Sky Candy

Most of my adventures are the gentle sort.  I won’t be climbing Mt. Everest, or even Mt. Rainier in my lifetime.  I have zero interest in bungy jumping, roller coasters, or even in riding the London Eye.  And I always said they’d have to pay me to get me into a hot air balloon.

So how did I find myself in Turkey, in the wee hours of the morning, on my way to my very first hot air balloon ride?  My son Eli really wanted to go, and as I get older, I find myself experiencing more “What the heck!” moments.   At 5:30AM, I got into a van with sixteen other people.  The vehicle was lit by an eerie red light, as if we were about to be launched into some weird sci-fi adventure.

We arrived at dawn, with the balloons still being filled with hot air generated by propane gas.

It was hard not to imagine them as living creatures, struggling awkwardly to their feet like a camel.

I was privately terrified, but climbed into the basket along with Eli and the others.

Our captain’s name was Mustafa.  Mustafa said he’d had to go to the US to get his training, and he’d been doing this for eight years.  He had shiny gold epaulets on the shoulders of his white uniform, so I listened carefully when he told us there were only two rules.  The first was to remain in the basket at all times.

The second was what we should do upon landing.  We were to grab the rope handles on the inside of the basket, hold tight, and lean away from the ground when the basket went scudding across the landing spot.   I’d always envisioned balloons at the mercy of the wind, floating above a flat landscape, coming down wherever the wind took them, retrieved by trucks that followed behind like tornado chasers.   But we were in Cappodocia, a land of many valleys, and strange rock formations.

Where would we even find a flat place to land?

The beast roared, and I felt its hot breath upon my neck.  The captain loosened the reins…

…and we were airborne.

The sky brightened, and we saw balloons rising everywhere, like at a party or a parade, where scores of  balloons are released at once.

 Slowly, gracefully, we glided on the air currents.

I wasn’t at all afraid.  I sensed only calm and wonder. The landing might be rough, but I was living in the moment, taking in the colors…

… and the scenery.

I watched other balloons glide above us…

…or below.

They were like gentle ghosts…I couldn’t quite believe what I was seeing.

Just when I thought it couldn’t get any better….

…the sun rose in a burst of color and light.

The valley was flooded with a golden warmth…

…and the windows in the village below glistened like diamonds.

 

When it was time to land, I watched as Mustafa used bursts of hot air to lift the balloon over each new ridge.  Once he radioed another pilot for his visual take on our position in relation to a particular outcrop.  The pilot assured him that we could clear it.  At first I was disconcerted, but I do the same when I am parallel parking in a tight spot.  “Eli, stick your head out the window and tell me if I can get past that car’s fender.”

The wind was not cooperating, and our hour in the air stretched out to an hour and a half as Mustafa maneuvered the stubborn creature, but he clearly knew what he was doing.  We came to a plateau, where I recognized our crew of balloon chasers, and prepared for impact.

The captain lowered a long sturdy rope, and used what he called his “three horse power” landing gear, his three crewmen to haul the balloon while Mustafa kept us just high enough off the ground for them to maneuver the basket toward the truck.

It was skillfully and artfully done, a perfect landing, directly onto the trailer. After disembarkingwe found a surprise awaiting us. The breakfast of champions!

This experience was life-changing for me, as if a switch inside me turned on to the world’s possibilities and opportunities.

I probably won’t climb Mt. Everest in my lifetime, but I might yet take a ride on the London Eye.

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Autumn in Italy: Every Day a Slow Day

April in Paris, sure, I’ll go.  But autumn is the best time to see Italy.

No crowds, no sweltering heat, and no mosquitoes!  My sister Constance and I rented a little Fiat at Fiumicino in Rome…

…and drove straight to Orvieto, one of the ancient hilltop towns they call “Cittaslow,” or a ‘Slow City.’   Cittaslow status is open only to towns with a population under 50,ooo.  These towns are committed to restricting modernization.  They resist homogenization and globalization in Italy (and around the world), and promote cultural diversity and the uniqueness of individual cities.  The pace of every day urban life is slowed by restricting traffic flow and saving open space for local markets, not parking lots.

Slow Cities fiercely protect their environment.  They market local produce…

…and maintain their own traditions.

Orvieto is situated dramatically on a 300 foot high volcanic plateau.

Originally Etruscan, it was conquered by Rome in the 3rd century B.C.   (Fun fact: the word ‘Tuscany’ is a derivative of ‘Etruscan.’)  Like the ancient Egyptians, the Etruscans believed in a life after death, and were obsessed with death and burial.  Vast cemeteries–cities for the dead–were often carved into cliffs at the foot of Etruscan cities.  Orvieto looked down upon this one.

On top of the plateau, at the heart of Orvieto, stands a cathedral begun in the year 1290.  The facade is impressive.  It has all the extras…

…and even comes with black and white sidewalls.

In neighboring Todi, also a Slow City…

…they tell a story demonstrating the intense rivalry between Italian city-states.  In 1291, a year after Orvieto’s cathedral was begun, Todi broke ground for San Fortunato, a cathedral they claimed would be even more impressive than Orvieto’s.  Todi hired the same sculptor, Lorenzo Maitani, to create a new cathedral with as beautiful a facade as he had created for the cathedral in Orvieto.  Not to be bested by their rival, Orvieto authorities prevented this by having Lorenzo murdered.  Italy is a land of many stories, with such a colorful and passionate history!

My sister Constance is an artist, and was there to paint…

 

…but  I went to research a novel set in Italy.  Even for autumn, it was unseasonably cold…

and wet…

But we didn’t mind.

We made day trips to surrounding villages.  We drove past beautiful scenery, including Lake Bolsena.

…and were lucky enough to stumble upon Pitigliano, my favorite little village in Italy.

The surrounding landscape is dramatic, with a network of ancient ‘sunken roads’ carved by the Etruscans into the soft volcanic rock.

Some extend for half a mile, with walls as high as thirty meters on both sides.  Their purpose is a mystery.  Perhaps for defense, but more likely a pathway for funeral processions leading to the necropolis where tombs were carved into the tunnel walls.

What I loved about Pitigliano had nothing to do with funerals and death, and everything to do with survival.

We also visited Civita di Bagnoregio, built 2,500 years ago by the Etruscans.

Civita di Bagnoregio is accessible only by this narrow bridge–no motor traffic allowed.  In bygone days, goods were packed in by donkey, but now they are delivered by motorized vehicles small enough to cross the bridge.  If you go in autumn, beware of strong sidewinds!

Today, the population varies from 12 in winter to 100 in summer.  It was incredibly charming.  We passed a middle-aged man in knee britches and vest.  Con said, “Is he for real?”  I said, “Only if his name is Geppetto.”  We saw more quaintly dressed people, and wondered if we’d walked through a gateway into the past.  I asked a woman in an old-fashioned dress, who kindly told me, “Chee-nee-mah! Pee-noh-chee-o!”  They were filming Pinocchio, and we might really have seen Geppetto!  I pointed to her costume and said, “Bella!  May I photograph you?”  “Si!” she said.  After posing for a picture, she led me back to where the film crew and cast were preparing to film the next scene.  “It’s okay to be here?” I asked.  “Si, si!” she said, obviously proud of her role in the production.  When we parted, I said, “Molte grazie!”  She lifted my hand  and pressed it to her cheek, then released it to blow me a little kiss.  I found the gesture very moving, and I know exactly where in my novel I will use it.  It’s the sort of souvenir you don’t find in a tourist trap.   And it’s the kind of research you just can’t look up in a book.

All images and words copyright 2012 Naomi Baltuck

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