Congrats, you’re hired; Sorry, you’re fired

I thought the offer of free room, food and drinks in exchange for work at the hotel in Kusadasi, Turkey sounded too good to be true.

It was.

There were so many warning bells going off in my head when I accepted the job, and unlike the good (and safe) traveler I normally am, I ignored every single sign.

The owner of Otel Panorama, Murat, needed help. I needed to not spend money to get me back on budget. I accepted the gig in order to have two weeks being money-free.

Instead, my time in Kusadasi ended up being the most stressful week of my life. I felt scared. Alone. Unsure of who I could trust. If I could trust anyone.

The day before I started my job, a group of us from the hotel went to a restaurant at Murat’s recommendation. Claire, a red-headed Aussie who he had tried to get to work there, and two girls from the Fez Tour and I walked down to the water at sunset to enjoy dinner.

As the sun lit the sky fire red and orange, we sipped on drinks and dinner, breathing in the Aegean town’s beauty.

It was there I met Ashleika, a great girl from Wales who had worked at the hotel and who had been fired by Murat after two weeks. His excuse? “It’s not working.”

Reality? He had wanted her and she had wanted someone else. When he found out, he canned her.

It was also there I met Mustafa — his brother owned the place — and he walked around taking orders and hitting on his female clientele.

Classy.

(Mustafa is another story …)

As we were leaving, he produced a card and handed it to me, explaining since I was working for Murat, I would get 50 percent off all of my tabs.

Well, damn. That’s a good deal.

I walked back to the hotel that night with a smile on my face. I was excited to spend two weeks in Kusadasi. I was looking forward to meeting cool travelers, not spending money, and unpacking my bag.

Everything is not as it seems.

My first day of work sent shivers down my spine.

Murat had gone out the night before with Claire and a few other people (he liked her and wanted to do lord-knows-what with her), so he slept nearly the entire day, leaving me to fend for myself.

About midday, he woke up, reeking of booze, white shirt buttoned wrong and gaping at the belly, beady eyes barely opened and slicked back hair, grimy.

He told me to go and get lunch on the terrace, and grabbed my hand to lead me up the stairs.

Ugh, holding my hand? Gross.

“Let’s take the elevator,” I suggested.

He held my hand tighter, guiding me with a little more force towards the stairs.

“Murat, it’s six flights of stairs. I have a bad knee. Let’s take the elevator,” I said again.

He refused, leading me up the steps.

As we rounded the second flight of stairs, Murat (who has a wife and child that LIVE at the hotel) cornered me.

I could smell the alcohol seeping through his dirty pores as he backed me against the wall, one arm against the railing on one side of me, one arm against the wall on the other, and him directly in front of me.

And then he tried to kiss me.

I dodged it, his filthy lips grazing my cheek, his hand ruffling my hair.Then, I continued walking up the stairs, ignoring it when he smacked my ass.

Anger shot through my veins.

Hit him, D. Slap him across his gross face. Tell him to F off.

I did none of those things. Instead, I resolved that if he tried anything again, I would fight back, and then quit.

But, the groundwork for my hatred of him had already been laid. Every time I looked at him that day, my face betrayed my calm, shooting him looks of disgust.

Working there was ruined.

The next day, I had planned a World Cup party on the terrace.

After six hours of working during the day, Murat told me I could leave for a little and go relax. I went straight to the restaurant to find Ash. She was someone I could talk to. Someone who, even though I barely knew her, would listen.

After an hour sitting seaside sipping on cold Effes, I went back up to the hotel, promising after the game I would come back down and hang out with her.

We had about 10 guests watching the game. I served them beer, making tick marks on a sheet of paper each time I popped a cold one and delivered it to the futbol viewers.

We all had drinks. It was fun.

After the game, Nathan, a sweet guy from Australia, and I decided to head out to grab another drink. We stopped in at the restaurant to say hi to Ash (and Mustafa) and have a quick drink. When Mustafa invited us to the beach, we declined.

“No guy invites someone to the beach at night without motives,” Nate said. At first I didn’t think it was true, but later I realized just how right he was.

I came up with some pithy excuse why we couldn’t go, and then Nate and I headed out to some discos on the aptly named Bar Street.

He and I danced until the wee hours of the morning. Then, we headed back to the hotel and grabbed a beer on the terrace.

Nothing happened between us. Unless you count curling up on the cushions together.

I knew better than to sleep there, so I retreated to my room at 5 a.m.

The next morning, I went downstairs to start work.

“Good morning, Boss,” I said, plopping down on the seat next to him outside.

He wouldn’t look at me, he just smoked his Marlboro Red, staring out into the street in front of us.

“Did you have breakfast yet?” He asked.

“No …” I began.

“Well, go eat breakfast and then go pack your bags and move out of the private room and into the dorm.”

What?

“What? Why?” I questioned him.

“It isn’t working,” he said.

“What have I done?” I asked, anger and frustration leaking out of my body.

“You are not on holiday and you are acting like you are,” he replied.

I questioned him some more and then realized it wasn’t worth it. I wasn’t going to fight for a job I didn’t even like with a boss who was clearly shady.

I went to my room, gathered my stuff, moved everything to the dingy dorm room and went back downstairs so he could fill out my passport information and I could pay him for the three nights I spent there before my “employment” started.

“You gave away drinks last night.”

“What? No, I didn’t. I would never do that.”

“I know you did. You didn’t mark down everyone’s drinks.”

We went through the tabs and I argued. Fought for myself. Not because I wanted to work there, but because I wanted to show I was honest and would never cheat him.

He was having none of it.

I left, tears spilling from my eyes, and headed down to the restaurant to Ash and Mustafa.

I needed someone to tell me I hadn’t done anything wrong.

I re-told the events of the morning to Ash who had said my getting canned had nothing to do with my work and everything to do with Nathan.

“That slime ball has cameras on the terrace. He knew you two were up there. Once you were with him, he figured you were worthless to him.”

It made sense.

Mustafa announced he was going to take me to the beach for the afternoon to get my mind off of the drama at the hotel. I agreed. (Again, the Mustafa story is coming … soon).

After we returned from the beach I went back to the hotel and messaged my parents and some friends, telling them the story. When I re-told it, it didn’t seem so bad.

Except things would only get worse …

All aboard …

It was way too early when I woke up to head to the Fez office to catch my bus.

The sun had just risen and the clock hadn’t even pushed 6:15 a.m. when I strapped and hooked my bag to me and headed down those old cement stairs and through the carpet shop to take the tram to Fez.

I stood alone for a few minutes at the office, bags at my side, listening to an animated conversation taking place at the restaurant next to me where a tall, bleached blonde man and an older man with long, dark hair and a beret sat.

Then, Gus arrived, clad in a red Fez T-shirt, and introduced himself to me as the Fez Tour Guide for our Hop-On, Hop-Off experience. He would be my tour guide. We chatted for a few minutes about where we were from (Kangaroo Island) until the blonde interjected himself into our conversation.

I loved him immediately. Boisterous. Bubbly. Hilarious. Total diva queen.

“I’m Scotty, Queen of the Desert,” he said to me.

Love it.

Apparently, he had a late night out in Taksim the evening before, having just arrived home when I met him.

For the 45 minutes we waited before we boarded the bus, Scotty and I chatted away in the early morning Istanbul sun. And, when it was time to go, he loaded my bag, I handed him my business card, and he told me how to find him on Facebook.

I hoped I would see him again. Maybe even as my tour guide a few days down the line.

Seven of us, plus one teenager and Gus, boarded the bus, headed for Cannakale. After a night there, it was on to Kusadasi, where Gus had mentioned I could possibly work.

It sounded good to me.

When we arrived to Otel Panorama just up a little hill from the bazaar, it seemed OK. The rooms didn’t have AC, some of the sheets were soiled-looking and the showers were gross, but it didn’t bother me too much.

I spoke with Murat, the owner of the hotel briefly about working there and gave him my conditions — I wanted my own room and a day off. He told me he would think about it.

When Gus left the next day, I should have gotten on the bus with him but I wanted to see if I could extend my time in Kusadasi by way of hostel work.

If I knew then what I know now …

Playing tourist in Turkey

The smells … the colors … the people flooding in and out of the ancient Spice Market in Istanbul was overwhelming.

After my decidedly non-tourist day watching a movie the day before, Joe and I planned a perfect tour of Turkey for the following day.

We met early in the morning at Harmony,  planning to make a day of being in Istanbul. I was on a budget, so instructed him to take us on a tour of free things. I was on a budget, so instructed him to take us on a tour of free things.

With his guidebook in hand, he did just that, navigating the streets, the trams, and leading us to the market.

“Wow,” I said, breathing in the smells of the fish, fruit, cheese and veggie vendors outside and the spices and Turkish Delights inside. “This is intense.”

Like other markets I had been to, people called out from both sides, tempting you to their stores with plates of chewy and sweet Turkish Delights, teas and more.

Of course, I had to buy a little brown bag full of the tasty morsels.

Then, it was off to the Grand Bazaar.

“D, are you in a good mood?” Joe asked.

“Yeah, why?”

“Because I know you don’t like crowds … and this … well … there are 4,000 stores here.”

Holy hell.

I smiled.

“Let’s go.”

We stepped in to the enclosed bazaar. Again, people everywhere. People calling to shoppers.

I was in my own shopping paradise/hell.

Scarves. Jewelry. Lanterns. Ceramics. Clothes. Genuine fakes.

Oh. My. God.

My head was spinning with all of the things I wanted to buy. Instead, I settled for one ring (which would later leave green in its place on my finger), and then helped Joe barter for gifts.

We were both nearly exhausted, but I still had to visit the Blue Mosque.

I got in the queue and slowly, in a single-file line, entered into the holy site. The first thing I noticed was the plush flooring. The carpet was thick and felt so good on my sore, bare feet. The next thing I noticed was the sheer monstrosity of the structure. It reached up and up and up in beautiful domes laced with tiny light bulbs. Peace and tranquility spread quickly through me as I wandered around inside.

I exited to Joe, waiting patiently for me, with a smile on his face.

It should be noted, Joe was ALWAYS smiling. Biggest smiler, best mood … always.

We retreated to an outdoor cafe for some shisha and to figure out my plans. I knew I would be in Turkey for awhile, but that was all I knew.

He pulled out his guidebook and read me a little snippet about the Fez Bus Tour.

“It takes you down the coast and up through Cappadocia, and then back to Istanbul. That’s where you want to go … and you can hop on and hop off so you can take your time in each place. I think it is perfect.”

It sounded perfect.

So, instead of going home to rest for a little bit, we went down to the Fez office and I purchased a ticket to get on the bus … leaving the next morning at 7 a.m.

This is going to change your entire trip, D.

I had no idea how much it would change everything.

Getting my K-Stew, R-Patz and Taylor Lautner fix

I woke up the next morning in Harmony Hostel and went upstairs to get breakfast — a traditional plate including one hard-boiled egg, slices of tomato and cucumber, black olives and big, fluffy pieces of white bread with jam.

During  breakfast, I began to talk with two Kiwi girls about our plans for the day.

We had grand desires … to go to the Spice Market, the Grand Bazaar, and more. Instead, we all came to the conclusion what we really needed to do our first full day in Istanbul was go and see “The Twilight Saga: Eclipse.”

Yes. I am serious. And yes, we did go.

The entire way into Taksim, we giggled with each other, making fun of the fact that we were going to see the film when an entire city was at our feet. But, the truth was, we all had plans to be in Istanbul for enough time to see everything we wanted to see. And, “Eclipse” was now on that list.

“You won’t wait to see it with me?” My mom had asked before I left for my travels. I had made her watch the first two “Twilight” films and now, even though we both agreed they were largely crap, she wanted to see the next one with me.

“Sorry Mom, I love you, but no way am I waiting until I get home,” I had said. ‘”Plus, I am sure wherever I see it, it will be a memorable experience.”

And was it ever.

We purchased our tickets for the 12:05 showing (tickets were 13 yTL — a far cry from the overpriced American theaters) and walked around Taksim for a few minutes, then went back to the movie theater, got our popcorn and sodas (7 YTL), and went into the theater.

It seemed normal enough. Rows of velvety red seats on a slant. Not stadium, but not flat. We sat down, food and drink in tow. And waited. And waited. And waited.

It wasn’t until after 12 that people began to shuffle in.

One of the girls looked at her ticket: “I think we have assigned seats.”

What?

“All of the other people are holding their tickets and looking at seat numbers,” she continued.

So, the three of us pulled out our tickets.

Yup. Row H. Seats 7, 8 and 9.

We grumbled and got up.

After a few more minutes, and having our tickets inspected by an usher, two men armed with trays overflowing with popcorn, candy and sodas, lined up against the wall, waiting for people to buy snacks.

When the lights finally dimmed, we were treated to 20 minutes of Turkish commercials.

And then, the movie.

Thank goodness.

I got sucked into the Edward/Bella/Jacob love-fest and didn’t even notice the Turkish subtitles scrawling below their faces.

This was great. I was seeing an American movie in Turkey. It made me feel like I was home. It made me smile.

And then, half-way through the film, it stopped.

Stopped.

We looked around. The lights came up. People got out of their seats.

“What is going on?” I asked. I knew the movie wasn’t done.

And then, onto the screen popped film previews. For 20 more minutes, we watched previews before the film came back on.

We left the theatre with big ol’ smiles on our faces. The film may have been meh, but that experience was one I will not soon forget.

Istanbul (not Constantinople)

“Ooooh … Istanbul … so lush,” Gemma had exclaimed before I departed from Spain to Turkey.

In my mind, there was something so exotic about Turkey, some mystical, magical place where Europe hit Asia with thunder.

Arriving into Istanbul, I was far from disappointed.

When I boarded the Havas bus at the airport (I flew into Sabiha Gocken, the Istanbul airport on the Asian side of the country), I met Joe, a guy from Barcelona visiting the country for the first time.

As if I wasn’t excited enough, he fueled it even more, exclaiming as we drove by the colored homes, over the large bridges, “I can’t believe we are in Istanbul!”

He and I separated ways in Taksim after exchanging numbers, and I headed down to Guilhane to Harmony Hostel.

Of course, even with detailed directions, I got lost.

“Where are you going lady?” “Can I help you?” “Do you need a room?” “Where are you from?” Men called to me from their shops and restaurants. At first, I ignored them, thinking back to Morocco, and then I just let it all in.

They gave me directions, offered to carry my bags, kissed my hands, asked me to come back later and talk to them … ahh, those Turkish men.

I arrived to Harmony Hostel after a few minutes talking to one particular carpet shop owner who proudly displayed a feature a magazine did on him before I was able to scoot away.

I was baffled.

A rug shop. No hostel.

I looked up at the red and white sign displaying the name.

Yup. Harmony Hostel.

I looked to the doors. Rug shop. Tattoo/body piercing shop. Next building.

“You need a hostel?” A tall, young man with a silly grin on his face, called to me, popping his head out of the rug shop.

“Yup,” I said, gesturing to the backpack on my back, the messenger bag swung around my neck. “Where is Harmony?”

“In here, my friend! In here,” he said, directing me into the rug shop.

Well, this is new.

We walked through the rug shop, over the fake wood floors and up two flights of cement stairs. Then, we crammed into a little elevator, and went up four more flights, then got out, and walked up another two flights of stairs.

D, a backpack and a million stairs to climb does not equal happy.

I greeted the girl at reception, a petite brunette who told me my room was back down nearly half of those stairs. As I was checking in, a familiar face caught my eye.

“Hey there,” I said, turning to the pale, blue-eyed guy sitting on one of the cushions. “Brasov … Kismet Dao … do you remember me?”

He blinked a few times and then smiled.

“Yes! I do! How are you?”

Craig and I went through a quick catch-up. We had met in Brasov and hung out one night together. It was nice to see another familiar face, even if he was heading out to Bulgaria in two hours.

We chatted until he left, and then, hot and tired, I went down to my room where I quickly passed out.

I awoke the next day ready to see Istanbul.

The time I (didn’t) party with Will Schuester

There is a motto backpackers have when traveling the world: Always say yes. Always.

Typically, I try to adhere to this as much as possible. Of course, the one time I don’t is the one time I kick myself.

Continue reading “The time I (didn’t) party with Will Schuester”

To be, or not to be … topless

The women surrounding us on the beach had one thing in common: they were missing their swimmer tops. And not the least bit shy about walking, running, jumping in the rolling waves of the Mediterranean without being covered.

Going topless on a European beach.

It’s on my bucket list. But, could I really take off my top on a beach loaded with gorgeous bodies? I wasn’t sure.

True, I had come a long way from locking myself in a bathroom in Budapest to change into my swimmers, but taking off my top in public? The thought alone made my heart race and my insecurities about my body swim to the top of my mind.

I knew on the train from Alicante to Barcelona to meet my friends that the moments were counting down until I would be on that beach with those half-naked people.

And, then suddenly, it was the next day and Tina, and her two girlfriends, (Gemma and Jen) and I were walking from the hostel to the beach in Barcelona, meandering through the colorful and tasty market on our way.

D, my mind toyed with me, are you sure you are ready for what you are about to do?? Do you really want to go half-naked in public?

We got to the beach. I dreaded sitting down.

Bucket list … bucket list … bucket list …

The four of us planted ourselves on towels, and to avoid taking my top off, I quickly went into the water to kill time.

Eventually, I had to get out of the water … had to face my fears.

“Let’s do it,” Tina had said, taking off her top.

One down.

Then, Gemma did the same.

They were still alive.

Suddenly, it was my turn. I untied the string around my neck and then …

I sat there.

Motionless.

Staring out at the vast sea of people. Most of them only wearing bottoms.

Boobs of all sizes. Bodies of all types.

I remained frozen, hands gripping the bottom of my top in a permanent state of almost-removal.

Inside, I had a fight raging … brain against insecurities.

D, who cares? Look around … no one is judging. No one is even looking. Well, that guy is, but who cares?

I tightened my hold on the bottom of my top.

It’s now or never. Damn, I could sure use a drink. Any other excuses to not take off my top? Nope.

I closed my eyes and pulled  my black tankini over my head.

Then, it was off.

The earth didn’t stop moving. A crowd of people didn’t gather around me to point and look at my naked upper-half. Life kept on going and no one even noticed.

I looked down. Yup, there were my boobs … in full view of, oh, everyone. And, it didn’t matter. Instinctively, I went to cover the girls with my arms, but then decided not to.

If I was going to do this, I was going to do this. No cheating.

I lathered some sunscreen on me because the last thing I wanted was sun-burnt bits and laid down.

I closed my eyes.

And relaxed.

You know what? It felt absolutely great. Freeing. Liberating. In America, breasts are meant to be covered. Americans by nature are so much more conservative than our European counterparts … but I wasn’t in America. I was in Spain … my favorite place … the place I wanted to make my home … so topless is a part of the culture. And, in order to live somewhere, you have to embrace the culture.

That day, on the beach, I embraced it.

I even got bold and marched myself into the sea to feel the water wash over me in a completely different way.

I emerged a different person, more in touch with myself, more secure of my body, more empowered. It felt great.

I had that smile on my face that I love to have on my face.

I could do this again.

Next time, there will be no hesitation.

In fact, maybe next time will be a nude beach.

Right.

In fact, I have every intention of doing it again. And, the next time, I won’t hesitate.

The best food. Ever.

I have never been a foodie. I am too picky of an eater to really go all out and sample delicacies the world over. If you asked me a year ago where the best restaurant I have ever eaten was, I would tell you simply — in Las Vegas. Because, well, let’s be real, Las Vegas has some of the best food around. Even for picky eaters like myself.

But, after a whirlwind five days on BlogtripF1, I am now convinced the absolute best food is in Spain. Paella. Fresh grilled fish. Iberian Ham. I even wrote about it for Madator Network.

Stef (@adventuregirl) and I had extended our time in the Land of Valencia. She had a change of plans, and I had no plans, so we decided to hang out in the region for a few extra days after the F1 Race. For two more days, we sampled deliciousness, shopped and sunned ourselves on the blue Mediterranean. We went from Valencia back down to Alicante to experience more of the best of Spain.

On our last night, the night Spain played Portugal in the World Cup match, we had been told dinner was arranged at our hotel, the uber-gorgeous and swank five-star Hospes Amerigo’s restaurant, Monastrell.

We dressed for dinner and met in the lobby, where we were greeted by a petite and friendly brunette. We had no idea who she was. She quickly talked about going to watch the game and then joining us for dinner.

It wasn’t until a few minutes into our conversation when we were led inside the restaurant did we put two and two together.

Lining one of the walls were photos, and there, standing in front of a kitchen, was the woman we had been chatting with.

Chef Maria Jose San Ramon. THE Chef Maria Jose San Ramon. Known as the “Saffron Queen,” she had recently returned from a gig at the White House where she had taught the chef how to prepare the ultimate paellea.

And, now there we were, standing with her in her restaurant, engaged in friendly banter and making plans to dine with her following the game (GO SPAIN!).

Stef and I headed to one of the chef’s other establishments for some tapas and tinto de verano, La Taberna Del Gourmet, a gorgeous restaurant a quick walk from Monastrell.

After watching the game, we met Chef Maria Jose back at Monastrell where we cheers-ed Espana and then settled in to our meal.

And what a meal it was.

Oysters. Pulpo. Lobster paella. Sweet, decadent desserts. Wine. Every single moment was stacked with the most amazing flavors, the most interesting taste combinations.

Pure foodie heaven.

Each time a dish was served, our eyes would grow big, light up.

I tried to savor every single bite, but when food is that good, it is hard to prolong such amazingness. Within a few hours, our meal was over. Bellies blissfully full.

My backpacker diet was absolutely ruined, trashed, spoiled rotten. It hurt me the following day to return to bread and cheap street vendors.

It also hurt to say goodbye to Stef. Like saying goodbye to the rest of the BlogTripF1 group, it was hard to utter the “see you soon” I dreaded. Her and I had spent so much time together, talking, laughing, drinking, EATING. We were friends before the trip, but being together for nearly the week we spent was so fulfilling.

But, she had a plane to catch back to America, and I had a train to catch to Barcelona. Yup. Another reunion. This time with Tina from my Monfrague week in April.

Disclosure: Land of Valencia covered all lodging, meals and activities as a part of the #blogtripf1 program.

F1 101: Your cheat sheet

Formula One Grand Prix. If you asked me my thoughts on it before I left for Europe, I would have looked at your  blankly and mumbled something about it being loud and like NASCAR.

It took another continent and tickets to the Formula One Grand Prix in Valencia, Spain (thank you Land of Valencia) to catch on and feel the craze that sweeps over people when the engines whirr.

My first experience with F1 was on a road trip from Madrid to Merida. It is about a four-hour drive and we needed to stop for lunch. However, the lunch stop HAD to be timed to coincide with the start of the race in Monaco.

For 90 minutes, my two Spanish friends and I sat at a rest stop restaurant, glued to the television watching the 70 or so laps the cars made through the winding streets of the course.  My friends tried to explain it to me, but really, all I gathered from the chat was “Alonso needs to win.”

He didn’t.

So, when I was given my lanyard to hit the race on 27 June, I immediately felt a tinge of unworthiness. I mean, my friends had stopped at a road-side restaurant to watch the race, and now here I was, an American with no real knowledge of F1, and was sitting about nine rows from the action across from the pit lane.

(See, I learned a new term, “pit lane.”)

I tried to ask questions during the race, but it is nearly impossible over the loud high-pitched hum of the engines and the ears being plugged. Most of the time, I saw mouths moving in explanation, but heard nothing.
I can tell you this — I loved it. I didn’t know what was going on, but the energy … the fans all clad in red and Ferrari logos … the experience was amazing.

BUT, these are the things I wish I would have known before being a fan in the stands for F1.

This, my friends, is your F1 101 in brief (NOTE: this in no way should serve as anyone’s F1 Bible … it’s more of a twisted interpretation of what I have gathered. Apologies to any F1 fans if I have butchered this beyond recognition):

What is it?

Formula One (AKA F1) is a series of Grand Prix races held throughout Europe and the world, on “circuits” (local roads and roads built for the race) culminating in two World Championship races — one for the drivers and one for the constructors.

What kind of cars are raced?

F1 cars are single-seat cars with open cockpits racing at ridiculously fast speeds — upwards of 220 miles per hour — and engines that top out at 18,000 rpm. The cars are technological wonders that are designed based on aerodynamics, suspension and tires.

Who races?

Drivers with a death wish. I kid. These drivers have mad skills, most of them have been racing since their early youth with visions of crossing the finish line at championship.

Typically, drivers begin in kart races, then move up through other single seater series in Europe.

Each year, drivers are contracted for a team. Teams have typically more than one driver (to serve as a backup).

Where are the circuits?

Races held each year in Valencia, Spain; Monaco; Singapore; and Melbourne are on specially designed circuits. Other races take place in Europe, Asia, Canada and South America.

How does a car qualify?

In order to qualify for the Grand Prix, drivers must run qualifying laps to set their fastest times. They have three rounds of laps where each driver races against themselves to set their fastest lap pace. The slowest drivers are knocked out and the remaining 1o drivers set their grid position (where they start on the circuit) based on their lap times. Each period, drivers are knocked out based on lap time, resulting in the fastest 10 moving on to the Grand Prix.

How does the race work?

At the beginning of the race, there is a warm-up lap where drivers simply drive the track to ensure the cars are ready for action and to get a feel for the track. They then return to their starting point on the grid and wait for the signal to start the action (five red lights that are lit one-by-one and then shut off at the same time). From there, it is all about strategy.

How does a team win the championship?

It’s all about points. The top 10 teams receive points each race, with the winner bringing in 25. At the end of the season, whoever has the most points is crowned the champ.

Resources:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Formula_One#The_race

http://www.dummies.com/how-to/content/discovering-what-makes-formula-one-formula-one.html

Disclosure: Land of Valencia covered all lodging, meals and activities.

Why are we going in circles? And other errors in sea navigation

“OK,” I breathed. “Follow my lead. Left. Right. Left. Right. Left. Left. Left. Left. Left. Awww, shit.”

Isabelle (one of the writers on #blogtripf1 and my new and amazing friend) and I had stuck together when we arrived to the Mediterranean Sea and were greeted with an array of kayaks, boards and catamarans.

And now, after alerting everyone we had to share a double seat kayak, we were stuck in the sea, paddling in circles. Plunging our oars in tune, out of tune, not at all, just to get to the island a kilometer away.

Despite our best efforts, we were not getting anywhere. Unless you count going to the left, left, left, then right, right, right.

It was frustrating. It was funny. You would think we could have paddled out to the island with little difficulty. Everyone else had made it look so easy, but nope.

There we were, just spinning around and around.

Had my dad been there, he would have laughed at his daughter trying to kayak. He has taken me before, in the Chesapeake Bay, but I apparently learned nothing about operating the large fiberglass boats of annoyance.

After 30 minutes of trying and quitting and trying again, Isabelle and I were towed to the island.

Yes. Towed.

“We are not kayaking again,” we both agreed, strong-arming our way onto the catamarans for the next leg of our little boating adventure.

The catamaran ride was bliss compared to the kayaking. The wind in our faces, the gentle splashing of water coming up onto the boat. I loved it. It felt like a mini-vacation.

We spent a few minutes at another beach, and then once again, strong-armed our way onto the catamaran again.

This time, it was different.

Isabelle, Elisa (a sweet teen writer) and I jumped onto another catamaran and headed back to the dock.

We were about half way when the winds kicked up, sending water into our faces, soaking us. Around us, white caps crashed, sails bellowed.

Elisa’s hand gripped mine as we were attacked by water and wind.

“It is OK,” I said. “Nothing is going to happen.”

But, there we were, on this tiny little boat, a thin sheet of material separating us from the sea.

If we flip, we are close enough to swim to shore. We all have life jackets on. But, I really didn’t want to flip. Or fall off. Or anything other than walk off that boat.

We flirted dangerously with the rocks jutting from the dock while a group of staff ran into the water to steady our boat.

And, then we were out. Back on dry land.

“That is not normal,” one of the boaters said. “That wind came up from nowhere.”

Isabelle and I looked at each other and smiled.

Kayaking? Been there. Done that.