One night a feast was held in the palace, and there came a man and
prostrated himself before the prince, and all the feasters looked
upon him; and they saw that one of his eyes was out and that
the empty socket bled. And the prince inquired of him, “What has
befallen you?” And the man replied, “O prince, I am by profession
a thief, and this night, because there was no moon, I went to rob
the money-changer’s shop, and as I climbed in through the window
I made a mistake and entered the weaver’s shop, and in the dark I
ran into the weaver’s loom and my eye was plucked out. And now,
O prince, I ask for justice upon the weaver.”

Then the prince sent for the weaver and he came, and it was decreed
that one of his eyes should be plucked out.

“O prince,” said the weaver, “the decree is just. It is right that
one of my eyes be taken. And yet, alas! both are necessary to me
in order that I may see the two sides of the cloth that I weave.
But I have a neighbour, a cobbler, who has also two eyes, and in
his trade both eyes are not necessary.”

Then the prince sent for the cobbler. And he came. And they took
out one of the cobbler’s two eyes.

And justice was satisfied.

I spoke with Josh for about 90 minutes, which he condensed to 23, with a 5 minute bonus episode for his paid subscribers.

I haven’t listened to it myself, because I can’t bear to hear myself ramble, but those who’ve heard it tell me it’s definitely worth a listen and have been sharing it since it premiered 3 weeks ago.

Let me know what you think?

December, 2023.

After a month spent silent in Beppu, the Hot Spring capitol of Japan, I was wandering in winter wonder when I found Tapasan, a sliver of a bar with guitars on the wall. The owner and bartender was the only person present, jamming in solitude on the sofa.

I asked if he’d mind a jam mate. “Of course not!” I bought a beer, but I had no cash. I left my health insurance card as collateral. We spent the next hour or so sharing songs we knew or wrote. This is one of mine.

I returned a few days later with cash in hand, still wet from my onsen soak. A day or two after that, I received a text inviting me to attend his 4 year anniversary party. Would I mind joining in on “One Love“? “My pleasure,” I replied before I realized I did not, in fact, know the lyrics to the verse.

The party was the day before my departure. I crammed the lyrics into my brain on hte walk there. I had had almost no human interaction in the previous month. My breakfast was served by a robot and a cat was the gatekeeper at my closest ancient onsen. Tonight, though, I was warmly welcomed by the most outgoing Japanese I’ve ever encountered.

The musicians were so fantastic, I was so nervous about performing. The night wore on, and I hoped that there wouldn’t be time for me to join in. I was about to bow out for bedtime when Tapa called me up. He communicated with the crowd in Japanese. A new friend translated his far too generous praise. I was the closer. I was the “special guest from NYC.“ Humbled and moved, I did my best.

A night, a place, and people I will never forget. I could never have planned a more perfect farewell.

I can’t remember the last time I ate a four legged animal. After witnessing the ceremonial sacrifice of a buffalo at a traditional Torajan funeral in Sulawesi, Indonesia, I can unequivocally assure you that Morrissey was right: Meat IS murder.

I was unprepared for the sudden slice and the prolonged suffering. The beautiful beast was punished for the pleasure of the party. He suffocated for at least fifteen minutes, miraculously lifting his near severed head several times, and violently smashing it to the ground. Large gravel rocks were launched meters in all directions as his seismic convulsions thrashed his spine back and forth. Four of his friends watched his slaughter. Each of them will meet the same end in the four remaining days of the funeral rites.

Eventually, exhausted, he lay still as his blood pooled between his legs. At least five men began flaying his flesh from the snow white fat that surrounded his muscles. His skin, like clothing, lay in a pile on the ground. I could see then that he was not, in fact dead yet. His heart was still beating. His jugular was pulsing, as the muscles at his shoulders twitched. He had been skinned alive.

The men took a break while another portion of the ceremony commenced. The flies collected as the sun steamed the fresh meat. They returned with axes to break his ribcage. His organs were separated from his bones. His stomach had been sliced, revealing fresh, compacted grass from his last meal.

I kept shooting, as seven sows screamed, bound to bamboo boards. None of the animals had been given water as they roasted in the heat. Unmitigated, unnecessary torture. A deer, a goat, a horse and a calf were tied to posts near the buffalos. The valuable, blue eyed, Albino was secured tightly by rope through it’s septum.

To eat an animal out of necessity is one matter. To subject it to suffering is another. Livestock in the states has a horrible life and a “humane” death. Here, the buffalo spend their lives wading in rice paddies and roaming the hills. It pays for that privilege with this agony. I’d prefer neither scenario.

I was not in a position to stop this. I replaced emotion with action. My job was to witness the horror and share it with those of you who choose to eat meat purchased pre-wrapped or plated with sides, without ever having dirtied your hands with the being’s blood. If these images horrify you, good.

To commemorate the halfway point in my mission to 330 countries, colonies, territories & exclaves I’ve decided to release an expanded 2nd edition in November, 2025, so I can include 30 more countries than the original.

Read the preface below:

I was a traveler long before I was a photographer.

I lived in West Germany on an American Army Base until I was 5. My mother traveled the Schengen states extensively with my sister and I. I returned to pre-Euro Europe after my freshman year in high school as an exchange student. Based in a Parisian suburb, I spent that summer traveling revisiting the Schengen zone with a retinue of routards. I’ve returned numerous times since, amounting to more than a year, maybe two.

Israel & Palestine in 1999 were my first adventure beyond Europe. A Red Sea road trip along the Egyptian Border with my Tel Avivian boyfriend included a chance encounter with soldiers from both sides of the chain link fence who, like all races, religions and creeds, shared a love of Bob Marley.

After 8 years, 3 trips to Europe, all of the lower 48 states, Mexico and a 24 hour flight to my Kiwi Boyfriend’s native islands, I finally made it to the other side of that chain link fence in the desert. Egypt, more than any prior experience, ignited my passion for travel, despite, or perhaps because of having been, briefly, kidnapped in Cairo.

18 months after my escape, I was off to Sri Lanka to teach Yoga in a recently tsunami’d southwest surf town while the 25 year Civil War raged in the northeast city of Jaffna. My students were journalists, NGO Contractors, Foreign Diplomats & British Cricket Fans. Following my 2 month contract, I traveled through India, Myanmar, Cambodia and Thailand for 4 months, earning my Thai Massage Certification along the way.

Upon my return to NYC, I opened a 9 bed guest house in Greenpoint, Brooklyn, so I could write off travel expenses as Research & Development. Goodpoint incubated Goodyoga, which was, when I retired from brick and mortar in May of 2023, Brooklyn’s Oldest Studio with 10 total locations over 16 years.

During the best period, pre-pandemic, I was able to travel 18 months out of 24
including:

• a 4 month overland itinerary from Argentina to Mexico

• 6 months traversing a counterclockwise sorta circle around Europe from Malta to Iceland

• a month in Castro’s Cuba

• a 4 week overland round trip circumnavigation of Hispaniola from Port Au Prince

• a month teaching on the Big Island of Hawaii from which I traveled directly to

• Rwanda to meet the Gorillas then overland to Tanzania to host a Kilimanjaro summit hike and Zanzibar recovery.

​It was during this period that I became a photographer in earnest. Having followed my Instagrammed iPhone Album, my dear friend and notable photographer, Merri Cyr, insisted that I buy her 2007 Canon 5D Mark 2. Most of the photos published in the 1st Edition were taken with that camera or the lighter 6D I quickly upgraded to.

There were a few from a 2001 early Olympus digital I carried in Egypt and my first trip to Asia. It produced great shots, but most of it’s full size files have been misplaced. Archiving was a gargantuan task that produced hundreds of contenders from over 10,000 images. That said, the final selection are from only a handful of places because I simply didn’t have the right tool for the job until 2015.

I’ve recently traded in my bulky Canon body, with her suite of 3 prime lenses and a Flash, for a petite, powerful used Fujifilm X100F. At 2 pounds lighter and 2” smaller all around with a 4.3 MP advantage, she’s a better daily street rig than the Canon. A rangefinder, I’m restricted to it’s built in 35mm lens, but I’m a traveling portraitist. That’s all I need. It took me 150 countries, but I finally found my aesthetic.

Armed with little else, as little as possible, in fact, I intend to visit every Country, Colony, Territory, Exclave and Enclave. I’ve made it to 150, so far…If I’m blessed with the health to visit the remaining 180, I’d love to return to many that I’ve already explored, to create a cohesive collection of 330 portraits to represent each. If I can accomplish that, why not continue? Can I collect every culture and ethnicity?

Of course, this entails a life of perpetual travel. I live out of my carry on and personal item, stuffed with more gear than clothing. I’ve sold, donated or gifted everything I own, except for my personal archive. It’s a monastic existence that I’ll share in detail at www.flanneryfoster.com, where you can purchase your own print of any image that might move you as you flip forward.

Thank you for allowing me the time to introduce the people I’ve met on the road.
I hope we’ll meet along the way, as well.

Earlier today, near the Silver Mosque, two men approach us as we sip dark, mint shai from small, glass tumblers. Cairo is as hot as one expects...and dusty. Fine sand clings to our clothes and lines our nostrils. Two years before the Arab Spring, most Egyptians are objectively, visibly, poor, including the multilingual tour guides, concierges at 3 star hotels, like ours, and these law students, who sit across from us when they hear Ed tell an inquiring child where he’s from.

“My brother married a New Zealand girl. He lives there now!“

They have dirt under their nails. Their teeth are stained by tea and tobacco, like every smile we’ve seen since landing. Ahmed speaks English well. His friend, Mahmoud, seems to understand, but seldom responds and never initiates.

We’ve been ripped off, robbed or straight up mugged by everyone we’ve met since exiting the airport. Upon arrival in Giza two days prior, we agree to pay X amount for a golden hour ride around the Pyramids. Ed chooses a Camel, which he rides with the trainer. Having heard about handsy guides taking advantage of their proximity to western women while straddling the same dromedary, I opt for a horse. I can ride alone. Following an epic sunset, filled with joy, laughter and friendly banter, they lead us, in darkness, behind the stables to renegotiate their fee with the firm demand to empty our fucking wallets.

The following day, the tween boy driving our horse drawn carriage (a necessity in Cairo, not a novelty) turns a corner into an unlit alley where multiple men board and demand we empty our pockets. Luckily, we learned our lesson last night and carry little cash. They get exactly what we agreed to pay prior to boarding.

Our new friends aren’t selling anything, though. In fact, they pick up the tab. They walk us to the next mosque serving as our guides, but, again, no “baksheesh,” the Arabic word for “gratuity,” is requested. These guys seem totally different than all the other locals who’ve approached us. Surprisingly, despite the demanding discipline of Law School, the duo has nothing but time to show us around their beloved Megalopolis.

“We’re happy to practice English,” says Ahmed.
Mahmoud keeps mum. He has yet to speak Arabic, let alone English.

We follow them all day. First, for Kitchari, a North African staple inspired by the Italian colonizers: Pasta with a spicy tomato sauce and crispy onions. They pay, again. They insist. We wander deeper into the maze of the marketplace, more narrow and circuitous as the sun shifts further west.

Time for another tea, the national past time. Backgammon boards are ubiquitous at Cairo’s cafes. At this point, Ed and I, new to the game, partner with our companions at tables for two, separated from sound & view. Ed gets the mute Mahmoud while Ahmed opposes me.

With Ed out of earshot, Ahmed, unprovoked, broaches the intimate topic of women in his life. He’s been consulting an incongruous pink cell phone dangling a girlie little charm. He tells me the infatuated English girl who gave it to him has created a complication with his wife. I know he’s lying, but why? Was the phone stolen? Bought in the black market? Fair enough. I don’t judge.

The game ends when our glasses are empty. I’m not certain I actually learned to play. They invite us for a beer in one of Cairo’s clandestine bars: legal, but as taboo as the local strip club in a rural, midwest American town. We climb through an impenetrable forest of beige buildings to discover an isolated shack, floating above the honking horns of the modern city, separated from Coptic Cairo’s crumbling clay clusters. This bar is special, Ahmed insists: high on a hill in the center of the ancient Islamic quarter where we’ll watch the sunset.

The bar is a cooler of beer on the dirt floor, not served, so much as chaperoned, by a round, old man sitting in a folding chair, watching Technicolor MGM musicals on a black and white TV. We reach for the rungs of a plywood ladder to the second floor, some portions of which are constructed of crosshatched pegboard. There are no windows to watch the sunset. I mention this. Ahmed waves away my concern while Mahmoud rolls a joint. “Ah!” I silently rationalize, “We’re in a windowless room for this, and THEN we’ll watch the sunset outside.” This is the last time I ever smoke with strangers in a strange land.

Stoned, Ahmed waxes on about his Bedouin heritage. He is proficient in their traditional massage and adamant we should try it. It’s a spiritual ritual, so he doesn’t accept payment. He has a table, nay, an altar, at his house. He’ll take us there for more privacy. I demur, because: Of course not. Never. No. I don’t want any man to touch me unless I’ve endowed him with the privilege of my intimate partnership and even that permission is probationary. Period. No alarms, though. Common tactic. Boys will be boys. Men will massage.

The silence burns as slowly as the wet weed.

Unprompted, the conversation becomes a commercial for a Papyrus museum. Ah ha! There’s the rub! The objective is to broker an expensive piece of crappy tourist art for baksheesh on the back end. This is their endgame. It must be quite a chunk of change to cover the costs of all the food, beer and pot they’ve shared with us. It’s a long con. Well, if that’s the worst of it, I’m relieved. We won’t buy, of course. They’ll be disappointed, but I’ll squeeze a few bills in their hands to cover their costs.

Relaxed, now, I have to pee...and it’s almost sunset! The spliff still smolders, but Ahmed offers to escort me. I decline his polite gesture. He insists. I laugh. He doesn’t. I have no words but, “Uhhhhh…”. The room is a cardboard box of opaque air. “I need to show you where it is. The owner doesn’t speak English.“ Oh. It’s the weed. I’m high. I’m paranoid. Everything’s fine. He descends the ladder first. I’m wearing a long but loose skirt that conceals nothing. As I look down, he’s looks up. Our eyes don’t meet. His are up my skirt. I should have been more careful. I’m embarrassed…for him as much as myself.

The unbothered barman is more interested in Fred and Ginger than me and Ahmed. He leads me to a rickety cubicle covering a hole in the ground with a moldy cup next to a trickling hose for clean up. He holds the door shut, a human lock. I squat precariously, my skirt barely maintaining my modesty. I catch his eyes through the seam of the door. Was he looking the whole time? I’m unsettled, but I have no choice but to return to the cell where my bag and my boyfriend remain.

Ed has, in my absence, agreed to a demonstration of Ahmed’s traditional technique. How the monosyllabic Mahmoud convinced him, I’ll never know. He sits in a chair and holds his arms akimbo, as instructed. Ahmed, essentially, frisks him, running his hands above the surface of his body, lightly, not unlike some hipster healer in Greenpoint, but we’re in Egypt, where, I later learned, 58 people, mostly tourists, were killed less than a decade before, during the nearby Luxor massacre, funded by Osama Bin Laden.

“No to tourists in Egypt” read a leaflet found stuffed inside a victim. A year before our arrival, to the month, 3 related attacks occurred in Cairo, on the very same streets we walked to get here. During our visit, the Sinai experienced it’s 4th bombing in a year.

I decided to visit Egypt less than a month prior to our arrival because there was a killer flight on Travelzoo and we gotta see the Pyramids, amiright?!? The internet was not what it is, and Colin Powell’s son was the head of the FCC. The news out of the Middle East was abridged, apparently.

Ed’s uneventful ritual lasts mere moments. Now it’s my turn, all three men indicate. “You love this stuff, Flan,“ Ed innocently encourages, equating this regional Reiki to yoga or meditation. I gaslight myself. Having seen the demonstration, I feel silly for having reservations. What’s the worst that could happen? Why do I always assume the worst in men? Anyway, Ed is here. We have confidence in our new friends. Despite the quiver in my gut. I don’t want to be impolite. I don’t want to offend our hosts. Bush is President, but I’M a good American.

I assume the same position, my back to Ahmed. The treatment follows the familiar framework of Ed’s until I feel fingers slide under my shirt and bind me by my breasts to a chair I never wanted to sit in. My elbows flinch to my ribs, like a tickled toddler. His forearms sandwiched by my biceps, his grip grows tighter. Like a lightning struck log, Ed is petrified. He’s 5’7” and not the least bit intimidating. He’s a lover, not a fighter, outnumbered and overmatched. Ahmed’s hands are still active under my shirt, twisting my nipples in a most un-therapeutic manner.

This is, by no means, the first time I’ve had unwanted hands on my body, but the stakes are higher and the hands are dirtier. I don’t panic. I don’t protest. I don’t let on that I’m alarmed. There will be no reason to kill me, because I am, by all appearances, willing...to do whatever I need to do to live. What feels like 5 minutes is more likely all of 5 seconds.

“This is great!“ I squeak. “I want the whole thing. I wanna relax. Let’s go to your place. You said you have a massage table there right? I’m exhausted.”

He loosens his grip.

“We can go to that Papyrus museum first, though, right? I need to get my mom a gift. That’ll be perfect. We’re so lucky we met you!”

For now, the ball is still in play. Everything is fine, as far as they’re concerned. I’m the American slut of their fantasies. How fortunate for them! I’m totally comfortable with a stranger’s hands on my breasts in the presence of my boyfriend. Nothing weird about it, at all.

Before he unhands me, though, I have to agree to his terms: a traditional Bedouin massage ritual must be performed in complete privacy with only Ahmed and me in the room, and I must by completely naked. He’s still behind me, weighing my breasts in his calloused palms.

“Of course! Sounds perfect. I’m so tired. My feet hurt so much. I can’t wait. THANK YOU!”

He finally unfastens his fists. His fingers linger beneath my bra and blouse as he withdraws from our negotiation. We calmly collect our belongings and descend the ladder. The sun has set. We missed it.

Chaotic Cairo is lit by scattered, informal fires. Ed walks beside me. He holds my hand. My senses heightened, we don’t make eye contact. I am in a state of complete concentration. Ahmed walks behind us while Mahmoud takes the lead. I am the only woman, foreign or local, on the streets. There is nowhere and no one safer to escape to. A man on a scooter slaps my ass so hard it leaves a bruise.

We arrive at an unmarked entrance to a covert courtyard concealing a series of stairs. Is this the Papyrus Museum? IS this the Papyrus Museum? I’ve just escaped one trap, I won’t walk into another. Ahmed adjusts his waistband at his lower back. A weapon? Probably a knife? Mahmoud gestures, with his hand, for Ed to follow him up the steps, shrouded in darkness. He does. I don’t know why. Ahmed gestures with his head for me to follow Ed. I refuse. He insists. I stand my ground. So does he. I will not walk in front of him. I’m furious and frightened, but my face is fixed. He reaches behind his back. I hold his gaze. He adjusts his shirt. I don’t blink. He turns and walks forward.

The game is over. He knows I’m onto him. I’m no longer a willing participant, but I haven’t caused a scene…yet. Were it not for Ed, I’d run. Instead, I follow behind at a safe distance. If I hear Ed scream, I’ll flee…for help…but where? Why did he do as he was told?

I follow four feet behind up a winding, Escheresque egress to discover, at the top, a PAPYRUS MUSEUM! A real, Lonely Planet reviewed Papyrus “Museum” filled with actual, ugly faux artifact artwork. The proprietor explains the process by which Papyrus is made, it’s historical significance and the meaning of the glyphs, while the blood drains to my feet. Adrenaline and THC are a kooky cocktail.

Our captors, as bored as we are, are conspiring in the opposite corner. Ahmed speaking with his back to us as Mahmoud silently stands sentinel. I interrupt the curator. “I’m sorry, I feel ill. Can you help us get a cab, please?” My eyes widen to indicate my discomfort with our guides. He gets it. He hands me a wrapped candy as he escorts us to the street. I shout goodbye (Why?!?!) at our perpetrators as I rush down the stairs, pushing past the Papyrus guy. A serendipitous cab brakes with a squeal, it’s rear handle flush with my hip. I pull it, climbing over the 2 tourists attempting to exit. The deviant duo emerge from the museum as we lock the doors. “The Cosmopolitan Hotel. Step on it.”

We swerve, speechlessly, toward our destination in. We don’t entertain the driver’s bid for baksheesh upon arrival. We throw the appropriate amount through the window. We force shocked smiles in response to the concierge’s warm greeting. The Art Deco Elevator Operator inquires, “You like Cairo?“ We chuckle and nod nervously. Safe in our suite, doors locked, we collapse, crying, in an exhausted embrace.

We depart for Luxor the next day. We pack our sorrows in our suitcases and pretend that nothing happened. In denial on the Nile. We manage to move through our few remaining days with some modicum of pleasure, distracting ourselves with the sites. A high masking autistic with C/PTSD from early childhood trauma and a handful of prior non-consensual scenarios, I’m good at this.

Hired by the hotel, we hesitantly trust our driver, Mahmoud. Yes, Mahmoud…but every man in Egypt is named some variation of Mohammed. This one is, actually, harmless. His wife is in labor, but he doesn’t even consider attending. She’s his 2nd wife. He’s in his sixties. A widower. When the baby is born, he invites us to the hospital, where goats and chickens roam the halls freely. A nurse lifts his son, like Moses, from a basket beneath the bed the young mother recovers in. Ed takes what is still my favorite photo of my travels.

We return to Brooklyn days before my 28th birthday, our 4th anniversary, with acute PTSD and, in Ed’s case, a parasite that almost kills him. We never speak of it. He’s ashamed. So am I. We break up, amicably, 5 months later, after Labor Day Weekend, when, out of nowhere, I uncharacteristically throw a handful of paperclips at the floor near his feet in frustration over…I don’t remember what…something entirely inconsequential. Instantly, aware that I’m no longer in command of my senses and actions, I exit the building onto Broadway and Havemeyer. I immediately witness a high speed chase end in tragedy directly at my doorstep. A sign, I assume. I instantly pivot on my heels, returning to the apartment where Ed is crouched, collecting the clips. I join him on the floor. “I can’t live with you anymore,” I explain, unexpectedly, softly, through tears.

It’s two months before he finds his own place and I find a roommate. A non-refundable December holiday trip to South America with his father is already on the books. We manage our separation process surprisingly well, but, unbeknownst to me, I’m having my own invisible version of a breakdown…breakthrough? I do Hot Yoga, every day for 3 months in a not unsuccessful effort to assert control over my compromised nervous system. It was called Bikram, then, before we learned he was a serial rapist.

In December, I leave my job in Music PR as spontaneously as I left my relationship. Emaciated from my daily sauna stretch and irritable from sleep deprivation due to nightly flashbacks, everyone I knew knew something was wrong, but I never shared what. I’m not certain I knew. I was definitely disassociating, as I’d learned to do my entire life. I’ve always lived a double life. My family home was frightening. I kept secrets with a smile. My “giftedness“ got me bullied. My mask, once perfected, was more popular. My consciousness walks behind my body, observing…guarding…from a safe distance.

Following a not unpleasant Christmas in Buenos Aires and New Year’s in Rio with Ed and his Dad, I spend January, 2007, becoming a yoga teacher. By October, a teaching contract finds me on a flight to war torn Sri Lanka, where genocidal Buddhists have nearly eliminated the Hindu Tamil population. Again, the news was not nearly as global then as it is now. I had no idea what I was walking into, and for that, I’m grateful. This fool’s errand initiated a 6 month solo overland journey across India and Southeast Asia. Ed meets me in Mumbai, where we meet an American I would later date. An actor, like myself, and writer, his mother is a Pulitzer Prize winning poet whose volumes sit on my shelf. Now, in 2025, he’s awaiting trial in LA for multiple rapes, but that‘s another story…and yet, it’s sort of the same story, isn’t it?

Ed attempts to reconcile, but our paths are forever forked, not to cross again…at least not yet, 17 years later. He moves to Melbourne, where he continues to thrive with his good job, nice home, sweet wife and adorable kids. Meanwhile I’m writing from Macapá, Brazil, at the mouth of the Amazon, about to depart for my 151st Country, Colony, Territory & Exclave, committed to visiting the remaining 180 by my 60th birthday.

Until I tell the tale to a former CIA operative in 2018, following my separation from the abusive husband with whom I trauma bonded two years following the events in Egypt, I don’t realize I’d been “kidnapped.” I protest when my date uses the word, thinking it dramatic hyperbole.

“Flannery, when you want to leave and someone won’t let you, that’s abduction.
Just because you were conned into captivity, and were smart enough to escape
easily, doesn’t change the fact that, yes, you were kidnapped.“

A pause. I’m unusually silent. I feel flushed with warmth and my sacrum tingles as I experience an immediate understanding of my irrational behaviors and, simultaneously, empathy for myself instead of the disgust, disappointment and frustration I’d carried for over a decade.

“Want a job?“ he jokes. ”You’d be a great operative”

Perhaps I would be, if I weren’t entirely opposed to the agency and it’s activities, but the months that follow prove that I’m likely too poor judge of character to be an effective spy.

Shortly after this epiphany, a man I’ve been dating for a month, a nice liberal poet who went to Vassar and works for a non profit arts organization, hits me in the face and chokes me unconscious during what was, otherwise, consensual sex. 3 months following that, another date, an award winning war correspondent for a major publication, drugs and assaults me in my Greenpoint Avenue Goodyoga storefront. I hate to admit it, but these accumulated incidents, coupled with my marriage and divorce from a controlling, covert narcissist, overwhelm me. I’m becoming someone I no longer recognize or regard with respect. The symptoms I had experienced a decade before return with exponential strength. There’s no masking my disturbance, but still, I tell no one what I’m enduring.

Then, the pandemic. I maintain a monastic solitude that masquerades as healing, until the collective masks, literally, come off and I’m compelled to put my own, figurative, mask back on when I reopen just one flagship Goodyoga location in April of 2021. Misery loves company, though. Everyone is traumatized now, so I can at least offer understanding, though I don’t share my story.

Distracted by work, activism, and the election, I’m managing, barely, until March 2023 when a Tik Tok Tour of my live / work location goes viral, reaching well over 10 million views. More creepy men than I can count know my address, and make use of it. I’m a fish in a barrel. This time, my breakdown is visible. I find myself frozen in tears in my storefront, returning to reality only when clients uncomfortably encounter me. I close the business, sell everything I own and hit the road for good. I won’t be trapped. I’ll chew off a limb if that’s what it takes.

Thus begins the breakthrough. 2 years and 16 countries later, I’m content. Really. I’m not normal…I never was…nor am I “the same”, by any stretch, but I’m not ashamed and I’m not constantly afraid. I’m able to own and share this story, at least. I can accept most of the parts of myself and my narrative that I was attempting to conceal with humor, achievement and perfection. Intimate relationships are a challenge I’ve avoided. I was sincerely referring to myself as a Nun for about a year, but if the appropriate partner is presented…Meh. Who knows? Who cares? I’m not attached to attaining a soulmate outside of myself. I love myself as authentically as I’d hope to love someone else. I’m patient…at last. I’m kind, finally. I protect, I trust, I hope, I persevere, I keep no record of wrongs and I’ll settle for nothing less from a potential partner. I deserve safety, even if I’m the only one who can provide it for myself…but that’s likely a defense mechanism, I know. It’s a challenge to find the balance between independence and interdependence. Most relationships I’ve witnessed or experienced have veered toward codependence. It’s a challenge to find one that doesn’t feel like a compromise.

Yeah, it’s not a storybook ending, but it’s the truth.

Bad things happen everywhere, especially to women. This isn’t, in the end, a story about Cairo. It’s the story of life lived in a woman’s body and mind. Cairo wasn’t the first, worst or last time I experienced sexual assault. It was, frankly, a minor episode, heightened by the fact that we were in a foreign country where murder seemed a greater possibility than I had yet experienced.

As I continue to wander the world, despite every precaution, I find myself unsafe…but no more so than at home in New York, where 5 men tried to break into my apartment the year after that event, while my roommate and I cowered in the corners. I’m no less safe than with my babysitter’s husband when I was 4 years old. I’m no less safe than with my high school music teacher in Barre, Vermont. I’m no less safe than with any number of friends and family I trusted over my lifetime who ignored the boundaries I set and gaslit me into submission. In fact, I’m probably safer simply because I’m totally present in my circumstances and slightly suspicious of everyone I meet.

I’m a perpetual traveler, but neither in spite of or because of the events I described. It’s, simply, who I am. It’s in my DNA, in fact. Vikings, Spaniards, and Moors wandered the world and I’m the result. I have indigenous South American genes that returned to Spain, embellished with West African wisdom from Mali, Benin and Togo. Some Spanish sailor burdened me with this compulsion. Free will is an illusion.

Perhaps, subconsciously, as some have suggested, I AM tempting fate by pursuing this obsession. Perhaps I AM placing myself in harms way in an attempt to recreate these moments again so my stronger self can alter the outcome…or maybe I’m just a woman doing what any man can do without a second thought.

I came out of nowhere. I’d hiked for hours through dense, monsoon drenched, Himalayan jungle when I encountered this child and her family…all women, farming their land. Her mother and aunt held babies in their thick, tattooed biceps.

In Sikkimese culture, ghosts have pale, white skin and frizzy, red hair. She had never seen a white person before, let alone such a weird one. The iPhone was further evidence of my metaphysical nature. She had never seen herself, either.

A few hours further through the foliage I found another farm and another family. This mother had two boys tilling the soil. The boldest, was not, I think, the oldest. Likely no more than four, he wielded his sickle with authority. All business, the man of the house. His brother, thinner, taller, maybe his senior in age, assumed a less dominant role. He crouched in the tall grass while tenderly scraping a reed. How much they were helping their mother was hard to tell, but they were certainly no hindrance. Childhood hits different in the Himalayas. You reap what you sow.

The face of Antifa.

This is the sweet little lady whose daily devotion inspired the the city to protest Putin.

She’s old enough to remember when her country was under Soviet rule.

She’d rather live in a tent on the Parliament steps than live under Putin’s puppet government.

I thanked her from the bottom of my heart and expressed how meaningful her actions are, not just for Georgia, but the world.

Memes don’t do much. Walk the talk.

My favorite way to wander the world is over her surface. My longest stretch between visits home to NY is at least 6 months on several occasions. I toured the lower 48 with 2 different shows from September 22nd, 2001 (that’s another story…) until June 2002. So, with my month spent teaching on the Big Island, I’ve made it to every state but Alaska I’ve made it to Vargas Island (listed), off the coast of Vancouver.

I’d have to estimate my time spent on the Continent and in the UK & Ireland, post Kindergarten, at a couple of years, at least, traveling (or living) overland for extended periods. I lived in Europe until I was 5, and though I traveled the Schengen Area, I don’t enumerate that period in my count of all 330 countries, colonies, territories & exclaves. I returned to Europe at 15 as an exchange student during the summer after my Freshman year…Pre Chunnel. Pre EuroZone. We exchanged Traveler’s Checks daily following every passport stamp.

Travel by train, even car, in Europe is worth the additional expense of cash and time considering low cost carrier baggage allowance, but nothing exceeds the value of encountering unrecognized republics like Transnistria, and placid, unpeopled medieval villages like Ohrid, North Macedonia (listed).

Other slow travel highlights include four months from Argentina to Mexico, six weeks from Trinidad to Fernando de Noronha (on the list), half the Caribbean, with a month spent circumnavigating Hispaniola and a month trying to get all the way to Santiago de Cuba and failing at Holguin. I love exploring the Caribbean Ferry networks with an E Bike. Bliss.

I’ve accumulated over 2 years visiting every state in India. Over a year in Southeast Asia with a couple months concentrated in Thailand, a month in Vietnam, North to South and all 7 major islands of Indonesia, where I discovered lake Toba, Sumatra (listed). Japan earned 3 months over 3 visits in less than 2 years, specifically Beppu (listed), on the southernmost and most volcanic “mainland” island of Kyushu…but this list, though not exhaustive IS exhausting, so I’ll cut to the chase with my non hierarchical list of 8 notable destinations that may take a little longer to get to, but may demand a longer stay. I’ll expand these into their own articles, eventually, but gatekeeping these juicy secrets was weighing on my conscience.

• Beppu, Japan

  • After my first 3 week visit to Japan (Tokyo / Kyoto / Yokohama) I immediately googled “City with Most Hot Springs in Japan” and found Beppu, by the sea, with 80 Onsen to soak in before every meal for a month. 3 weeks later, I was in my 4 week rental overlooking the Bay of Beppu. I just returned from 25 days exploring Okinawa and more of Kyushu, including Hitoyoshi’s Hot Springs, and Hyuga’s hushed, somnambulant surfside. My final week in Beppu felt like a reunion. If you brake for Hot Springs, this is your Epcot.
    

• Fernando de Noronha, Brazil

  • I may never have discovered this destination had I not grown curious about a complete count of countries, colonies, territories two years ago. While this destinations necessitates a flight…or a yacht…for me, it was the finale of a six week sojourn from Trinidad & Tobago, through Guyana, Suriname, French Guyana and the Amazon overland so I could get to the closest, most affordable to airport to take the 2 connecting small engine / propeller planes to the tiny island far off the northern coast of Brazil.
    
    There are several mandatory Taxes & Conservation Fees associated with visiting the island, but the value is unparalleled. I have never felt safer on a beach, on an island, in South America, Period. Only 3,000 locals know everyone who comes and goes. The tourists are incredibly limited, and the imported workers won’t take any risks with their Jobs and Visas. You can leave your bag on the barren beach unbothered while you soak in the salt and sun, snorkle some of the most well preserved coral and diverse marine life on the planet and row through rows of hundreds of Spinner Dolphins during sunrise.
    
    I feel confident sharing this destination because it is already protected and space is limited.

• Ohrid, North Macedonia

  • I still have obsolete Macedonia currency because I visited before the rebrand. I had no expectations about so many places, but especially Eastern Europe, especially as I adapted to the shared cultural themes of former Yugoslavian States. Ohrid is the medieval stone lakeside village where the Cyrillic Alphabet was invented. Enveloped in a landscape that defies both description and imagination, I wept, dockside, dining on fresh, fried, whole, small fish with nothing but Salt, Lemon and the mineral rich crystal waters they were raised in.

• Samosir Island, Indonesia

  • The largest of it’s kind, that is: an island created by a volcanic (super)eruption that sits within the volcano itself, surrounded by the largest volcanic lake in the world. While Sumatra is relatively easy to get to overland from major hubs like both KL and Singapore, once can fly nearby from those destinations and Jakarta, as well. Still quite a few hours to go, by car and boat, though, unless you have a helicopter.

    
    Isolated Samosir’s culture is decidedly Tribal, specifically Batak, versus Islamic. One can’t help but notice the ubiquitous signage announcing “Magic Mushrooms“ outside every restaurant and hostel, but with no greater fanfare than any other menu item. Imagine my surprise to discover that these weren’t simply superlative mushrooms, but, rather, in fact, the largest, wettest, spongiest, cleanest, juiciest BIGGEST, psychedelic mushrooms I’ve ever encountered.

    
    Of course I immediately returned the fluffy, farm fresh free range magic mushroom omelette back to the elderly grandmother chef with apologies for the confusion because I would never, of course, never, use illegal drugs anywhere in the world, but I have it on expert authority that the potency of the island’s signature fungi may offer experienced psychonauts a “soul enema” of sorts.
    
    With or without mycelium, I found Samosir to be one of my favorite places in my somewhat extensive survey of the 7 major islands of Indonesia. If you crave quiet, waterfall hikes, crisp lake dives and warm locals eager to share their culture with you.

• Vargas Island, Canada

  • Only about four or five folks own property on this Provincial Park Island off the coast of Tofino, Vancouver, and I’m fortunate to have been invited by one of them to spend a month teaching here in a handcrafted, old growth cedar inn built and owned by the same family since the turn of the last century.
    
    My host, Simon Nessman, has since expanded his operation to become

    Cedar Coast Art & Ecology. This venue will elevate any experience you may be crafting for a small group of 18-40 overnight and 100 day guests, who can be housed a short boat ride away in Tofino.

    
    From Vancouver, you still have another day…or two…of travel to get to the island. Sunset and tides are a factor that may have you bunking in the beach van in Tofino. If your karma has accumulated the blessing of a pilgrimage to this, to me, sacred place, give yourself a full month to follow the Moon’s monthly progress across the sky from left to right and full to new. Listen to the lessons the indigenous wolf pack is screaming at you nightly. In the nearby hot springs where the salty sea water meets the sulphurous spring water in several pool, you may meet, as I did, a First Nation Father chanting with his son, shaking ceremonial instruments made with bone, leather and crystals.
    

• Santa Catalina, Panama

  • Six hours from either airport in David or Panama City, Santa Catalina is a paradise for surfers, divers, and mediterranean expats. The beaches are exceptional with several accessible areas appropriate for all levels. World class divers are lured here to explore the corals around Puerta Plata, dubbed “Baby Galapagos“ because it shares Blue Footed Boobies with it’s more famous, distant, cousin.
    
    Spanish and Italian expats bought and built a village in the the early 2000’s, so this remote destination is not without world class food. Handmade pasta, creamy cappuccini, a brick oven built for woodfired pizza and, of course, a beautiful, fresh fish cooked with expert precision, simplicity and respect for their new home and community.

• Livingston, Guatemala

  • Had armed guerillas not blocked my way to Tikal, I never would have detoured to the little known English speaking seat of the Garifuna Diaspora, accessible only by boat through narrow, towering limestone cliffs.
    
    The kidnapped cargo of a slave trader’s ship mutineed, crashing on the coast of the Grenadines. The mingled with the local Garifuna tribe, until the Caribe made them uncomfortable enough to move to other shores. Though the current community shares most of their characteristics with their African Ancestors, they identify as indigenous.
    
    If you can find Livingstone, your next adventure is to find Calle Ocho, the waterfront venue for live mixed music and dancing that may make even the most jaded NYC night-lifer blush. Be careful, though…seriously…but worth the (calculated) risk.

• Rubondo Island, Tanzania

  • I can’t responsibly recommend traveling by car from Kigali, Rwanda to Kilimanjaro. The people are great, though the roads that demand caution! Despite a day trip requiring an overnight and a tire change, it did lead to my discovery of one of the least visited parks in Africa, on the banks of Lake.
    
    The game reserve was established in 1965 after the four hundred Zinza Tribe members were relocated to other islands. I was the only guest when I visited. Rangers were plentiful, though, protecting the imported animals from poachers and protecting me from the two Hippos soaking in the shade outside my cottage. The government owned and operated amenities are in a state of wear and neglect, but the proximity to wildlife and connection with the park staff is unrivaled.

This list is so short, but lists will meet no end, no doubt! Let me know if there’s a list of ______ destinations you’d like me to share my biased opinion on.

I had traveled by train to the nothing town of Agartala to cross the border into Bangladesh, but the border was closed for 3 days because of Gandhi’s birthday, so I made a swift exit 24 hours later. The little travelled Northeast States of India don’t have many amenities. My hotel was lit by a flickering fluorescent tube and smelled like the mold climbing the walls.

Death is public here. It’s everywhere. Open air cremation is the number one attraction in Varanasi, one of India’s most visited cities.

I didn’t want to see this, let alone take a picture, but someone had to. I didn’t need a photo to remember this moment. Who’d WANT to remember this moment? I needed a photo to bear witness. I needed evidence. The blur reveals my discomfort. One shot.

A Dalit woman, an “untouchable,” dead in the train station, her face covered with a shawl, her feet dusted with bright red abir…a little dignity afforded her by some unknown angel.

I boarded the westbound train. I couldn’t even consider a visit to Nagaland because I wasn’t traveling with a husband or male family member. I’m told that’s no longer the case, but I’m in no rush to find out. India’s no place for young women.

Permits approved, I hired a car to get to the trail head in the Himalayas, nestled between Nepal and Bhutan. The roads were treacherous, but empty…until a crowd collected from the fog ahead, wielding signs with slogans in the local languages of Hindi, Nepali, Bhutia, and Lepcha, Gurung, Limbu, Magar, Mukhia, Newari, Rai, Sherpa, and, generously, as if just for me, English.

I jumped out. “I’ll meet you at the end!“

The policeman is pointing the sign to my camera, knowing the blind man holding it is unaware that he’s being photographed. there to observe and regulate the parade, he becomes an active participant, illustrating the sentiment on the signage.

I was drawn to this image for years before I ever saw the boy in the lower left.
The metaphor is too obvious…

He makes his way onto the path and quickly realizes that he’s surrounded on all sides. Shockingly, having seen him engage with me, and having heard me scream at them to give him space, the stupid humans refuse to put their phones down and let him cross the path into the other side of the jungle. He swipes at them twice, aggressively, this time.

Great content from an insane scenario. My adrenaline was surging for days, having realized how close I came to risking both of our lives. Had Adam attacked me in earnest, he would’ve been killed to protect me. That said, it was a privilege to be in his presence. He’s absolutely majestic. I hope as many people as possible prioritize ethical, respectful encounter with wildlife in their natural habitat so they might prioritize the preservation of this planet as a whole. We have a greater opportunity to save this planet than develop another.