On Christmas Day, our plane lands bumpily at Maurice Bishop International Airport in Grenada. It’s my first time in the West Indies, preceded by a 12-hour flight during a bad winter storm.

As we taxi on the runway, a flight attendant says “You can take off your sweaters now!” I laugh loudly because I wear three sweaters and a jacket to keep out the cold from Miami Airport. The air conditioning blasted us while it was only 40 degrees outside. Miami doesn’t seem to have heat.

But the island of Grenada does. It’s in the eighties now. As we disembark, I peel off my layers. A well-dressed man asks if it’s our first time here. Yes, it is. I ask if it’s his first-time here and he answers, “oh, no, it’s my home. I come here every year.” He says “it’s a very peaceful place and people don’t like to fight.”

This is underscored at our resort, where each morning begins with smiles and greetings from the staff as we pass by. “Morning morning,” some say, or “Happy holidays.”

We don’t feel the heat, and it’s mainly sunny with the occasional short burst of rain. We walk on the cement path that meanders through the Royalton, surrounded by flat topped, spreading trees and the bougainvillea, the national plant of Grenada. We ate in the tropics. Birdsong welcomes us and we’re off to the breakfast buffet, a melange of steamed bananas, sliced grapefruits, oranges, and starfruit, as well as omelets and yesterday’s cut-up waffles and pancakes, available again. Large families, from toddlers to grandparents, crowd into the hall. Kids stay free.

I hurry to drink a cappuccino and force myself to eat an egg white omelet filled with vegies. I just want to finish so we can spread our towels on the chaises lounges, which we pull up almost to the waves. It’s hard to balance when you walk into the surf because the sand sucks you deeper and deeper into the sand, causing you to topple. Called Magazine Beach, it’s not expansive but postcard beautiful, a tropical paradise with turquoise water and white choppy waves.

Farther out on the horizon, the water is indigo. Two young boys chat happily as they try to find creatures of the deep. Their parents are nowhere in sight. How did I parent when my children were about ten? A gecko digs into the sand. Soon, a mother shows up to ask if the boys want tacos from the lunch bar.

After we sun ourselves under interlaced palm fronds, I walk over to the infinity pool behind my husband and me. He’s a bit allergic to chlorine and pools, so I go alone, stepping down the graduated steps to the cool water.

It’s not long before I hit the wall where water spills into a trough of sorts. An older woman walks by gingerly, with her arms spread out at her sides, careful not to lose her wide-brimmed straw hat. She manages not to spoil her makeup, either.

A young girl does handstands in the shallow part of the water, without much control of her body. She nearly misses me.

I return to our sandy shelter. Shortly, the tall, thin lifeguard warns us that it will rain. We feel a mizzle, but don’t have a sense of urgency until the sky releases a monsoon season like I’ve seen in movies. We gather our stuff and race to the lunch tables, which have an overhead.

The waitresses seem bored and resentful and why not? They wear white nets over their tiny braids, as well as nylons and shirts and vests.

I notice the couple at the adjacent table, particularly the woman, who is wearing a burgundy two-piece suit from the hotel gift shop. Yesterday I almost bought it, but it wasn’t my size.

Grenada is called the Spice Island, mainly because of its nutmeg and mace. Nutmeg grows on evergreen trees, and while I don’t see any, we spot a man selling nutmeg on the beach. The rain stops within half an hour.

We tear ourselves away from the perfect beach and join an island tour. The Grenadines include the smaller islands of Carriacou and Petite Martinique, as well as annactive submarine volcano called Kick-Em-Jenny.

Looking at a map, I see intriguing place names like “Les Sauteurs,” or jumpers in French. It marks the place where Black Caribs refused to be taken prisoner by the conquering French Army in 1719. Some thought it would be less painful to jump off a cliff than to withstand torture.

The British captured the island and its plantations 1763, bringing Black slaves with them. Slavery was sbolished in 1834.

On our bus tour, I recall the plane passenger’s observation about peaceful Grenada and decide it’s accurate. Our driver honks at every bus he passes, saying “we’re a friendly people.”

The signature Caribbean drink is rum, and we soon stop at River Antoine Estate rum distillery. In existence since the 18th century, the plant still uses the original machinery and processes. After touring the establishment, employees escort us to a small patio where we’re offered a taste of rum. Several strong men gulp down the drink and almost spit it back out.

After living near Napa Valley for years, I am amazed that we are not charged for tasting. Instead, a guide encourages us to take pictures of the premises and post them on our social media pages. Some people do buy bottles, which must be less than seventeen percent proof to pass American customs officers. On the trip back to the resort, someone breaks his bottle, leaving the bus with a distinct smell.

We meet a couple from North Carolina, Lucien and Isolda and sit next to them at the lunch at an old plantation. A former English professor at North Carolina State University, he says this is their fifth international trip in 2022. We sit next to George, from the United Kingdom, who says his wife couldn’t come but she’s Polish. Asked about King Charles, he says “he’s doing a good job although he has big shoes to fill.” His face turns red at the mention of Prince Harry and Meaghan Markle, who he says are “just out for publicity and money.” We change the subject, no pun intended.

After lunch, we pass orange, blue and even lavender pastel houses with elaborate windows next door to grey shacks. It’s an uneven blend of wealth, with clothing stores run out of people’s homes. We pass a bank called “Offshore Holdings” and I wonder about tax advantages.

Our next stop is a tour of s local chocolate factory. A tree out front grows full chocolate pods. They are often washed by stepping on them, like grapes for wine. We buy some 70 percent cacao bars and hot chocolate at a small fountain bar.

The tour nears the end at Annandale waterfalls in Grand Etang park. We walk down a steep, winding asphalt path, passing a treehouse bar called Wild Orchid. Its neon lighting flashes purple and pink. As the surrounding rainforest creates darkness all around. Friday nights local artists play their music, while the bar serves cocktails as well as meals like coconut shrimp and chickenburgers.

Since there are no walls, you have a good view of the thirty-foot waterfall. Its pool inspires several tour goers to swim in its chilly waters. I watch from the hill, thinking how three years ago I would have accompanied them. There’s a railing, but the steps seem too steep for me.

By the time we return to the Royalton, it’s 6:30 pm, three hours after the stated stop time. If there’s one thing I learn in Grenada, however, it’s that you can’t rush island time. The restaurants are still open for dinner.

Mardin, an ancient city in southeastern Turkey, is just an hour from a Middle Eastern war zone. And yet tourists pour into the area, which is a designated UNESCO World Heritage site.

Even Prince Charles visited the oldest orthodox Syriac monastery in the world, which is still a working Syriac monastery. Mor (Saint) Gabriel Monastery closes after dark, but you can see monks tending the garden during daylight hours. Located in the Tur Abdin plateau, a few kilometers from old Mardin, the Assyrian monastery is also called Deyrulzafaran. It is massive, with 365 rooms for each day of the year, and services are held daily.

Mardin is known for telkari, an ancient jewelry technique using pure silver.

 

Jewish, Syrian, Yezidi, Kurdish, Arab and Chechen civilizations have left their marks on Mardin, which is nevertheless on the State Department’s list of risky areas. Turkish soldiers wrestled with PKK Kurdish fighters last year, making the region off-limits for foreign service employees.

But I’m glad we were able to make the trip from Istanbul to Mardin in August, 2019, despite the extreme heat.

Telkari is an type of ancient jewelry making using pure silver. Mardin is known for the craft.

If only you could walk through the narrow, stepping streets of the old town, to experience for yourself the walk of ages. I felt like I was in upper Mesopotamia,

The jewelry stores sell silver bracelets in a special design that is characteristic of the region. When we returned to Istanbul, for example, my sister-in-law immediately knew the style of her sultana bracelet, wrapped up one finger then down to her wrist. I bought myself a stone and silver beaded necklace for $13 and offered to pay in American dollars. The owner was quite pleased, but I made sure that he would be able to exchange the dollars. He nodded his head, of course, because the lira was down.

I witnessed the honesty and generosity that Muslims in my country exhibit on a daily basis. Everyday, people helped me lift my travel scooter over curbs and steps that were inches tall. As a limited walker, the terrain proved arduous for me. Men appeared to carry my little travel scooter or to inquire if I needed help.

Christian Syrian refugees determine about 40% of the population, with Kurds coming in next place. Turks only make up 5%.

The rocky terrain merits the Syriac name Mardin, which means fortress. Since life is so hard here with narrow steep roads, taxi drivers gave me their cards and told me to call them if I couldn’t make it up a hill. They were willing to track back to get me so that I didn’t suffer walking straight up in the sun, a hot ball of fire in the afternoon. Another driver gave us his card and insisted we call him if we couldn’t walk anywhere.

From the air, Mardin looks like a kaleidoscope of colorful wedges. But this area is no Trivial Pursuit. The capital of Mardin Province, it’s deep in what was once Upper Mesopotamia. We arrived on a full plane on the Pegasus Airlines discount brand, leaving from the domestic Istanbul Airport (SAW), named Sabiha Gokcen, Ataturk’s adopted daughter. Ironically, according to Suzy Hansen, in Notes on a Foreign Country, Gokcen flew many air force missions against the Kurds.

Since this week of Kurban Bayrami, calls for people to eat leg of lambs like Americans eat turkey on Thanksgiving. Remember the Old Testament story of the sacrifice of Isaac, who gives his son’s life to show his devotion? God was so impressed, he decreed that in the future, believers could sacrifice lambs instead.

In the Muslim faith, one must also practice Zakat, or donating two percent of your income to the needy. So that people can buy lamb for the homeless, there were pop-up butchers everywhere.

Just a few years ago, tourism faltered, with only 2000 beds and not many comers. Now, there are thousands more hotels and the tourism has tripled, partly due to a phenomenon of a woman, Chef Ebru Baybara Demir. Although born in her father’s country of Mardin, her family moved to Istanbul so she could have the best education and opportunities. Now, she’s paying it forward.

Mardin’s a city under an ancient citadel about 3,000 feet tall that protected empires: Byzantine, Selcuks, Ottoman, Syriac, Duer, the best and the brightest of the world. As a Sunni Muslim (on my birth certificate), I never really knew what it meant to live according to Islam. My parents, freed of any extended family pressures when we moved to the States, taught me that religion was the opioid of the masses. We subscribed to secular humanism magazines, and while I knew a few Islamic prayers, they were mostly learned when my Grandmother visited and recited them whenever my father drove in New York City traffic. “Bismillah, lahmahni rahim” is one you might recognize from Freddie Mercury’s song, “Bohemian Rhapsody.”

Friends of theirs prayed three times a day and asked for a private space when they came over for dinner, but my psychiatrist dad told me religion was just a crutch.

Mardin Airport from Istanbul’s Sabihah Gokcen

Around us, men with hair spilling out of their shirt sleeves looked out the tiny windows to get a glimpse of the agrarian region they may have left years ago to make life in the big city. That’s how Istanbul became the sprawling megapolis with a population of 15.7 million people. Mardin has only

The unbearable heat hit us hard on debarking. Porters threw luggage and strollers in plastic bags on the sizzling pavement while I tried to sit on a shady part of the plane. I could feel the sticky weight of every piece of clothing I had on. We finally got our baggage and made our way through the building to the parking lot.

Ata, a man who works with Chef Ebru Baybara Demir, picked us up at the airport. He loaded our luggage and my travel scoot in the back of his truck with the sunflower oil he had just picked up at Migros (Turkish Safeway) and offered to take us to her office in the center of the old city. My daughter Leyna was there to do some grain business with Ebru, a celebrity chef. I remembered my Turkish and said “kiyafetimizi degsterelim once.” He understood that we needed some down time, but he seemed indefatigable himself.

Ebru, as she is known, donates food and clothing to the Syrian regugees, especially during Kurban Bayrami.  Since moving back to her father’s homeland in 2000, ago, Demir has helped increase tourism while giving women refugees jobs and training at Cercis Murat Konagi restaurant. Ebru and her husband restored the mansion, turning it into a highly rated restaurant.

If you go, order the appetizer plate.  It comes with several health takes on Turkish dishes and the presentation with decorative spoons on a tray. Chef Ebru says she has a copyright on the dish.

Under the reign of Sultan Abdulhamid II, the governor of Diyarbakir Haci Hasan Pasa commissioned the building which now houses The Sakip Sabanci Mardin City Museum and Dilek Sabanci Art Gallery. The Armenian architect Sarkis Lole designed it as a calvary barracks in 1889. In the photo above, one can see what used to be a stable. The museum displays Ottoman artifacts, jewelry, busts of gods and goddesses.

There’s an eery silence in the air here. I felt this also in Ephesus, near the Virgin Mary’s house. It reminds you of the history of the place, past civilizations that offer a gravitas to Mardin.

Silver lake District in Los Angeles projects urban grittiness, but there are some amazing finds here. I wandered into the Spice Station recently, after a day at the art museum.

Inside the Spice Station, a worker sorts through jars of spices.

It takes five minutes or so to find 3819 Sunset Blvd., because first you have to meander through a path, the lovely impressionistic courtyard covered with trellises and a fountain . After the courtyard, you will step into the actual store, filled with spices in apothecary jars.

Owned by husband and wife team Peter Bahlawanian and Bronwen Tahse, the store carries 140 spices, teas, and tissanes.
I took home jasmine tea and Himalayan salt in packets. The small cottage is lined top to bottom with jars of spices.

DTLA art galleries and museums

More than 100,000 pieces of art in Los Angeles County Museum of Art 5905 Wilshire Blvd. guarantee that you’re not going to see all of them in this lifetime!

But pick and choose and take in the ones that call to you. Free admission on the second Tuesday of every month, otherwise it’s $15 for adults, $10 for seniors 62 and older.
Temporary exhibitions include one on Samurai armour, another on Pierre Huyghe, and a third on the Hudson River School. Visit lacma.org for additional information.
The streets around LACMA also contain lots of art galleries. Wander around for hours.