Legrand’s ancestors are from France and they migrated here in 1831 and opened shop. The first machine these tried and true bakers bought was in 1940 and there is a picture of that proud moment hanging up in the shop just above the telephone. All the flours are organic and stone milled by a windmill. They only make bread, seven different kinds, one of them is made from chestnut flour and it tastes like no bread  I’ve ever had before. A certain royal person in the Belgium court buys bread from them — but I am not supposed to tell you that so keep it under your hat! Legrand and Angela has two sons, age 3 and 15 and they help out at the shop whenever possible. It might very well be a baker’s life for them.

Angela is wearing a bright red lipstick this morning and a clean apron, she has been expecting our visit and have looked us up on the internet in anticipation. Legrand, is a thin, quiet man and he seems to be not entirely sure why there are strangers from aboard with notebooks and cameras in his bakery, taking pictures and asking him questions about flour, windmills, loaves of bread per day and life as a baker.

After we are through with the litany of questions on the business of a baker, I asked Angela if she always dream of being a baker’s wife. She laughs the most wonderful smile tinted with a bit of bashfulness and replied, “No, but I was dreaming of little chocolate buns before I meet him.”

I look back at Legrand at the counter rolling out dough. For the first time he has a different expression on his face. He is looking at his wife with a mixture of curiosity and remembrance of them when they were young.

“When he told me that he was a baker, I thought, that is a great solution to my dreams!” Angela says with her slightly shy smile and pats her tummy.

Legrand smiled at her.

More than the delicious bread, the warm comfort of tradition, ancient recipe and organic flour, what I will remember more than anything is the Legrand’s smile for Angela and her dream of little chocolate buns.

I’m tired of looking like a hobo when I am on the road. The concept of synthesis has been on my mind for a long while now; trying to find a way to make each re-entry back into my NYC life a little less startling and each exit for the road less dramatic and devil may care. It’s time for ownership. It’s time to own up to who I am, what I do and stop pretending like I am still twenty-something on my first backpacking trip.

Nothing to prove is a mindset I’ve arrived at. Sure I can live with next to nothing and be a hot mess but badge of honor has been won and it’s time to move on. Now I need to master the fine line between avoidance of who I am and practicality of working from the road.

A shift in mindset is great except it does not come with a 4-dimension pocket for you to reach in and pull out whatever you want on a whim. Physics still apply in a 65 liter backpack and all the hardware that facilitates a working life doesn’t get smaller and lighter because you decided to act your age.

Jia, a fashion designer has a line specifically for women traveling for work. Everything is reversible and serves double duty. One dress turns into two, a dress unbuttons into a sweater and camisole inverts to a pop out tent (no not really but how cool would that be?!). I packed a double-sided cotton knit sweater from Jia’s collection, something presentable to rescue me from the hobo fate.

My friend Adam Rapp, CEO of Clothing Arts, has pickpocket proof pants that I am dying to try out. They’ve had the men’s line for a couple of years and a women’s line coming out this Spring. I was hoping to get myself into a pair of women’s for this summer but at last, it is not meant to be. Instead, I am trying out a pair of men’s pickpocket proof pants.

How are these pants pickpocket proof? Each of the pockets have both zippers and tab button closures and it is double enforced heavy-duty cotton making it impossible to cut through with a knife. These pants are a little heavier than I like but they have these ginormous pockets that holds my phone, wallet, passports, chap stick, lens caps, film, a snack and maybe even a baby animal of some sort if I am so inclined. I never knew men’s pants had pockets so deep! I guess I don’t really make a habit of sticking my hands into men’s pants so how could I possibly know.

Adam and I only talk about three things: food, travel and his line of pants. In a dive bar during happy hours, Adam is showing off the fine details on the pants, the pockets, zippers, the pocketknife slot built into the right side pocket, then he said, “and you never have to wash them!”

“What do you mean I never have to wash these pants?”

“The pants are made from cotton coated with Teflon, making them water resistant, stain resistant and since odor is caused by bacteria and the Teflon prevents the bacteria from clinging on and have babies, these pants won’t smell.” With that, Adam pours a bit of his beer onto the pants. The beer sits on top of the pants but it is not being absorbed, Adam flicks the beer off with his finger and gives it a quick blot with a napkin and it is good as new.

“You are literally cleaning your pants when you are walking.” Adam declares proudly with a giant grin on his face.

There is a mental image of tiny bacteria falling off of my pants as I walk through the markets in Ethiopia and self-cleaning with each step! Not doing laundry doesn’t seem to go hand in hand with not looking like a hobo but I am excited about these self-cleaning pickpocket proof pants with giant pockets.

==

Traveling girl friends rendezvous in a tiny Indian restaurant in Liege and naturally the conversation turns to what is in our packs. I declare my intention to stop looking like a hobo on the road and Farah unconsciously brush her sandy blond hair at the mention.

“I actually packed my tiny travel hair dryer.” I tell her.

“I can’t believe you packed a hair dryer. I’ve been living with limpy hair for months now.” says Farah. The thought of a hair-dryer seems extravagant and incongruous to a life on the road.

“You know what I really thought about taking with me but didn’t because there is no room? A vibrator.”

Laugher erupts across the table.

“You didn’t take your vibrator but you packed a hair dryer?!” Farah laughs at me in disbelief.

“I am tired of looking like hobo on the road. I had a serious debate with myself when I was packing…I couldn’t make it fit!” I protest in my own defense.

“Every time I do an interview and they ask, what is the one thing you always travel with….I always want to tell them the real answer.” Farah excitedly shares, “You know what I love? My vibrator takes the same size battery as my headlamp! When you are in a bind, you can always swap out the batteries. Plus, a vibrator is a sure thing, even if you have limpy hair and is a hot mess.”

==

Ownership of who we are and having enough courage to be that person irrespective of where we are.

Arriving at the state of Nothing to Prove and making decisions from there.

Reversible sweaters and pickpocket proof pants.

Hair dryer for decent hair dryer versus a vibrator for guaranteed sexual satisfaction.

These are just some of the things I’ve been contemplating as I set off for the summer. Spy Travelogue has an updated mission and we are just getting started. Stay tuned. This will be a glorious summer!

Random Fun Fact:

A hobo is an itinerant worker, a career which sprang up during the depression. A hobo, unlike a bum or a tramp, is more than willing to work, but mostly for a short duration, as their main impetus is travel, the love of the journey above the actual destination. A bum is stationary, feeding off of those unfortunate enough to cross his path; a hobo merely travels from town to town, finding work when he can, but only for the sake of financing his next adventure.*Urban Dictionary

Another definition provided by the Urban Dictionary states “Hobos are the most kickass people in the world, also the coolest job in the world.”

Bits and pieces of lyrics from these songs have been playing on repeat in my head for the past month.

Timeless by The Airborne Toxic Event
And I wished that our lives were just endless
Cause it’s all too short, and I’m leaving soon

I am Disappeared by Frank Turner
And on the worst days
When it feels like life weighs ten thousand tons
I sleep with my passport
One eye on the back door
So I can always run
I can get up, shower, and in half an hour I’ll be gone

Wanderlust by Frank Turner
I didn’t choose, no I was chosen by a life that must be lived in passing through,
And though she’s changed so much for me, changing this is the one thing I cannot do.
Darling, I’m leaving, the distance keeps calling me on.
Darling, come morning I’ll be gone.

The Wanderlust by Metric
Oh, you’re the one I had to meet
I never wanted to go home
Wanderlust will carry us on

Count to Ten by Tina Dico
Sometimes the fastest way to get there is to go slow
And sometimes if you wanna hold on you got to let go 
I’m gonna close my eyes
And count to ten
I’m gonna close my eyes
And when I open them again
Everything will make sense to me then

That’s Life by Frank Sinatra (I secretly love the duet version by Katharine MacPhee and Meghan Hilty from the TV show Smash – the theater nerd lives strong within still)
I’ve been a puppet, a pauper, a pirate, a poet, a pawn and a king
I’ve been up and down and over and out and I know one thing
Each time I find myself layin’ flat on my face
I just pick myself up and get back in the race

I Still Believe by Frank Turner
Now who’d have thought that after all,
Something as simple as rock ‘n’ roll would save us all.

Dream So Real by Metric
To believe in the power of songs
To believe in the power of girls
Though the point we’re making is gone
Played stripped down to my bone
I’ll shut up and carry on
The scream becomes a yawn
I’ll shut up and carry on

I piece all of the different lyrics together and the poetry from my subconscious shouts at me! Yeah, yeah, yeah…I’m leaving and it’s a life of rock n’ roll and the open road. What is the most impressive is the repetition of the same theme from artist to artist.

My browser history tells a different story. Cookbooks. My obsession for cookbooks is revived at the most inconvenient time.

Ripe by Nigle Slater

A Girl and Her Pig by April Bloomfield

I Love New York: Ingredients and Recipes by Daniel Humm

The Smitten Kitchen Cookbook by Deb Perelman

Listen … Apricot and Pistachio Crumble, Lime Yogurt Cake w/ Blueberry Sauce, Harvest Roast Chicken w/ with Grapes, Olives and Rosemary, Braised Lamb Shoulder w/ Tomatoes and Anchovies, Zucchini w/ Almond Pesto, Fennel-Lemon Marmalade….hang on, pause for drool control and a reality check on the lack of space to entertain in my NYC apt.

The soundtrack of my life is telling me that I need to get going yet at the same time I dream of making lavish meals and feeding my friends. The push and pull of contrasting desires. I turn the music on full blast and bake a batch of peanut butter bacon cookies.

I’m no longer so concerned about following any one particular voice these days. I see them all…each claiming a space inside of me and I will satiate their desire the best I can. Take a cookie for the road, it will be a while before we are back in our own kitchen again.

A short month of courtship. We were clear with each other from the start. Casual has reached the point of diminishing return and both of us are on the serious business of looking for our person. Cheap and easy this is not.

Are you my person?

No. I am not for him and he is not for me. We are both clear on that. Yet there is something here, a bond, a recognition of each other on a cosmic level beyond the intellect. We investigate with sweet kisses, long conversations and tea. Cups and cups of tea sweetened with lots and lots of time. Time I hold precious and rarely want to share.

An incident overblown. I am the guy and he is the girl in this surprising and unnecessary plot development. This is a one-act play but the tea, the endless conversations and inexplicable bond tricked us into thinking this had another act to come.

The end deserves as much respect as any beginnings. Give me an hour. I’d like to say goodbye to you as my lover. The next time we see each other, we will be friends.

An hour, coffee instead of tea. Hold back the impulse on diving into a deep discussion about art, mortality and food. I could talk to you forever. We kissed goodbye, I duck down into the subway, across the set of obstacle course of humans and metal before the platform, perfect timing, and the train pulls up. Straight into the train, in a seat, one long effortless sequence without missing a beat or an extra breath. Suddenly, there it is….sadness….on my skin, in my stomach….the heart contracts a little.

Home. Dinner. Emails. Still can’t shake the feeling. Sad. Sadness at our goodbye that this has come to an end. I think to myself, too old and too tired for this. The lengths we go through as we make our way to our person is like sea turtles swimming for miles for the perfect sandy beach to lay their eggs.

I guess I showed up in more ways than I thought. I guess I was more present than I had anticipated, even if we both knew from the get go that we are not each other’s person. There is something beautiful in that, showing up this way.

Night my love.

Dreaming covered in tiny goose feathers and the morning light will hopefully ease the sadness. Morning. Sadness spent the night and is here for coffee and breakfast. Okay then. I am more human than I thought. Why do I always forget?!

I capitulate to the sadness and start the ritual of grieving. A few hours of aimless wandering through the inbox, Facebook, organizing files that don’t need to be organized and chats with friends all sound tracked to sad sad songs. Now it’s time to force myself outside for errands and a walk through the pale blue sky. A new French bakery offers up beautiful selections for the gastronomic portions of the grief process. An hour on the spin bike with my favorite instructor, she tells the class that we are perfect exactly where we are, completes the ceremony of break up. Step by step I follow through with the rite of grieving and as promised each act made me feel better.

You say that is a lot of trouble. A lot of time for someone who you knew wasn’t the right for the part. Shrug it off, let it go and don’t give it anymore thought you say.

Except I believe in honor. I am big on respect, both for you and for myself. I honor the sweet beauty that was shared between us by formally bidding him adieu. I took time to show consideration for the part of me that felt something for him, even if we knew he is wrong for the part. We care for one another in kaleidoscopic ways; love is more nuanced than simple. When we take care, respect and honor, we resolve, release and move on without extra baggage. Ritual is a powerful thing. I don’t think I fully grasp it until now, be it the ritual of love, of grief, of letting go.

What about the very serious business of finding your person you ask? The heart can only take so many too young, too old, too hot, too cold. The part is still available and we are still holding auditions but more than anything, I remind myself and you this….he is looking for me too. He is making his way to me just as I to him, you to her.

An informal engagement party for a dear friend of mine. There are lots of familiar faces in the room…mid-career creative professionals ends up traveling in a tight circle in Gotham. It is not surprising when my darling friend ended up with someone I am connected to in this social web.

A couple of hours of casual conversation with friendly strangers who I am connected with professionally and socially left me with an overwhelming sense of sadness. By all calculations these people are my peers. Yet I feel entirely alien from them.

As a traveler, you get this question all the time, aren’t you afraid? They look impressed and incredulous when you say, “No, I’m not scared.” With the completion of The Mongol Rally, the perception of you is even more exaggerated. Not only are you a traveler of exotic lands, you are an adventurer, a modern day conquer. You and your life style moves further and further out into the realm of fantasy.

I feel like both a pioneer and a refugee.

Standing in a room full of people knowing that they are not your kin folk makes the heart ache a little. You fleet from the party because you’ve exhausted your quota of small talk. You stand back and you watch your friends make choices, safe and known vs everything else. Was there ever such clear moments when you made your choice? These moments are never as definitive, as clear or as loudly as we would like them to be. It’s never one single choice but a series of them, one after another. You keep on choosing. Then all of sudden, the inner circle of those who understand you and lights you up from the inside is tiny. But maybe that is okay.

On the train ride home, I wonder to myself, what would I want for my children? Would I want them to choose the safe, known and never feel out of place in the crowd of their peers? Or would I want them to chase the dream of pirates, nomads, adventures and explorers and know there will be only a few who will understand the heart of their heart and the depths of what they experience?

I honestly couldn’t say. I only know the choice I’ve made.

Ota (Mongol Rally Vet, 2012) meet me at the Rhinecliff station in NY a couple of Saturday ago. Too many months, too many countries, around the world and back, we meet again at last in upstate NY. Without skipping a beat, we immediately launch right back into anything and everything.

Within minutes we were back on the steeps of Mongolia, the river crossings, the dodgy back alley — and we both light up from the inside.

The rally pulse within me still, except I don’t want to be stuck in yesterday.

So I am off again on May 1 for new countries to stretch my limits, to see with new eyes and continue building this most incredible adventure.

and this time….I need your help.

Wok the Dog, the photographic documentary about food markets around the world is the focus of these next few months of travel. I have been working on this project for too long now and it is time to complete the shooting phase. There are 7 more countries I need to photograph in Africa and South America.

Uganda, Rwanda, Tanzania, Kenya are where I am contemplating but Somalia has also been thrown out into the mix as a possibility which then would put Ethiopia into play as well — ultimately I am fluid and open to suggestions when it comes to Africa. After that I will head for South America (Bolivia, Peru and Ecuador) before I return to NYC for the fall season for the gallery.

If you have spent time in any of those countries, have suggestions, friends in the region, local contacts, fixers….I would love an introduction.

As Wok the Dog winds down, I am in search for what is next. What is the next story?

With a mouthful of a pulled pork sandwich, Paul, who runs a great adventure philanthropy company Road Monkey (check them out — they are pretty cool), told me about the Atacama Desert where old women comb through the desert looking for bone fragments of their loved ones that died under Pinochet. That sounds incredible!

What have you heard rumors of or had a glimpsed on your travels?

Please drop me a line if you have contacts & friends in any of those countries. Tell me what stories or rumor you’ve heard and help me find what is next. If you are in NYC, I’d love to see you before I go. If you are aboard, there is a good chance I will see you on the road soon. Miss you regardless.

Yours in adventure!

“And on the worst days
When it feels like life weighs ten thousand tons
I sleep with my passport
One eye on the back door
So I can always run
I can get up, shower, and in half an hour I’ll be gone”

These lines of lyrics plays on repeat in my head, over and over again. None of the usual tricks works and I can’t get it to stop. I give in and play the song at full volum instead. The rapid tempo of the driving down beat quickens my pulse and I insert myself into the scene and I am ready to go.

I do sleep with my passport, leaving has always been easier than staying and the new is always exciting rather than intimating. But as a responsible career professional and a woman who is looking for her “person,” it was time for me to ask myself some tough questions.

Am I running?
What am I running from?
What am I afraid of?
If I am not running then why is the idea of a one way ticket and no return date always seem so appealing?
Am I afraid of commitement?
Am I afriad of intimacy?
Am I afraid of letting you see who I am, deep down, no disguise, as is, flawed, stubborn, and everything else?
Do men consider me a flight risk?

One hard question pile ontop of another and it gratually spins out of control. I like to believe the fight or flight instincts are equal partners inside of my lizzard brain but maybe my track record begs a differ. If I am truly interested in running, in flight, then I should do it well, do it smartly and commit to a life of perpetual nomad. This half in half out life is hard, harder than it looks. If I am not running…..then what am I interested in (I fully believe we resesrve the right to change our minds and course correct!).

Flight?

Fight?

Deep down….the voice answers, Neither.

I don’t want to run, not from you and not from this life.

I don’t want to fight.

I want to build.

I want to build, put down roots, and commite. I want to commit to my art in all ways, the business, the life. I am ready to shed the either or girl disguise for the both and woman.

The road calls but this time, the leaving is not to run and disappear. Curosity about life, the world coupled with commitement to complet Wok the Dog is why I am leaving again.

I might still sleep with my passport but I have also deepened into life. This feels good…..really good.

It has been nearly two months since that raining Monday morning at Jeffery’s. It has been at least half as long since the re-write of their ending scene.

A dry smile. She can’t believe it has taken this long for their last day to even come to mind. With an ocean between them, in the first class compartment of the Eurostar, moving from Rome to Paris, this is the first time she’s thought about the latest love and its end.

His mission had him away on the other coast as she celebrates one of the birthdays matching her multitudes of identies. He thoughtfully send her a gift that brings her back to the site of their clandestine mission. They exchange brief messages during his absence and even manages a phone call where he found a secluded spot and shout out his love for her, full name included, reckless as all hell. He returns from his assignment and reqeusts for a breakfast date immediately  She didn’t give it much thought. These short 59 second / 59 minute meets in between full scaled productions has become the norm in these short months. Their usual place at the usual time.

The city is drenched in the first serious rain fall of the season. He walks in, sits down, grabs her hand.

“I need to tell you something.”

“Ok.”

“I can’t do this any more.”

It feels surreal that he is holding her hand while he tells her this. She can’t see her own expression but she can see his. This looks like it hurts. A lot. She just got sucker punched but she can’t feel it yet.

“What happened?”

“I thought I was a better operative. I thoght I was more evolved…I was on a job and I had a text on from home, one from you and all the while people are talking in my ear about the details regarding the production I am on. I couldn’t keep straight who needed what from me anymore. Something has to go.”

There it is. The words that triggered the pain. There is a swell of emotions that is about to wash away her game face, hold on just a little longer, not yet.

“I hate that I am disposible.” She spits ouf those words through clenched teeth.

“You are not disposible. There is the person that I am related to by blood, the person that employees me…”

“…and there is me. You got overwheamled. Something had to give and I am what is disposable.”

He wants to tell her that is not true. He wants to rationalize with her but there is no where to go.

The edge is crumbling and she can feel the backlog of all the hidden feelings pushing against the flood gates. Let me out let me out! Break down is emminent. She inhales, prolonging the the illusion of okay. His words are digging into old wounds but her training holds her on the edge. His words and decisions are not about her, they are about him and his limits.

Inhale. Focus. Seperate what is relevant to them and their love and not taint it with all the ways we hurt in private and previous.

With another inhale, she dries her tears and removes the quiver in her voice.

“I always knew this day would come. I just didn’t think it would be a raining Monday at Jeffery’s”

“I thought I could keep this up forever. I thought I was that good.”

She laughs her dry wry laugh.

“This always had an expiration date to it. I am not going to try to change your mind. But I would like to request a re-write on this ending. Something more befitting of what we had.”

“You are remarkably… unconventional and evolved. I was anticipating you throwing coffee in my face.”

“Did you bring a spare shirt?!”

It took a little while for them to come to an agreement on the re-write of their last scene. If there would be a re-write at all was uncertain for many weeks. He wants to protect himself. He doesn’t want to expose himself to feelings that he lacks the tools to manage. She believe ending should be treated with the same attention and respect as any beginnings, even if it does hurt.

A full day together. Their first and their last.

They agreed to a low risk operation, after all, there is no longer any need for eleborate plans. Leave the city for a long drive out to the far east of the island. He is a still the man with a plan and he had planned lunch for them at a beautiful inn. She half wondered if there is a room waiting for them. Hospital corners and thousand thread count sheets. In this town where they are annoymous, where no one knows them, there is not a room waiting. They will play in the daylight on this very last day. Everything is out in the open.

They keep on driving, furthur and further out…

“Lets drive as far as we can, to the edge of this world.” She like the poetry in this drive.

The city loosen its grip on them just long enough. This drive to the beach, to the edge of their shared world, their collective identity, almost feels….normal. They are just a couple who is out for a long drive in the beginning of summer.

“This is where you and I live, the edge of fantasy and reality.” He says as they stare out into the Atlantic.

She says nothing. Yes. He is right. Magic happens at the intersection of fantasy and reality and he doesn’t quiet understand that. Here is where the imagined becomes real. All these months, she thought he was a better spy than her, as it turns out, she is the superior magician.

They stop for pie. A country pie shop that is famous for their pie. He carefully creates his alibi with reciepts, pie purchase and plausible stories. Nothing has changed, not even today.

“This is how I like to interact with the world. From the inside of my car. I am happy watching it from the inside of the car.” He volunteers this out of nowhere.

Piece by piece, everything falls into place.

These sentiments are not ones she’s heard from him before yet they complete the picture of him. She is about to head out into the world, straight into a daring adventure where anything could happen. She never wanted to be a step removed. She never wanted to be protected.  She always wants to get in, get dirty, get involved. To conjure magic, one can’t hang back and watch. Safety offered by insulation has never interested her.

As they head back into the city, she feels the distance between them expand. Inch by inch, he slips back into his cover and she sheds her love for him. He had planned dinner for them and part of her almost don’t want it. She wants to return to her safe house, be naked in her sorrow for what they had, for all the unrealized potentials. Instead, they went to dinner. This is what is known as the transition meal. You are no longer what you were and you need a transition scene. This is the first low risk act in the new role and it is important for this meal to be amicable, fun, friendly. It sets the tone for the future.

So concludes this clandestine affair.

You Might Also Be Interested In:
James Bond, New Script, The Next Assignment
James Bond, Movie #6, the Moment Love Happens
James Bond, and Love 

For a woman with a world domination agenda and a sever case of wanderlust, staying put never is valid option. I have traveled far and wide and I spend equal amount of time on the road as I do in my home city. People ask all the time if I ever get lonely on the road,  if it is hard to run my business while traveling all the time. In the current uber connected age, anything is possible. Armed with an Internet cafe, a WiFi connection at the hotel or hostel and there is nothing I can’t do.

I had to figure out how to stay connected during last years Mongol Rally, an epic overland drive from London, UK to Ulaanabaatar, Mongolia. How does one roam across the world, run an art gallery back in NYC and keep the consulting practice as well?

Telecom Square came to the rescue.

With their generous sponsorship, I was equipped with several small-ish devices that allowed me to connect to the Internet via cellular network (and there is cell phone receptions just about everywhere in the world). These tiny devices from Telecome Square is a dream come true!

With 3G / 4G speed connection, I was able to manage Skype conference calls, send out update via all social media channels, check emails and send in all my writing deadlines on time!

See a short clip of The Mongol Rally Adventure and how far into nowhere I ventured (and still had a decent internet connection thanks to Telecom Square):

*Image above: everyone huddles around the magical device from Telecom Square to check emails and book exit flights in our last town in Russia while we wait for car repairs.