Missouri Summer 2022

Cycling in the Missouri hills is a special kind of torture. Instead of slow, thigh burning climbs and long descents like we get in Colorado, we get short steep hills that result in disorganized pedal strokes and spiking heart rates without any real reprieve. That and armadillo carcasses splatter the asphalt everywhere make for some interesting gore to navigate around. However, since biking and more family visits were a must, onward we went to Grandmother's house.

Dismantling four bikes meant for creative packing in the car, but our efforts were rewarded by riding bikes with Grandpa along the James River, through the Battle of Wilson's Creek, and down nameless country roads. In between spandex shorts washings, we took advantage of getting into the water as much as possible because Missouri in July means sweltering heat, the kind that leaves you saying "that's gonna leave a mark" immediately after you leave the air conditioning. We canoed, fished, boated, floated, water-parked, and swam. We went camping where the temperature never dropped below 90F but still had to sleep in tents because Missouri mosquitos take prisoners. 

These trips in the great outdoors were especially fun because their Uncle Danny joined. Usually, he worked long hours at the bar he owned, or had projects that demanded attention: remodeling his house, planting his garden, or planning his next big idea. Danny always had something going on, so the fact that he took off some time to spend with his niece and nephew meant a lot. He taught them how to throw a proper frisbee. At least tried to. He glowed when Deets caught a huge fish and cheered on Margo when they avoided dumping their canoe over a river drop. The kids died of laughter when Uncle Danny showed up to a bonfire night wearing choo-choo train overalls without shirt, and we made ourselves sick eating s'mores.

Childhood friends of Mark's heard we had returned to the great Midwest, so they threw their kids in the truck and drove up from Dallas on a whim to introduce their kids to our kids, and remember the glory days of Oregon. These guys are the raucous kind who skateboard in random and dumb places, just because it is something to do. Natural thrill seekers, they grew up jumping from roofs, skipping over fences into private pools, and getting mullet haircuts purely based on a dare, and they probably parkour too. The children of Mark's buddies are the exact same. On this heart filled reunion, we all piled into the J.O.B. public house, Danny's bar, and an evening of chucking frisbees at each other began.  Even when a frisbee hit the one of the boys' faces, the debauchery continued with laughter, beer drinking, and making suicides from the soda gun. 

Missouri meant reconnecting with grandparents, friends, and neighbors who owned heavy machinery. The kids went to their first baseball game, drove their first backhoe, and burned their feet on the waterpark sidewalks after frost-burning their tongues on Dippin' Dots - giving them a pretty good sense of what it means to spend summer in Midwest America. 

Neighbor Steve's Backhoe

Battle of Wilson's Creek. The North lost. 

J.O.B. under David's plaque:
"This Spot Reserved for David Thomas Schlink,
July 7, 2031"

Morning mist on the North Fork

Camping when it was so hot. Too hot, probably. 
But we were too proud to admit it.

Gramps

Unca' Danny with the kids

Brothers gon' fishing

Rooftoppin' at the J.O.B.

Colorado Summer 2022

Arriving to America was a virulent and sad affair. The Embassy held its usual Independence Day Celebration shortly before many families departed the country, resulting in many of us getting sick with upon arrival. It later became known as The Great 2022 Tashkent Super Spreader Extravaganza. We tried to avoid spreading it, but it also got to my parents (whom I am indebted to for their forgiveness). As if the multi-day trip wasn't hard enough, we also received news from my dad that our dog, Jim, had to be put to sleep after getting bitten by a rattlesnake outside their house. He lived a fabulous 15 years, the last two of which he lived with my parents because, well, pandemics ruin everything. Jim was a very good boy.

We made the best of it, leaning hard into the excitement and joy of reuniting with my family after two years. Everyone's health eventually improved, and we did all the Colorado things we possibly could, starting with massive amounts of bike riding. I maaaaay have purchased a new road bike (n+1, people) so obviously, we HAD to ride. Every day. Up mountains. Through snow, rain, wind, and very affronted drivers. Other activities included hiking, beer drinking, and rafting, roller skating, Pride, but the familying and friending was where we made serious efforts to make up for lost time.

Foreign Service allows us to make friends throughout the world, but the range in Colorado feels especially unique, probably because we crossed numerous paths in one location: childhood peeps, family friends,  university cronies, Denver stoop chums, pals from soccer, and those we made through skiing. My brother and his wife (another ski-nurse-friend) hooked up after I forced them to eat corn chowder while watching the AFC Championship on a 16" tv in my tiny Denver condo 16 years ago. Now they live in Montana with our niece and nephew, but they came down for a REAL family reunion! It's a tradition I look forward to keeping, considering it was only second time the kids got to connect with their cousins. 

Centennial Cone Park

Denver Pride 

Jim loved the snow.

Breckenridge.

Margo's 1st MLS game,
followed by the state's largest fireworks show.

Uncle Gabe!

Turning 12 and 45 means you must 
celebrate with white water rafting.

Meow Cat with my bestie.

Fireworks from the Colorado Rapids pitch.

Cousins! 

36 Hours of Fergana Valley

Terrain view of the Fergana Valley - you can see a
surprisingly well defined area of green space.

Back in the day, Fergana Valley must have been an oasis for fatigued travelers on the Silk Road. After trudging through vast stretches of parched, brown desert and scaling over precarious, snow capped mountain peaks that stood 22,000 feet tall, in Fergana, travelers could enjoy 8,500 square miles of fertile green hills, abundant fruits and vegetables, healthy fat livestock, and a hotspot of ethnically diverse locals, languages, and customs. The exchange of information and knowledge must have been abundant as people rested, replenished, and reset before moving onto the next destination.

Nowadays, the region continues to be densely populated with 30% of Uzbekistan's people. The big economic drivers in this region are cotton, agriculture, and small scale manufacturing so it is no surprise that it is also famous for its artisanal experts, particularly with silk, ceramics, and knives. On a recent 36-hour trip to the Fergana Valley we did all the touristy activities that involved just that.

Driving through an uncharacteristic 24 hour downpour, we headed into the mountains where the roadsides were lined with tea houses, rhubarb and flower vendors, and unfinished runaway truck lanes. Down the mountain pass, the roadsides were lined with rocking horse and toy vendors, and bread stands where old women scrupulously picked through rows and rows of fresh baked patir.

The mountain descent led us to Kokand, home to the Khudoyan-Khan Palace, probably the fanciest building in the country. It was built in 1873 was meant to house the Khan, his mother, his large collection of women, staff, and yes-men, but he was forced into exile two years after its completion. Today, it's a Kokand history museum.

Less than an hour from Kokand is the town of Rishtan, located only 500 meters from the Kyrgyz border. It is famous for ceramic pottery- so much so, that studios like Rustam Usmanov and Alisher Nazirov have received the UNESCO Seal of Excellence for their handcrafted products. People buy from all over the world, but I learned that for about five dollars, they will courier any desired piece to Tashkent via taxi. If I like the product, I simply hand over cash to the driver, who would then deliver it back to the studio. Communication is done almost exclusively via Telegram and is considered a very normal transaction in Uzbekistan.

The process of taking a lump of clay and finishing with a painted vase is nothing short of impressive, but it's silk making that really takes the cake in regards to patience and skill. Most internet searches oversimplify the process into 5 "easy steps" going from caterpillars eating mulberry leaves, to cocoons, to thread, to spinning, to dyeing. They fail to mention the intense number of woman and man-hours put into each step. Hours spent in hot water carefully extracting the silk, the hours drying the silk and gathering into skeins, the hours of making patterns using scotch tape, the backbreaking and repetitive nature of using a loom. Then there's the dying, washing, and shaving of the weaved product before it goes to market. The Yodgorlik Silk Factory tour in Margilan gives visitors an appreciation for the process, but also (hopefully) respect for the people who are doing all the work so you can at last, have a silk rug with grandma's face on it.

At the last minute, we made a detour to visit Chust, a 3,500 year old city famous for its knives and apprenticeship programs. Suzangars (blacksmiths) study for 1-2 years learning how to perfect the characteristic, curved tip of Central Asian knives, and attaching them to handles made from wood, horn, bone, or plastic. Good quality knives will have the blade bound through the entire handle, will balance easily in the hand, and of course, cut with minimal effort.

According to the pin drop, we thought we were headed to a storefront for easy shopping. Instead, we ended up in a huge, packed bazaar searching for the famous Chust knife stalls. After a few wrong turns in the sweltering heat and throngs of people, we found them. Dazzled with daggers and bewildered with blades, choosing a knife proved to be very difficult and overwhelming. A suzangar led us into his basement storage closet/office that was located under the bazaar. With a single bulb lighting the way, it felt a bit dungeon-ey, but in the quiet and damp room, we could think and bargain (kind of - neither Mark nor I are good at it). We ended up buying three and celebrating with lamb shashleek (kabobs) and cold draft beer before making the long drive home to Tashkent.

Dehoon Bazaar for all your kniving needs.

The Suzangar's (craftman's) personal knife warehouse, 
located underneath the bazaar.

The knife storage unit was no bigger
than 8' x 3' x 6'.

On the way to Chust, we passed a 9th century mud fort in Aksikhet.
We paid 20 cents for entry, and like other other historic forts,
you can wander all over the preserved land. Millions of pieces of clay pots
litter the grounds and most of them are a thousand years old.
 The photo shows clay pipes that enabled citizens to have indoor water.

Palace decor

Taxidermy with painted ceilings

Drawing only a few stares

Trademark blue and turquoise ceramics

Extracting silk from the cocoons to is an early step 
out of many in the process 

Typical rockstar mom multitasking.

Osh sits at the border in Kyrgyzstan, about 6.5 hours from Tashkent.
Kashgar is the western most city in China, about 9-10 hours from Tashkent.
Photo: Mark

Patir shopping

Izmir, Turkey

Google did warn us: the Çesme Peninsula on the western coast of Turkey is windy. I mean, the region literally farms wind with over 3,500 wind turbines placed along its Mediterranean hill tops. Windsurfing and surfing are popular pastimes as is flyboarding, a seemingly high stakes water sport where a skateboard/jet ski is attached to a fire hose and propels riders into the air as if they are begging for a head injury. 

We momentarily thought about taking windsurfing classes, but then we realized it was still only March and freakishly cold, and the likelihood of falling into the water and having our bodies wash out to sea was too great. We settled on wading and exploring the limestone cliffs at Delikli Koyu, one of several beaches located 10 minutes’ drive from the pedestrian town of Alaçate where we stayed for a week. Ultra, ultra low season meant we had nearly everything to ourselves: beaches, windmills, stray dogs and cats sunning themselves in the middle of the cobblestone streets. It also meant most restaurants and stores were closed too.

Beyond the desire to spend spring break breathing in Mediterranean air, was the desire to visit ancient Greek ruins. While I spent my childhood obsessively reading Babysitter’s Club and books about cats, Mark and the kids spent their time reading (and rereading) books like The Odyssey, The Iliad, and the Percy Jackson and Pegasus series. Lucky for them, the entire Izmir region is a sexy, historic hotbed for anyone with even a remote interest in geology, archaeology, mythology, religion, war and/or weaponry. One day, after parking on the side of the road between plots of farmland in the rolling hills, we visited an unattended temple dedicated to Athena, an amphitheater, and church ruins that overlooked the sea. Stone pillar remnants and pottery shards were everywhere we walked, as if there was so much history that preserving them wouldn't have made a difference.

The biggest event of the trip was visiting the ancient port city of Ephesus, an impressively well preserved UNESCO site. So well in fact, you can easily visualize what life might have been like throughout the centuries with its amphitheaters, temples and tombs, the 2-story library, public bath and bathroom complexes, terraced houses, and stone roads. Christianity hit a crossroad with paganism here thanks to Paul the Apostle, and John wrote his famous Gospel in Ephesus. Tour guides weaved stories in different languages, tourists posed with battle-ready gladiators, cats napped, and thousands photos were taken on this mercifully windless day.

Five kilometers away tucked on a hilltop is Virgin Mary’s retirement home. After walking past heavily armed guards, a short path lead to a small stone house with a stern attendant who monitored social distancing, masking, and noise rules. Inside, we tiptoed on the worn carpet observing relics donated by famous Catholics. Rosaries from a few Popes, paintings and alters from Cardinals and Nuns. Candles and prayer boxes outside were available for use, and the Virgin Mary souvenir stores were open for business. On the way out, the kids paid their respects to their late Great Great Aunt Nancy, who always was a big fan of Mary. Sadly, the Wishing Wall stood empty of wishes. It once had thousands of messages attached to it but had been wiped clean probably due to the pandemic. 

Our week ended with a glimpse of what Alaçati is like in high season due to an herb festival that draws about a million people to the town every year. Suddenly, the quiet cobblestone roads and closed restaurants were filled with extremely well dressed people who were determined to see and be seen, who drank tea and raki well past sundown. Art galleries, wine bars, jewelry and sunglass stores threw open their doors, and modeling shoots were spotted in the popular alleyways. Music and dancing lasted well into the evenings, and the amazing smell of freshly cut herbs, fruits, and vegetables permeated the air during the cooking demonstrations. I ate many, many olives, determined they were far superior to Spanish olives, and I kicked myself for not bringing home a suitcase's worth.

Hackey sack with Roadside Mary

Key hole at Delikli Koyu

Delikli Koyu Beach

Ephesian Kitty

Ephesus Library

Alacati Herb Festival 2022

Alacati Herb Festival 2022

Abandoned Amphitheater

Temple of Athena

Temple of Athena (one of many)

I-Love-First-Turkish-President-Ataturk-Forever

Historic windmills in Alacati

Beldersay Skiing

Despite the novelty of living less than 90 minutes from a chic ski resort with a fast gondola and high-speed quad, weekends at Amirsoy leave a lot to be desired. Purchasing tickets and, if you are in need rental gear, are not unlike participating in the Most Extreme Elimination Challenge. 

Lines be damned! Masks, what are those? Need a size 8 boot? TOO BAD because the oligarch wearing seal fur and spandex in front of you just took the last pair. You can't rely on credit card machines working, or cashiers having proper change. If you don't have what they need, that's on you! Next, skid, scrape, and scramble your way up to the gondola before the swarm of socks and sandal clad selfie taking grannies get there! Still on course? You still gotta ski down the streaky brown ribbon of death, where braking and turning have NO place. 

The desire to ski beckoned, especially after our gleeful and socially conscious experience of skiing in the Spanish Pyrenees, but we weren't willing subject ourselves to such melee. So we opted to drive a few minutes further along the R12 to ski at Beldersay which operates a pay-as-you-go, 2-person chair lift with wooden seats. Each ride costs 25,000 som/adult, and 15,000 som/child, or $2.30 and $1.40. The ride takes 24 minutes and there is essentially one ski run. Most visitors get a blanket for their laps and then wander around the top, admiring the view and dodging the single-person sleds that inevitably have 3 or 4 piled on. 

There were only a few skiers out, so we pretty much had the run to ourselves, which included 6-8 inches of recently fallen snow. The kids learned what their quads were truly capable of as they were forced to make big turns to avoid crashing into powder and subsequently having to dig themselves out. Me too for that matter - I see extra squats and wallsits in my future. 

Beldersay Sport Base

Updated prices.

No parking lot. Just the side of the road.

Safety feature.

Staying warm.

Street meat, tea, gloves, sunglasses at the base.