree benefits. There are no taxes on income earned outside of Nicaragua. You can ship up to $10,000 worth of household goods plus a car to Nicaragua duty free, should you choose to retire there. Furthermore, in an effort to promote tourism, the Nicaraguan government also offers the most investment-friendly tax policies of any country in Latin America. Baby Boomers are aging fast. Beginning in 2000, Boomers started turning 50 at the rate of just under 10,000 a day. Already, more than 14 million Boomers are aged 50 and up. Many aren’t waiting until 55 to retire… let alone 65. Plus many are considering a new form of "retirement" that includes starting a business overseas or managing an investment portfolio online from a beachside villa or condo. Baby Boomers are considering many more options than their parents ever thought about…"

I’m home now, and Mom and Dad aren’t even considering the possibility of living abroad. They’ll pay a much higher price to live a less luxurious lifestyle in what they perceive to be a "safer" place. But then, Mom and Dad aren’t Baby Boomers. They are children of the Depression to whom security and safety is valued above all else.

It’s the children of the children of depression, who will immigrate to foreign countries in the same rush that our parents and their parents came West for opportunity.

And now, before the masses have made the move, is the time to make your’s.

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June 3-10, 2006

The Coast of Turkey by Yacht!

Calling all moms, daughters, grandmothers, and granddaughters – new and old girlfriends… Take the journey of your life with the ones you love the most…

Led by travel writer, Robin Sparks, our group of 8-10 will cruise the coast of Turkey aboard a classic 82-ft. Turkish gulet. Our expert Turkish crew of three will sail, prepare delicious meals and take care of our every need. The Odysseus  is constructed of the finest African teak and brass with air-conditioned staterooms and private baths. A cruiseship this is not!  Nor is it a it a Caribbean sailboat. This is luxury of the most sublime sort – quality, exotic, sophisticated. To sail the coastline of Turkey is an experience like none other.

You will return from this trip not only enchanted with Turkey and the Mediterranean, but with your life. There’s nothing like a week in the Mediterranean with friends and loved ones to recharge.


OUR MAGIC CARPET RIDE
(more…)

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