It’s 5:55 AM, Beirut time, and I’m finally settled at the gate, waiting for my 7:10 flight to Istanbul. From there, I’ll catch an afternoon flight to Belgrade. Even though all airports are basically the same, I’m looking forward to walking around the Istanbul airport during my four-hour layover. Everywhere in the world, big airports have a different feel—as do the people hurrying through them. Only cell phones seem to be totally ubiquitous. I only slept four hours last night—or was it only three? Actually, by the time I fell asleep it was after one. I got up at four. After five wonderful days in Lebanon visiting my daughter, we met for one last dinner out—we split a lamb tangine and one with chicken and apricots—a delectable feast of Moroccan food after days and days of Lebanese mezze: ... [Continue Reading]

Okay, maybe it’s an exaggeration. Maybe it’s because I have six hours to kill here. Maybe and probably, it’s mostly because I only slept three hours last night. But the Sabiha Gökçen Havalimanı airport in Turkey is really scraping the bottom of the barrel in terms of amenities. It’s small, there’s no free WiFi, and very little in the way of a comfortable place to sit. All you can do is walk in a horseshoe shaped hallway of consumption: store after store, fast food joint after fast food joint with a couple of restaurants and one bakery with baked goods that actually look quite yummy. From the looks of it, Turkish bakers know what they’re doing. Oh yeah and suddenly I'm looking at Roman characters again—Turkish uses them—and they are on all the signs, not that I can read them, of course, ... [Continue Reading]

Back in the Istanbul airport (I learned this was a “lesser” airport for connecting flights—not the main Istanbul airport at all), when they finally posted the gate for my flight to Belgrade, I made my way there and sat on one of the hardest waiting room seats I’d ever sat upon. I picked up the novel I’ve been reading, The Bridge on the Drina, whose author, Ivo Andric, won the Nobel Prize for Literature for the book in 1961. It tells the story of Serbia, and its long domination by the Turks, from the point of view of the bridge which crossed the River Drina. At first, as I read, the waiting room was empty, but gradually, it began to fill up—and I began studying the faces of the people readying for the flight—many of whom must have been returning to Serbia. I noticed different facial ... [Continue Reading]

Tonight, I had the great honor to meet with three of the volunteers from the Incest Trauma Center. We sat around a small round table for an hour and a half, just the four of us. I hadn’t planned for our meeting, except to bring a beautiful silver object I'd bought in Petra, Jordan last December from our Beduoin guide (who was in fact wearing a Beduoin coat at the time I bought it from him). He’d set out his wares on a rock shelf overlooking a gorgeous valley that led 5 km into Petra. I apologize for not remembering the name of the object (which can be unscrewed so things can be put inside), but I bought it to use a talking stick in my workshops and I used it in Belgrade tonight. On the door of the Incest Trauma Center This one was a throwback. The caption says, "Women on ... [Continue Reading]

I arrived at the breakfast buffet at 15 minutes to 10. It closed at 10. What an amazing spread. I filled most of my plate with grilled vegetables and fresh tomatoes and cucumber and a slab of some yummy creamy white cheese that looked like feta and tasted like heaven. Nutella and.....? Not sure....what these are called. And I got a language lesson while I did it. I'd brought down my laptop and notes for the upcoming workshop so I could start preparing--but it was a little hard to concentrate. Stevie Wonder was crooning "My Cherie Amour" as I stared at my notes. Moments later, Diana Ross was blaring out, "I'm Coming Out." Serbian morning Muzak to help with digestion? I felt like I was back at a lesbian bar when ... [Continue Reading]

I first heard about the Danube River when my father played one of his favorite records on our old turntable—the one with the arm bent like an elbow that released the disc onto the base in order to play it. It was the Blue Danube Waltz by Johann Strauss. That music would float up into my dreams as I lay in bed wearing my footsie pajamas, nestled between my two long stuffed "teddy" snakes. The Danube has been drifting in my consciousness for over fifty years. When I was little, we went on a lot of car trips, and we played a lot of car games, like competing to see who could name the most mountain ranges or cities or rivers. There was always a hot completion between my brother and me. Even though he was almost five years older, I still sometimes beat him as I eagerly chirped out the answer ... [Continue Reading]

Ever since I’ve arrived in Belgrade, the women of the Incest Resource Center have taken exquisite care of me. They have fed me, filled my mind and heart with stories, introduced me to their food, drinks, and culture and walked me all around their beautiful city. They’ve answered my endless questions (yes, I did have a past life as a reporter and a talk show host and am pretty incorrigible that way), put up with my American intrusiveness and faux pas, and laughed with me at the foibles and pleasures of cross-cultural communication. But until today, I’ve never been alone—except in my comfortable hotel room late at night and in the mornings. I haven’t spent a cent of my own money (or in those a dinar of own money), visited an ATM or so much as walked across the street by myself. I’ve also ... [Continue Reading]

When I walked into the dining room after an early morning sauna at the hotel’s opulent spa, the huge restaurant was mostly empty. There was one table in use by four members of our group, but since it was already full, I sat down at a new table nearby. I set down my things and went to explore the breakfast buffet. As at my previous hotel, breakfast was plentiful, rich with foods both familiar and unfamiliar. Although the multitude of pastries were tempting, I was more delighted to find oatmeal, laden with goodies—pumpkin seeds, raisins and what looked like cut-up dried cherries. I added a handful or walnuts and a couple of prunes, what’s known in the workshop business as "the retreat attendees best friend.” I’ve never been to a retreat center anywhere in the world that didn’t feature prunes ... [Continue Reading]