After five days spent chasing Mehmet the Conqueror\’s shadow in a scorching Istanbul, haunted by moody cats and hungry carpet sellers, we left for dusty Edirne. The second Ottoman capital is a sleepy town in the tiny, bland European Turkey, and renting a car was a challenge, since they hadn\’t heard of one-way rentals, but we eventually lucked out with Budget.

Our automatic Renault Clio had no power windows or seats, nor GPS, but it did have a Check Engine warning. That got us worried, but the young Turk who set us up couldn\’t care less. He shrugged, bent over his volumes of paperwork and waved us off an hour later.

We made good time on the excellent, empty roads. We caught the ferry across the Dardanelles with minutes to spare and got to watch the cars rolling in. Ferry loading in Eceabat is nothing like the orderly ferry loading on Lake Champlain; it\’s more like Walmart on Black Friday: cars, trucks, and pedestrians wrestle to get in, while the attendants smoke on the dock.

Fortunately, nobody got hurt, and half an hour later we landed in Asia at Canakkale, near Gallipoli, the bloodiest battle of the first world war. There, the allies suffered more than 150K casualties, mostly ANZAC, trying to secure a passage over the Dardanelles. They failed. His career over, the Lord of Admirality, Winston Churchill, got demoted to an obscure cabinet post, resigned, and joined The Royal Scots Fusiliers to fight on the Western Front.

Canakkale\’s other claim to fame is its neighbor, legendary Troy of Homer fame. We saw the Trojan Horse leftover from the 2004 movie, but failed to get in. We acquired some adventurous Turkish wines instead and headed East to Anatolia.

Untouristy Manisa used to be one of the provinces designated as training grounds for the Sehzades, the young Ottoman princes. Here, Mehmet the Conqueror started his governorship at age 5. He came supervised by Huma Hatun, his mother – his father\’s third wife – and some of the most learned people of the day. Muhammad Shams al-Din bin Hamzah – let\’s call him Ak – was a doctor, a philosopher, and a theologian who wrote about germs hundreds of years before the West started washing its hands.

\”It\’s incorrect to assume that diseases appear one by one in humans,\” he said. \”Disease infects by spreading from one to another. Infection occurs through seeds too small to be seen, but still alive.\”

We\’re talking 1400\’s here. Hospital museums in Turkey still display his utensils, books and prescriptions. More than five hundred years ago, he used music and aromatherapy in the care of his patients – alongside using cautery for headaches and dislocated hips. Not sure if that works, since that procedure hasn\’t made it into modern medicine yet.

After Manisa, we proceeded East to Pamukkale, where the ancient ruins struggle to compete with the white travertines and fail. Mineral hot springs coated the hills in calcium, creating a white wonderland. Barefooted tourists crawl over each other, taking unmasked selfies with their new two hundred close friends. Unlike Hieropolis, the place to see, Pamukkale is the place to be seen.

But the place to be is the ancient pool, where ruins meet the mineral waters. You swim in the warm, fizzy mineral water over sculpted marble columns,  you caress ancient artifacts, and immerse yourself in history.

East again, to conservative Konya, the heart of Anatolya, where women are scarved, restaurants dry, and pigs absent. This most conservative Turkish town happens to be the home of Rumi, aka Mevlana, a famous poet, mystic and philosopher. Before he died, eight hundred years ago, Rumi spoke about love and tolerance and taught us to look for God inside ourselves.

\”Looking for God, I went to the temple, where the magi chant for fire. He wasn\’t there.
I went to Jerusalem to see if he was on the cross, but he wasn\’t there either.
I went to Mecca, but he wasn\’t in the sanctuary.
Then I looked into my heart.  And there he was, and nowhere else.\”

His message inspired the Whirling Dervishes, whose mesmerizing dance is a meditation and a prayer to commune with God. Inspired by Rumi\’s uplifting message, we tried to feel love for the vocal carpet sellers harassing us. We failed, so we headed further East.

Capadoccia\’s otherworldly landscape is like nothing else on earth. Thousands of years ago, overactive volcanoes spewed tons of lava that cooled to become tufa, a soft volcanic rock. Winds shaped the tufa into a phallic landscape that guidebooks call \”fairy chimneys.\” Less romantic and more anatomically inclined, I see no chimneys. What do you see?

People dug the soft rock into mazes of dwellings and churches, some still in use. You can walk, ride a horse, or take a four-wheeler to explore, but  THE thing to do is a balloon ride. Hundreds of outfits compete for your business. They\’ll pick you up before sunrise and take you to the launch site, where you watch the balloons come alive, full of flame-heated air. You tumble into the bath-sized basket with your twenty closest new friends. Then, for an hour, you get to ride the wind.

Still further East, perched upon an imposing cliff, the Tokat castle used to be a prison where the ememies of the Ottoman Empire spent miserable years hoping to die. Five hundred years ago, its dark, dingy dungeons hosted Vlad Tepes, the teenage Wallachian prince who, thanks to Bram Stoker\’s morbid imagination, was to, someday, become Dracula.

To find his steps, I navigated us through narrow back streets past scarved women scrubbing Persian carpets, bald angry roosters, and wide-eyed kids. We pushed through until we could go no more. Then, unable to turn, we backed up, until Steve stuck the car sideways. I got to watch, wondering if helicopters can lift cars, as Steve managed to turn it in only two dozen swift moves. Tokat watched breathlessly as a new legend was born.

After Tokat we turned North. Amasya, the city of apples and another former training groung for the Sehzades, is now a quiet small town where the only remnant of its glory days is the well-restored 9th-century castle.

Why all this princely training, you may ask?

Unlike Western states, the Ottoman Empire didn\’t recognise primogeniture. As in, the firstborn son didn\’t walk away with the loot. When a Sultan died, it was all about the survival of the fitest. His sons from many wives would compete for the throne, killing each other and weakening the empire. That went on until Mehmet legalized fratricide, and had his eight-months old brother drowned in his own bath. After that, each sultan\’s death meant immediate death for all their sons, but the one who took the throne. That\’s why Sultan\’s mausoleums all over Turkey are full of tiny coffins.

That makes two thousand miles through the heart of Turkey, before we headed back to Istanbul. As for my highs and lows,

My highs

1. The Turks. From the man who picked us on a dark stormy night in his rickety car and drove us to our hotel, to the one filling up our gas, they all ask: \”Where you\’re from? America? New York?\” and their eyes fill with longing. We can hardly communicate, since their English is no better than my Turkish – yok – but their friendliness always comes through.

2. The sweets. Sweet stores are everywhere, clean, bright, and tempting. Decadent confections like baklava and cataif drip with butter and honey, making your mouth water. Turkish Delight filled with nuts, pistachio, and chocolate cream comes in wobbly cubes or in wiggling sugar-powdered snakes that you cut with scissors to taste before you buy. Sold by the kilo, (2.2 pounds,) they glue your teeth, coat your fingers and stick to your hips.

3. Bathing with the columns in Pamukkale and immersing myself in history. I hope I never forget.
4. Finances. Prices got better the deeper we got into Turkey. So did the exchange rate from 6.9TL for 1$ in Istanbul airport, to 7.65 in last night\’s hotel. Outside Istanbul, a comfortable hotel room with wi-fi, parking, and impressive breakfast runs around $40, a decent dry dinner $25, a good Turkish red wine $10, an ice-cream cone $0.5.
5. The fruit. One fruit stand after another, we ate our way through Turkey: Succulent peaches, golden grapes and fleshy figs gave way to walnuts and crisp green apples, then to wrinkled yellow melons. We\’re back to grapes now, but I can\’t wait to be back in fig land. Fresh figs are to the dry what grapes are to raisins: luscious, decadently delicious, and full of flavor.

My lows

1. Gender segregation. One could be forgiven for thinking that Turkey is a country of men. Men only, wherever you look. They chat on long benches in shaded parks, smoke in front of old houses, mind the stores, ogle you in the street. Women are rare, hurried, and shrouded.
2. Pizza. My worst food memory was a Chinese take-out twenty years ago in Cairo, but our Tokat pizza is a strong contender. Loaded with dry cheese and sliced hot-dogs, it had sticky dough and no tomato sauce. It came with ketchup, mayo, and one set of cutlery. For Steve.
3. Unilingual tourist businesses. People in the street don\’t speak English – why should they? But those working at TI, rental cars, and money changers should.
4. Cardboard policing. At intersections, cardboard police cars flash their lights, fooling drivers, while policemen are nowhere in sight. The locals know it, of course, but we don\’t.
5. Masks. Like everybody else, Turkey struggles with them, too, though they are mandatory in public unless you\’re sitting in a restaurant – we even got stopped to put them on while driving in our car. But people take them off to smoke or take selfies; they wear them around their chin, and they poke holes in them to breathe better.

That\’s all I\’ve got for the heart of Turkey. Sign up if you want the updates. Next time: Turkey\’s many capitals. Hope to see you soon

Rada Jones is an ER doc in Upstate NY, where she lives with her husband and his deaf black cat Paxil. After authoring three ER thrillers, Overdose, Mercy and Poison, and “Stay Away From My ER,” a collection of medical essays, she’s now working on a historical novel featuring Vlad Țepeș, his gay brother Radu, and Mehmet the Conqueror.

On the way, we stopped in Israel, Jordan, Oman, Emirates, Qatar, India, and Indonesia to explore. We walked the streets, ate the food, bargained and laughed with the locals. Every place forced us to reconsider our preconceptions: Israel is small, desertic and has no plastic recycling. Oman has free education, free healthcare, and a guaranteed basic income. The Emirates built itself out of sand –  and oil – into an inventive modern country with jaw-dropping infrastructure, and no longer relies on oil as its main revenue source. In Qatar there is no crime: you can set your phone to charge in the street, and pick it up as you return. India overwhelms you with color, sound, and flavor, but the air and the water need help. Indonesians have an easy smile and love taking selfies with you.

Everywhere, we learned things we didn\’t know about the people, their lives, and their culture. Everywhere, we learned new things about ourselves.

But, more than exploring the places, this trip was about living the good life. I\’ve got to tell you: if you\’re looking to live the good life, cruising is where it\’s at. Our sea days started with morning yoga on the deck with a soft-spoken guru named Xavier who pretzeled himself into unbelievable shapes for a living. After choosing between smoked salmon and eggs Benedict for breakfast, we lounged and sipped on cappuccinos while deciding where to go for lunch. Then napping, listening to the ocean, followed by painting with acrylics or beading while wondering where to go for cocktails. Then the daily dilemma of where to go for dinner, and whether to go to the show or go to bed. Exhausting. Nothing to break the monotony: no work, no lawn mowing, no cooking, no cat boxes to clean, no dishes to do. Just eat, drink, and relax, then repeat. It was harsh.

The boat was luxurious, the company great, the food abundant, and the wine free-flowing. I\’ve gained 10 pounds, and  Steve\’s liver barely made it. But, as good as it was, we couldn\’t take it anymore. We disembarked three days early, in Phuket.

I felt at home as soon as I set foot in Phuket.  I\’d never been there, but the temples, the markets, the smiles – all were familiar. I fell in love with the airport – and I hate airports almost as much as I hate planes. Six dollars got us a Thai beer and a delicious lunch for two that put to shame every thick steak and fancy French dish we\’d had on the boat.

We landed in Chiang Mai two hours later. Another half-hour to our condo. Everything was sparkling clean, and there were flowers, bananas, and the best papaya ever – thank you, Doi. A friend stopped by to invite us for dinner – Thank you, Joyce and  Tommi. And we\’re back to cooking, cleaning, doing dishes and living on our own schedule. It\’s good to be back.

Our enthusiasm cooled over the two days we spent at the Immigration office, dealing with the visa. Three trips and some dead trees later (kilograms of paperwork), we got a provisional visa that we hope to renew in December, then extend in March. Maybe.

We\’re back to our friends and old places. Our lunch lady serves Steve his cold beer with ice without asking. My vegetable lady gave me some hot peppers  – just because. The miraculous Kad Suan Keaw supermarket is as labyrinthic as ever, and the prices haven\’t changed much. The Thai Baht has, however. It went from 33 baht to the dollar to 29 – that\’s an 11% increase (or the dollar fell 12%. It\’s all in the eye of the beholder.)

We\’ve been busy. We hiked, we had coffee at the temple, we cried from spicy curry and soothed our parched tongues with sweet bananas looking like chubby fingers. We inhaled the foul, cadaveric aroma of Durian and bought an armful of orchids for less than $3. Our social calendar is packed. December is busier than an understaffed ER.

I also finished POISON. It\’s with the proofreader, and I hope to have it out for Christmas, in case you\’re looking for a gift. Same with MERCY, the audiobook. So, now I\’m looking for something to do. Any ideas?

Life is good. But I miss you, my friends. I miss our camaraderie, your smiles, and your stories. Please keep in touch. I hope to see you in the spring.

Wishing you all a wonderful Christmas season, good health and lots of love.

Rada Jones MD. is an Emergency  Doc in Upstate NY and the author of three ER thrillers: OVERDOSE, MERCY, and POISON.

Athens, the second stop on our long trip east, isn\’t Paris.

Just as Paris is profoundly Western in its gallic snotty attitude, rich flavor and fastidiousness, Athens belongs to the East. The sun is hotter, the streets narrower, the decibels roar. Neighbors shout at each other from across the street, motorcycles rev their stinky engines, dogs bark from high-rise condos, vendors compete in singing praises for their merchandise.

For years, the Greek economy has been in a world of hurt. The austerity imposed by the  IMF is starting to bear fruit, but it made the Greeks resent the EU and cherish Brexit. Austerity or not, efficiency still comes after job security here. It takes three people to sell you a museum ticket.

We spent four hot days canvassing Athens, visiting world-class museums loaded with priceless artifacts, resting our feet in noisy street cafes, eating Souvlaki and drinking ouzo and retsina.

The famous Acropolis is in a state of perpetual renovation – the scaffold hasn’t changed since we last saw it, ten years ago. The cranes are still there. The Caryatids’ necks are stiff from carrying the Erechtheion on their heads like they have for two thousand years. Athens is littered with archeological sites inhabited by cats, and tavernas with sharp-eyed owners lying in wait in the doorways like spiders watching for fat flies. They sweet-talk you into coming in, then ignore you to look for their next victim. In a place where one-time tourists abound, it’s not about the quality, but about the numbers.

Dark traditional Orthodox churches are scattered everywhere, from the quiet squares to the pedestrian commercial streets. Skinny yellow candles smoke emaciated saints sporting circular auras perched on their heads at impossible angles. In crowded streets, personal space diminishes to nothing. Friendly passers-by will check your pockets and relieve you of any extra weight. They kindly relieved Steve of all the cash burdening him.

The Greeks speak – you guessed it – Greek. Even worse, they also write in it. That makes the street-signs hard to figure. For the first time ever, I was grateful for my high-school Algebra. It allowed me to identify the Ds, the Gs, and the Ts and find our way through complicated labyrinths of narrow alleys.

My most significant accomplishments in Athens were three.

• I bought an evening gown. I needed it since the cruise requires it for the formal nights. Ten euros and previously-loved, it allows me in the restaurant so I can eat.
• I got a pedicure. You may think that’s easy, but try saying pedicure in Greek
• I ate a sheep head.

While looking for dinner one evening, we found a nearby restaurant advertising their rotisserie. Golden roasted chunks of meat twirled gently, dripping sizzling fat over the fire and over three scary-looking sheep heads. We had found our place. We shared a Greek salad and a bottle of the house white. Steve got a Gyro. I ordered a sheep head. It was on the menu, only four euros. I had never had a sheep head before. And I’m always up for a challenge.

The waiter got worried. Not sure why, but I seem to often worry waiters.

“Sheep head?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Have you had one before?”

“No.”

He shrugged and poured the wine. My sheep head arrived split in two with a hatchet and covered with French Fries. That was good, since the Americans at the next table looked queasy, but couldn\’t take their eyes off my plate.

“It’s better with the hands,” the waiter said. “Not knife and fork.”

I looked at the skull on my plate. I couldn’t disagree. My knife didn’t look like it would get through that. I put it down to wrestle my dinner bare-handed. Twenty minutes later, all that was left was a pile of clean white bones. The folks at the next table were just as white but weren’t piled yet. The waiter came. I took his wide eyes and slack jaw for a sign of admiration. I must be the first American sheep-head-eater he’s seen, and maybe the last. How was it? Mild, crispy and well-seasoned. One of my best Greek meals.

Communication turned out to be challenging in Greece. Not only with the natives.

“It’s down there, by the Stigmata,” Steve said, looking for the Acropolis Museum.

“Where?”

“By the Stigmata. The place we went to yesterday. The square.”

“Syntagma. You mean Syntagma Square?”

“Yea. Stigmata. Where the blood pours out of their eyes.”

“We could go see the last Leprechaun,” Steve said, as we planned our day in Crete. “It’s a day trip.”

“I thought those were in Ireland. Do they take you to Ireland?” I asked.

“It is an island. Spinalonga. The island of tears.”

“No, I meant Irish. I thought Leprechauns were Irish.”

“Leprechauns? No. I\’m talking about those people whose arms fall off. The last Leper Colony.”

Finally, a few tips on Athens.

1. Keep your hands in your pockets. If you don’t, somebody else might.
2. Don’t order a sheep head unless you plan to take a shower.
3. The main ingredient of Greek salads is Feta Cheese. Vegetables are optional.
4. Ouzo is sweet, it smells like fennel, and water turns it cloudy. It’s an acquired taste.
5. Retsina is white wine sealed with pine resin. It smells like the forest.
6. Take a picture of the menu when you order. When you pay, check that the bill includes only what you ordered and the prices haven’t changed.
7. Greek Leprechauns don’t have a pot of gold.

Thank you for being with us. I hope you had fun. See you soon in Israel.

Rada Jones is an Emergency Doc in Upstate NY where she lives with her husband, Steve, and his black deaf cat Paxil. She authored three ER thrillers, OVERDOSE, MERCY, and POISON.

Athens, the second stop on our long trip east, isn\’t Paris.

Just as Paris is profoundly Western in its gallic snotty attitude, rich flavor and fastidiousness, Athens belongs to the East. The sun is hotter, the streets narrower, the decibels roar. Neighbors shout at each other from across the street, motorcycles rev their stinky engines, dogs bark from high-rise condos, vendors compete in singing praises for their merchandise.

For years, the Greek economy has been in a world of hurt. The austerity imposed by the  IMF is starting to bear fruit, but it made the Greeks resent the EU and cherish Brexit. Austerity or not, efficiency still comes after job security here. It takes three people to sell you a museum ticket.

We spent four hot days canvassing Athens, visiting world-class museums loaded with priceless artifacts, resting our feet in noisy street cafes, eating Souvlaki and drinking ouzo and retsina.

The famous Acropolis is in a state of perpetual renovation – the scaffold hasn’t changed since we last saw it, ten years ago. The cranes are still there. The Caryatids’ necks are stiff from carrying the Erechtheion on their heads like they have for two thousand years. Athens is littered with archeological sites inhabited by cats, and tavernas with sharp-eyed owners lying in wait in the doorways like spiders watching for fat flies. They sweet-talk you into coming in, then ignore you to look for their next victim. In a place where one-time tourists abound, it’s not about the quality, but about the numbers.

Dark traditional Orthodox churches are scattered everywhere, from the quiet squares to the pedestrian commercial streets. Skinny yellow candles smoke emaciated saints sporting circular auras perched on their heads at impossible angles. In crowded streets, personal space diminishes to nothing. Friendly passers-by will check your pockets and relieve you of any extra weight. They kindly relieved Steve of all the cash burdening him.

The Greeks speak – you guessed it – Greek. Even worse, they also write in it. That makes the street-signs hard to figure. For the first time ever, I was grateful for my high-school Algebra. It allowed me to identify the Ds, the Gs, and the Ts and find our way through complicated labyrinths of narrow alleys.

My most significant accomplishments in Athens were three.

• I bought an evening gown. I needed it since the cruise requires it for the formal nights. Ten euros and previously-loved, it allows me in the restaurant so I can eat.
• I got a pedicure. You may think that’s easy, but try saying pedicure in Greek
• I ate a sheep head.

While looking for dinner one evening, we found a nearby restaurant advertising their rotisserie. Golden roasted chunks of meat twirled gently, dripping sizzling fat over the fire and over three scary-looking sheep heads. We had found our place. We shared a Greek salad and a bottle of the house white. Steve got a Gyro. I ordered a sheep head. It was on the menu, only four euros. I had never had a sheep head before. And I’m always up for a challenge.

The waiter got worried. Not sure why, but I seem to often worry waiters.

“Sheep head?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Have you had one before?”

“No.”

He shrugged and poured the wine. My sheep head arrived split in two with a hatchet and covered with French Fries. That was good, since the Americans at the next table looked queasy, but couldn\’t take their eyes off my plate.

“It’s better with the hands,” the waiter said. “Not knife and fork.”

I looked at the skull on my plate. I couldn’t disagree. My knife didn’t look like it would get through that. I put it down to wrestle my dinner bare-handed. Twenty minutes later, all that was left was a pile of clean white bones. The folks at the next table were just as white but weren’t piled yet. The waiter came. I took his wide eyes and slack jaw for a sign of admiration. I must be the first American sheep-head-eater he’s seen, and maybe the last. How was it? Mild, crispy and well-seasoned. One of my best Greek meals.

Communication turned out to be challenging in Greece. Not only with the natives.

“It’s down there, by the Stigmata,” Steve said, looking for the Acropolis Museum.

“Where?”

“By the Stigmata. The place we went to yesterday. The square.”

“Syntagma. You mean Syntagma Square?”

“Yea. Stigmata. Where the blood pours out of their eyes.”

“We could go see the last Leprechaun,” Steve said, as we planned our day in Crete. “It’s a day trip.”

“I thought those were in Ireland. Do they take you to Ireland?” I asked.

“It is an island. Spinalonga. The island of tears.”

“No, I meant Irish. I thought Leprechauns were Irish.”

“Leprechauns? No. I\’m talking about those people whose arms fall off. The last Leper Colony.”

Finally, a few tips on Athens.

1. Keep your hands in your pockets. If you don’t, somebody else might.
2. Don’t order a sheep head unless you plan to take a shower.
3. The main ingredient of Greek salads is Feta Cheese. Vegetables are optional.
4. Ouzo is sweet, it smells like fennel, and water turns it cloudy. It’s an acquired taste.
5. Retsina is white wine sealed with pine resin. It smells like the forest.
6. Take a picture of the menu when you order. When you pay, check that the bill includes only what you ordered and the prices haven’t changed.
7. Greek Leprechauns don’t have a pot of gold.

Thank you for being with us. I hope you had fun. See you soon in Israel.

Rada Jones is an Emergency Doc in Upstate NY where she lives with her husband, Steve, and his black deaf cat Paxil. She authored three ER thrillers, OVERDOSE, MERCY, and POISON.

Athens, the second stop on our long trip east, isn\’t Paris.

Just as Paris is profoundly Western in its gallic snotty attitude, rich flavor and fastidiousness, Athens belongs to the East. The sun is hotter, the streets narrower, the decibels roar. Neighbors shout at each other from across the street, motorcycles rev their stinky engines, dogs bark from high-rise condos, vendors compete in singing praises for their merchandise.

For years, the Greek economy has been in a world of hurt. The austerity imposed by the  IMF is starting to bear fruit, but it made the Greeks resent the EU and cherish Brexit. Austerity or not, efficiency still comes after job security here. It takes three people to sell you a museum ticket.

We spent four hot days canvassing Athens, visiting world-class museums loaded with priceless artifacts, resting our feet in noisy street cafes, eating Souvlaki and drinking ouzo and retsina.

The famous Acropolis is in a state of perpetual renovation – the scaffold hasn’t changed since we last saw it, ten years ago. The cranes are still there. The Caryatids’ necks are stiff from carrying the Erechtheion on their heads like they have for two thousand years. Athens is littered with archeological sites inhabited by cats, and tavernas with sharp-eyed owners lying in wait in the doorways like spiders watching for fat flies. They sweet-talk you into coming in, then ignore you to look for their next victim. In a place where one-time tourists abound, it’s not about the quality, but about the numbers.

Dark traditional Orthodox churches are scattered everywhere, from the quiet squares to the pedestrian commercial streets. Skinny yellow candles smoke emaciated saints sporting circular auras perched on their heads at impossible angles. In crowded streets, personal space diminishes to nothing. Friendly passers-by will check your pockets and relieve you of any extra weight. They kindly relieved Steve of all the cash burdening him.

The Greeks speak – you guessed it – Greek. Even worse, they also write in it. That makes the street-signs hard to figure. For the first time ever, I was grateful for my high-school Algebra. It allowed me to identify the Ds, the Gs, and the Ts and find our way through complicated labyrinths of narrow alleys.

My most significant accomplishments in Athens were three.

• I bought an evening gown. I needed it since the cruise requires it for the formal nights. Ten euros and previously-loved, it allows me in the restaurant so I can eat.
• I got a pedicure. You may think that’s easy, but try saying pedicure in Greek
• I ate a sheep head.

While looking for dinner one evening, we found a nearby restaurant advertising their rotisserie. Golden roasted chunks of meat twirled gently, dripping sizzling fat over the fire and over three scary-looking sheep heads. We had found our place. We shared a Greek salad and a bottle of the house white. Steve got a Gyro. I ordered a sheep head. It was on the menu, only four euros. I had never had a sheep head before. And I’m always up for a challenge.

The waiter got worried. Not sure why, but I seem to often worry waiters.

“Sheep head?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Have you had one before?”

“No.”

He shrugged and poured the wine. My sheep head arrived split in two with a hatchet and covered with French Fries. That was good, since the Americans at the next table looked queasy, but couldn\’t take their eyes off my plate.

“It’s better with the hands,” the waiter said. “Not knife and fork.”

I looked at the skull on my plate. I couldn’t disagree. My knife didn’t look like it would get through that. I put it down to wrestle my dinner bare-handed. Twenty minutes later, all that was left was a pile of clean white bones. The folks at the next table were just as white but weren’t piled yet. The waiter came. I took his wide eyes and slack jaw for a sign of admiration. I must be the first American sheep-head-eater he’s seen, and maybe the last. How was it? Mild, crispy and well-seasoned. One of my best Greek meals.

Communication turned out to be challenging in Greece. Not only with the natives.

“It’s down there, by the Stigmata,” Steve said, looking for the Acropolis Museum.

“Where?”

“By the Stigmata. The place we went to yesterday. The square.”

“Syntagma. You mean Syntagma Square?”

“Yea. Stigmata. Where the blood pours out of their eyes.”

“We could go see the last Leprechaun,” Steve said, as we planned our day in Crete. “It’s a day trip.”

“I thought those were in Ireland. Do they take you to Ireland?” I asked.

“It is an island. Spinalonga. The island of tears.”

“No, I meant Irish. I thought Leprechauns were Irish.”

“Leprechauns? No. I\’m talking about those people whose arms fall off. The last Leper Colony.”

Finally, a few tips on Athens.

1. Keep your hands in your pockets. If you don’t, somebody else might.
2. Don’t order a sheep head unless you plan to take a shower.
3. The main ingredient of Greek salads is Feta Cheese. Vegetables are optional.
4. Ouzo is sweet, it smells like fennel, and water turns it cloudy. It’s an acquired taste.
5. Retsina is white wine sealed with pine resin. It smells like the forest.
6. Take a picture of the menu when you order. When you pay, check that the bill includes only what you ordered and the prices haven’t changed.
7. Greek Leprechauns don’t have a pot of gold.

Thank you for being with us. I hope you had fun. See you soon in Israel.

Rada Jones is an Emergency Doc in Upstate NY where she lives with her husband, Steve, and his black deaf cat Paxil. She authored three ER thrillers, OVERDOSE, MERCY, and POISON.

I’ve been many places and done many things, but buying a one-way ticket? I’ve only done that once. Twenty-two years ago, when I left Romania with a kid and two suitcases. The second time is now, as we start our long trip east.

We’ve been getting ready for weeks. We renewed our wills. I bought a couple of roll-ons big enough to hide a body. Steve blocked the mailbox. Paxil moved to Buffalo, where she spends her days sleeping on Tim’s keyboard and her nights keeping him awake.

Thursday was D-day. We got up at three for a nine-thirty flight. We drunk enough coffee to get the shakes. We weighed the luggage. Too heavy. Stuff for two months of traveling, still not enough. In went toothbrushes and Imodium. Out came my roller skates.

Then came the final uncluttering, to show the house. It went on the market the day we left. The carpets moved to the basement. The toaster hid in the cupboard. The toilet paper squeezed in a drawer. I can’t remember which. Between that, and packing the Imodium, I hope we don’t have diarrhea when we return.

On the way out, I looked at everything as if it was the last time. Turning leaves, old tombstones on Cemetery Road, horses grazing down the road, my friend the lake who gave me hope, solace and joy for many years. Whether calm, seething or frozen, it greeted me every morning. It hurt.

Then we got to the airport, and between looking for passports, taking off shoes and struggling with the internet, I forgot.

Fast forward 17 hours, pounds of lousy airline food and countless shots of life-sustaining bourbon. We’re in Paris where it’s still dark at 8am. We trip to our hotel near Place Pigalle, the Paris Red quarter. I drag my 70 pounds of luggage up sets of stairs, declining offers of help, afraid the helpers will run away with the Imodium. We make it. Barely.

That evening we walk around Place Pigalle, wondering at the revealing costumes, the two-headed dildoes, and the leather whips. Even the guitars are X-rated. We dine at a local bistro, drinking the house red and watching the ladies of the night marketing their goods.

“Where are you from?” the waiter asks. The question of my life. Nobody ever thinks I\’m local, no matter how I strive to blend.

“New York State.”

“Upstate?”

“Yes.”

“Which town?”

“Plattsburgh.”

“I know it well,” he says and pours us a complimentary rum drink.

Plattsburgh, if you\’re listening, you’re well known in Paris.

As I\’m taking pictures on the way back, I fall behind. I catch up to Steve negotiating with a business lady. Guess who has the money? The deal falls through.

Our four days in Paris were a blur. We walked until our feet wore off. We went to see old friends – the Orsay, the Louvre, Notre Dame. We made new friends – Michel, our Paris Greeters guide introduced us to the Palace of Shopping – Galleries Lafayette and the Palace of Money – Societe-Generale.

We ate. We drank wine – lots of wine. Read Poison, Emma will tell you all about it. We immersed ourselves in art – literally. We people watched.

Did I mention that we walked – a lot?

After much soul searching, I got a haircut. To a new life, a new do. I got rid of ten years of old hair to welcome the new, free me. No hair dye, no hair ties. Barely any hair.

Steve stewed at home, like a family waiting for the verdict in the surgery waiting room. He lit up when he saw me sans hair. To him, I looked Parisian.

That evening I ordered beef tartare. The waitress worried.

“You know it’s cold?”

Steve intervened.

“Of course she does. Don’t you see her haircut?”

Finally, a few tips, in case you stop by Paris.

1. Entrée means appetizer.
2. Escargots are snails. They are ugly, oily and smell like garlic.
3. Pate de foie-gras is liver. Goose liver, but liver nevertheless.
4. Beef tartare is raw.
5. In France, garcon is a four-letter word. If you want your waiter, try monsieur.
6. Restaurants are closed between 2PM and 7PM.
7. If you want shopkeepers to smile, greet them as you step in.
8. Water runs in the gutters to clean up the streets. It’s not a broken pipe.
9. Convenience stores have wine, cheese, and crusty French bread. Buy a picnic. It\’s cheaper than any restaurant and it comes with a view of the Louvre.
10. French dog poop smells just the same as the American one. Avoid it.

For more Paris see my previous blogs. Like a bad penny, I keep returning here.

See you in Athens next week.

Rada Jones is an Emergency Doc in Upstate NY where she lives with her husband Steve and his black deaf cat Paxil. She\’s the author of OVERDOSE, MERCY. and POISON. Find more at RadaJonesMD.com.