Two weeks ago, we all scattered like any one of a number of metaphors. Leaves into an autumn wind. Gossip at the water cooler. Ashes into the currents of the sea. Whichever cliche is most apt for you, almost every teacher I know could not wait to hop on a plane in any direction in search of reprieve from the U.A.E. Some went back home. Some went somewhere geographically close, but mentally distant. Some went as far as humanly possible. I set my sights for the timeless city of Istanbul, Turkey. Also, I welcomed a familial visitor, in this case my mother, and then set out for a nearby land, in this case, Jordan. For those of you not familiar with it, Jordan is (in at least a small way) the land of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade (you know, the one with Sean Connery, the Holy Grail, and the whole face-melting debacle) and the aptly named Dead Sea.
Istanbul is a fantastic city in which I could envision myself living, renting a dingy studio apartment, and getting into many blog-inspiring situations. During my three day tenure there, I certainly got into one such situation, but valuing the PG-13-ness of this blog, I shall leave that for some time later. Feel free to ask me about it in person. It wasn't glamorous or pretty. I really need to emphasize that latter point. Needless to say, it was a surprising melting pot of a city with tons to experience, great food to eat, and a seemingly infinite number of narrow alleys to explore. Aside from just plain old having a great time (and the vaguely aforementioned incident), it wasn't too story worthy, so I shall move on.
Jordan has a surprisingly large amount to offer in a relatively small geographic area. I flew into Amman en route to our first destination of the Dead Sea, the lowest point on the earth. This was a destination long in the making as I believed myself to be at a symbolic low point many times in my life, so it only followed that I visit the actual low point of the world once in my life. It was not nearly as depressing as the metaphors. For anyone that struggles with swimming and buoyancy such as members of my family, this sea is a must visit. In a body of water comprised of almost one third salt, it is a struggle to not be buoyant. It has been explained to me that if one just relaxes, it is easy to float in any body of water. I do not share this perspective, but I challenge anyone to argue with me about how easy it is to float in the Dead Sea. It is truly a sinkers paradise.
Not 24 hours later, we were traveling to the Wadi Musa region which contains the ancient city of Petra. I have seen many hand-carved cave structures in my day, and none of them ceases to amaze me. Petra is much larger than I anticipated. After a winding series of gorges we first reached "The Treasury," which is the quintessential image from the aforementioned Indian Jones film. After that, there were many tombs, homes, and an amphitheater before the ground seemed to level out for some time. It took about two hours of trudging to reach this point, and I felt that surely we must be reaching then end of this ancient city.
After crossing the wide open plains of Petra, I ran into my cousin Nate, who more than encouraged me to make my way to "The Monastery." Not fully appreciating my long-held fondness for holy places that are difficult to reach, he explained that it was such a long, long way to the peak the Monastery resided upon. This only quickened my resolve to drag a laughingly out of shape man to the apex of a mountain. Unfortunately, only about two hours of daylight remained in this desert sanctuary, and reaching the Monastery required at least one hour. The chase was on.
At a pace that resembled a jog, but ascending uncomfortably steep steps, I set off. After about three minutes, I realized the inherent futility of this method and slowed down to the point of sitting on a large stone and resting every 100 feet or so. I inquired of each friendly looking person I passed how far the Monastery was. Always, they hesitated, gazed far off into the setting sun, and then explained that there was yet some considerable distance to go. My crawl continued. Not surprisingly, it didn't take long for sweat to begin pouring off of me, my breath to become short, and my water supply to become extinguished.
Ever since my first climb to a monastery outside of Mumbai, I have realized the value in the journey and the benefit of pushing on. Then, it was pushing 36 degrees Celsius as a much younger and in shape version of me trudged up a sun-baked mountainside carrying a small child unable to reach the temple on her own. My karmic reward was all but assured, and many people commended me for it. On my way to the Monastery in Petra, it was cooler, but I was still essentially carrying the equivalent of a small child, unfortunately this was due to many years of poor diet and inactivity since my first climb. Carrying a child seems much more impressive than carrying my out of shape ass. However, both are equally exhausting, but I digress.
I continued pressing onward, trying to maintain a consistent (if slow) pace, stopping at refreshment stands along the way (how did they get all of those beverages up there?) for Gatorade, and, sounding much like the quintessential annoying child on a family vacation, asking each passerby if I was, indeed, "there yet." At a turn in the seemingly endless stairway, I ran into what appeared to be an Indian family of two parents with their two children taking a leisurely walk back down to relative civilization. I stopped at the turn for a rest and was joined by the father. He looked at me quizzically for a moment, and then very calmly, slowly, and matter of factly stated, "You are very late." I regained my elusive breath and composedly responded, "I know. Is it very far?" He answered just as tranquilly and understandingly as he asked, "Yes, but you can do it." After that, we nodded knowingly at each other and parted, he down, and I up.
Maybe it was all in his delivery. Maybe I was just worn down enough to actually listen to someone for once. Maybe there was a shortage of oxygen to my brain due to my pathetic level of aerobic fitness. Maybe I am way to influenced by my fondness for Indian people and culture. But maybe, just maybe, this guy actually offered a rare moment of spontaneous true insight. What he said, bothered and encouraged me for the rest of my climb and then some. He seemed to sum up most of my life (and if you want to be honest, probably a few of yours) in a three line conversation. Yeah, I was definitely late heading up to the Monastery. I've been late doing a lot of things throughout my life too. It was a long way up the mountain, and it is going to be a much longer journey to what I want to accomplish in this world.
The wisdom of our brief conversation was laid plain in the final line. Yes, sometimes it is very far. Sometimes it is very exhausting. Sometimes we think we should just give up and pass out from fatigue on the side of a dirt path, but, at the end of the day, we can do it. I try not to be the optimistic rube, but there is a certain beauty there. Inevitably, I kept pushing on towards my goal (in this case, the elusive Monastery).
I ran into several more people and had several more conversations in the interest of catching my breath (sidenote: everyone has a relative in Chicago, even random bedu women), but I eventually made it to the Monastery. It was a good feeling. The sun was setting, and I had scarcely a few moments to enjoy the sights. I did have enough time to pass off my camera and snap a few shots.
Did I have enough time to savor my victory? Did reaching the goal offer any real payoff? Not really. It's always the journey that is the real reward. The destination was, and generally is, great, but it is never the character builder. In this case though, there was one final lesson for me. As satisfied with myself as I was for having made it under rather intense time restraints, I was humbled one final time.
When I reached the structure, I noticed a couple of local bedus shouting at someone. After some labored squinting and scanning, I noticed an arguably crazy bedu at the very apex of the Monastery. Apparently he had stretched out for a few minutes and then began scaling the face of the structure. I certainly did not know the man and never got the chance to talk with him, but he certainly showed me up as he sat calmly upon the peak of the highest point.
It was a good reminder that along all of our journeys, we might struggle for a long time, arrive late (but satisfied) at the goal, and there still might be a guy who totally mops up on our asses by an illiterate, cave-dwelling, desert man. For most of us, the journey is the only chance we have to do anything that vaguely resembles great. Let's make the most of it. I can't try for all of you.
Istanbul is a fantastic city in which I could envision myself living, renting a dingy studio apartment, and getting into many blog-inspiring situations. During my three day tenure there, I certainly got into one such situation, but valuing the PG-13-ness of this blog, I shall leave that for some time later. Feel free to ask me about it in person. It wasn't glamorous or pretty. I really need to emphasize that latter point. Needless to say, it was a surprising melting pot of a city with tons to experience, great food to eat, and a seemingly infinite number of narrow alleys to explore. Aside from just plain old having a great time (and the vaguely aforementioned incident), it wasn't too story worthy, so I shall move on.
Jordan has a surprisingly large amount to offer in a relatively small geographic area. I flew into Amman en route to our first destination of the Dead Sea, the lowest point on the earth. This was a destination long in the making as I believed myself to be at a symbolic low point many times in my life, so it only followed that I visit the actual low point of the world once in my life. It was not nearly as depressing as the metaphors. For anyone that struggles with swimming and buoyancy such as members of my family, this sea is a must visit. In a body of water comprised of almost one third salt, it is a struggle to not be buoyant. It has been explained to me that if one just relaxes, it is easy to float in any body of water. I do not share this perspective, but I challenge anyone to argue with me about how easy it is to float in the Dead Sea. It is truly a sinkers paradise.
Not 24 hours later, we were traveling to the Wadi Musa region which contains the ancient city of Petra. I have seen many hand-carved cave structures in my day, and none of them ceases to amaze me. Petra is much larger than I anticipated. After a winding series of gorges we first reached "The Treasury," which is the quintessential image from the aforementioned Indian Jones film. After that, there were many tombs, homes, and an amphitheater before the ground seemed to level out for some time. It took about two hours of trudging to reach this point, and I felt that surely we must be reaching then end of this ancient city.
After crossing the wide open plains of Petra, I ran into my cousin Nate, who more than encouraged me to make my way to "The Monastery." Not fully appreciating my long-held fondness for holy places that are difficult to reach, he explained that it was such a long, long way to the peak the Monastery resided upon. This only quickened my resolve to drag a laughingly out of shape man to the apex of a mountain. Unfortunately, only about two hours of daylight remained in this desert sanctuary, and reaching the Monastery required at least one hour. The chase was on.
At a pace that resembled a jog, but ascending uncomfortably steep steps, I set off. After about three minutes, I realized the inherent futility of this method and slowed down to the point of sitting on a large stone and resting every 100 feet or so. I inquired of each friendly looking person I passed how far the Monastery was. Always, they hesitated, gazed far off into the setting sun, and then explained that there was yet some considerable distance to go. My crawl continued. Not surprisingly, it didn't take long for sweat to begin pouring off of me, my breath to become short, and my water supply to become extinguished.
Ever since my first climb to a monastery outside of Mumbai, I have realized the value in the journey and the benefit of pushing on. Then, it was pushing 36 degrees Celsius as a much younger and in shape version of me trudged up a sun-baked mountainside carrying a small child unable to reach the temple on her own. My karmic reward was all but assured, and many people commended me for it. On my way to the Monastery in Petra, it was cooler, but I was still essentially carrying the equivalent of a small child, unfortunately this was due to many years of poor diet and inactivity since my first climb. Carrying a child seems much more impressive than carrying my out of shape ass. However, both are equally exhausting, but I digress.
I continued pressing onward, trying to maintain a consistent (if slow) pace, stopping at refreshment stands along the way (how did they get all of those beverages up there?) for Gatorade, and, sounding much like the quintessential annoying child on a family vacation, asking each passerby if I was, indeed, "there yet." At a turn in the seemingly endless stairway, I ran into what appeared to be an Indian family of two parents with their two children taking a leisurely walk back down to relative civilization. I stopped at the turn for a rest and was joined by the father. He looked at me quizzically for a moment, and then very calmly, slowly, and matter of factly stated, "You are very late." I regained my elusive breath and composedly responded, "I know. Is it very far?" He answered just as tranquilly and understandingly as he asked, "Yes, but you can do it." After that, we nodded knowingly at each other and parted, he down, and I up.
Maybe it was all in his delivery. Maybe I was just worn down enough to actually listen to someone for once. Maybe there was a shortage of oxygen to my brain due to my pathetic level of aerobic fitness. Maybe I am way to influenced by my fondness for Indian people and culture. But maybe, just maybe, this guy actually offered a rare moment of spontaneous true insight. What he said, bothered and encouraged me for the rest of my climb and then some. He seemed to sum up most of my life (and if you want to be honest, probably a few of yours) in a three line conversation. Yeah, I was definitely late heading up to the Monastery. I've been late doing a lot of things throughout my life too. It was a long way up the mountain, and it is going to be a much longer journey to what I want to accomplish in this world.
 |
| The final push to the Monastery |
I ran into several more people and had several more conversations in the interest of catching my breath (sidenote: everyone has a relative in Chicago, even random bedu women), but I eventually made it to the Monastery. It was a good feeling. The sun was setting, and I had scarcely a few moments to enjoy the sights. I did have enough time to pass off my camera and snap a few shots.
Did I have enough time to savor my victory? Did reaching the goal offer any real payoff? Not really. It's always the journey that is the real reward. The destination was, and generally is, great, but it is never the character builder. In this case though, there was one final lesson for me. As satisfied with myself as I was for having made it under rather intense time restraints, I was humbled one final time.
When I reached the structure, I noticed a couple of local bedus shouting at someone. After some labored squinting and scanning, I noticed an arguably crazy bedu at the very apex of the Monastery. Apparently he had stretched out for a few minutes and then began scaling the face of the structure. I certainly did not know the man and never got the chance to talk with him, but he certainly showed me up as he sat calmly upon the peak of the highest point.
 |
| Look at that crazy bedu! |
