Rosalyn Collings Eves is our UP CLOSE Trips and Travels guest author today.  She enjoys traveling, although she hasn’t been able to do nearly as much of this since becoming a mother to two young children: a four-year-old boy and a two-year-old girl. When not trying to plan and execute child-friendly trips, she plays with her children, teaches the occasional composition class, reads, and writes (not as much as she would like).

I was twenty the first time I went to Europe. It seemed like the height of adventure at the time, navigating different railroad stations with my handy Eurail pass, a single, large, unwieldy backpack on my back. And I was in Europe, a land drenched with history, with old castles rising unexpectedly from hillsides as we sped past on the train, and uneven cobblestone streets branching off of paved modern roads as we walked through towns.
 
I was traveling with an acquaintance of mine, a slim, pretty blond girl who got whistled at constantly when we were in Italy. I say “acquaintance,” because I didn’t know her well when we started: we were coming off of a semester abroad in London where we had been friendly but not exactly friends, and our mothers, fearful of the potential fates awaiting single female travelers, had arranged our airfare together.

At first it was almost idyllic as we made our way through Germany, Bavaria, and Switzerland. And then we went to Budapest. The name itself conjured pure romance for me, although I knew little about the country other than it had been the last bastion to stand between the ravaging Turkish armies and the rest of Europe, and that Audrey Hepburn’s Eliza Doolittle in My Fair Lady was thought to be a Hungarian princess because of her impeccable English. Our arrival wasn’t entirely auspicious: we arrived late in the day and were directed to a nearby hostel. We decided later that our guide must have had some kind of financial arrangement with the hostel, because it was so dirty. (We were too scared of the grime to even risk the showers.) At the time, though, that just seemed to be part of the adventure.

I was alone when I set out on my exploration of Budapest; Kirsten had a different agenda for that day. I stopped in a local grocery store to buy a yogurt and some bread. After eating, I brushed the crumbs off my lap and set off across one of the many squares that dotted the city. I held my map in my hands (an obvious tourist, I’m sure), the map itself creased and uneven, the edges beginning to stick slightly to my palms under the warm spring sun.
 
I felt, rather than saw, the shadow in front of me; I looked up to see a stranger looming before me scant seconds before he whacked me in the head with the flat of his hand. He hit me hard enough that I stopped, suddenly, forcing the stream of foot traffic to part around me. I’m still not sure why he hit me, if I was in his way or he was just feeling particularly grouchy about tourists that day. I do know that I was left feeling off-balance, shaky and suddenly unsure of my place.
 
I decided to abandon my exploration of the city itself and headed across one of the suspension bridges that cross the Danube (called the Duna in Hungary) at even intervals. I was heading toward higher ground, toward Gellért Hill (named, I found later, for an early Christian martyr who was put in a barrel and rolled down the hill into the Duna). The figure of a woman upholding a palm frond beckoned enticingly from the base of the hill; ironically enough, she figures prominently in a monument to the Soviet “liberation” of Hungary from the rule of Nazi Germany. (Anyone who knows any Hungarian families who fled Hungary in the 1950s under Soviet rule understands the irony here.)

The initial climb was refreshing; the trail was crisscrossed by the cool, green shadows of a heavily wooded area. Ahead of me I could see a young couple, a few paces behind me a young family. It was only after I’d been climbing for several minutes that I realized that the couple had outpaced me and I had outpaced the family. The only person within eyesight (or earshot) was a young man in his mid-twenties. The only thing I really remember about him was that he had dark hair.

“Excuse me?” He called to me.
 
Surprised to hear English, I stopped and turned to him. I heard the rustle of the wind in the trees and realized, my heart suddenly beating faster, that we were alone on the trail.
 
I don’t remember exactly what he said; I do remember that he offered to show me a part of his anatomy that I had no desire to see. I said (with what seems in retrospect a ridiculous politeness) “No. Thank you.” I put my head down and walked as fast as I could (without actually running) and prayed that he wouldn’t follow me.
 
He didn’t, thankfully. And serendipitously I found my friend Kirsten at the top of the hill, having decided separately to make the same pilgrimage. I was overjoyed to see her; I may have even cried a little. I’m sure she was surprised by both reactions.
 
That night, I wrote in my journal. I thought of the two unfriendly encounters, my futile attempts to order stamps at the post-office or to navigate the metro system (although everywhere else I’d managed just fine), and I wrote, “I don’t understand the language, I don’t understand the culture, I don’t understand the people. This is the first city in Europe where I really feel like an outsider.”
 
Flash forward five months. I’m sitting at my parents’ kitchen table, surrounded by my friends and family. In my hands, I hold a largish envelope with my mission papers. I rip the paper open, scan quickly until I find the important words. “You are hereby called to serve in the Hungary Budapest Mission . . .”
 
I thought back on my negative experience in Hungary and I felt a little afraid. But I went anyway.
 
And you know what? I learned to understand (and speak!) the language (which, by the way, is supposed to be the third hardest language for English speakers to learn, after Finnish and Chinese). I learned that the people were not actually that unfriendly (or that lewd)—that they were, in fact, some of the most generous people I’ve ever known. I fell in love with the country, with the seas of sunflowers stretching for yellow miles, with the intoxicating smell of linden trees in the summer. (Every summer, when the linden trees blossom in late June and early July, I’m transported back.) And that woman holding a peace offering atop the “Statue of Liberty”? The missionaries called her the Pizza Lady.
 
Are there places that (like some people) you found you misjudged on initial acquaintance? How did those places improve with additional exposure? Did you learn anything new about yourself through your changing association with that place?

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Allah u Akbar, Allah u Akbar

Ash-hadu al-la Ilaha ill Allah – Ash-hadu al-la Ilaha ill Allah

Allah is Great, Allah is Great

I bear witness that there is no divinity but Allah

 I experienced my first call to prayer in surround sound. The song burst forth from one mosque and then bounced and echoed from tower to tower in Cairo, the city of a thousand minarets.

 This summer several of my friends traveled to Jerusalem. I, on the other hand, used my hard-earned savings to visit the Muslim world–Egypt and Turkey, to be exact. I fell in love with Islamic art as a humanities major at BYU, and ever since I have longed to see the Shah (Imam) Mosque in Iran . . .or perhaps the more accessible mosques of countries a bit more friendly to Americans. I’ll admit, there were moments in the months leading up to the trip when I felt a bit ashamed of my desire to see the sacred spaces of another religion over the places where my Savior walked and worked miracles. Yet experience has taught me that truth underlies all real beauty.

The Mosque of Sultan Hassan in Cairo is one of the largest mosques in the world. Built on a four-iwan plan, there are four iwans— or niches—surrounding a large, open courtyard. I was there on a hot June afternoon when the mosque was practically empty.  Careful to walk along a worn strip of carpet so as not to scorch my bare feet, I took refuge from the heat in the shade of an iwan and marveled at the scale of the mosque. 

The twenty-foot depth of the niche seemed miniscule in comparison to the expanse of the white marble courtyard, which was blindingly bright under the rays of a two o’clock sun. Above me, lamps hung in straight rows on long chains; I wondered how long it would have taken to light all of them back in the 14^th century, when the mosque was built. I noted with a smile that a small metal water dispenser had been set up for actual use beside one of the pillars of the grand ablution fountain. An example of modern utility over beauty, I guess. Within the main iwan–the one which indicates the direction to Mecca—I identified three of the main characteristics of Islamic art. Muslims do not believe in depicting images of people in their sacred spaces, but the decoration of mosques is highly symbolic. Geometric patterns represent the harmony and order of the universe; arabesque, or patterns of vines and flowers, evoke images of paradise and the infinite nature of God; verses from the Quran are written in artful calligraphy, which Muslims believe to be the literal word of God. I liked the block-like calligraphy, which was different than the more slender, elegant writing that I had seen in other mosques. I felt comfortable in this and all of the mosques that I visited. The open courtyard and heat created an atmosphere of sleepy serenity. The simplicity of the design put me in a contemplative mood; I would liked to have sat and pondered and written for an hour. I had to settle for a leisurely look around and then move on to more sights, tastes, and sounds of Cairo.

Ottoman-style mosques are distinct from others in that they are covered by one or a series of domes. And the interiors are breathtaking. The Sultan Ahmed mosque in Istanbul is also known as the Blue Mosque, for the more than 20,000 blue tiles which adorn the interior. This mosque is an array of color. Surrounded by blue and red and gold, I felt like I was inside a jewel box.

My eyes, and the eyes of the many, many other visitors surrounding me, were lifted up to the heavens by elegant vines and patterns which crawled up the walls to the undersides of the domes. Yet perhaps even more impressive than the colors was the light. During my first visit, at about 10 a.m., I was bathed in light. Each of the domes and half domes is set upon a crown of windows; as the sun rises, glittering light streams through the colored glass. I’m not sure that anyone could be in a space such as this and not think of the divine. Despite its grandeur, and the fact that the space was crowed with tourists, there was a feeling of coziness to this mosque. Perhaps this was due to the feel of the carpet on my bare feet; I think that there was not only symbolism, but a physical reason that God commanded Moses to remove the shoes from his feet. Or maybe the low hanging chandelier created a sense of intimacy, which also served to highlight the smallness of man in this sacred space.

I don’t purport to know the intentions of those who built these mosques. Maybe they were pure in heart and were seeking only to glorify God. Maybe they built these grand structures as monuments to gratify their own ambitions. Perhaps, as is characteristically human, it was a combination of the two. I also can’t make any blanket statements about those who worship in these and other mosques today. Religion and culture in the Muslim world is a tricky thing to separate. But I do know that I met some wonderful people who were kind and helpful and sincerely interested in hearing about what I believe. I also know that despite the difference in religion, these mosques are sacred spaces. 

One day I would like to travel to Jerusalem to see the Western Wall, the Sea of Galilee, and the Garden Tomb. But on my last night in Istanbul, as I sat in front of the Blue Mosque listening to the day’s final call to prayer, I felt grateful for my experience in the Muslim world.

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“Punch buggy cerulean!”

“Mom, he stole mine!”

“Mom, she punched me!”

“You didn’t say no punchbacks.”

If you’ve been a passenger in my minivan sometime in the last six months, it probably comes as no surprise that I recently outlawed the punch buggy game. Last fall, on a trip from Houston to Fort Worth, the kids were bored, and I was wracking my brain for ways to entertain them when a Volkswagen Beetle drove by. A vision flashed in my mind of sitting in the back of my parents’ Toyota Corolla hatchback with my brother and sister, searching for punch buggies as we drove to Pennsylvania to see my grandma, or to Florida to see my other grandma, or to Tennessee to see my godmother. Until I told the kids all about the game and how to play, I forgot about the actual punching part, forgot about the incessant squabbling it inspired, forgot that I often emerged from the back of the car hours later covered in bruises.

My kids love the punch buggy game. They told their friends about it. The told their cousins about it. I”m probably seen as the family pariah who introduces inane and violent entertainment to the next generation. They even extended the game to include all Volkswagens and any other vehicle that resembles a Beetle (Mini Coopers and PT Cruisers are fair game, for example). And I’ll admit that it’s really cute when my two-year-old wants in on the action and calls out: “Punch buddy bwoo, no baby shots.” But it’s not cute enough to let the warring in the back of the van continue.

A week from today, we’re loading up to go on a road trip. Not a long one, but long enough that I need more than a They Might Be Giants cd to keep the boredom at bay. Now that I’ve put a moratorium on playing the punch buggy game, I’m a bit at a loss for what to do to keep them occupied. We have DVD players, but we’re going to see the national parks, and if I bring them, the kids will opt for a millionth viewing of Bee Movie over actually looking out the window at the scenery. The alphabet game (where we look for words beginning with each letter of the alphabet) works much better in urban areas than in rural Southern Utah, and if I have to play “I’m going on a picnic” one more time, I will scream. I’m not joking about that.

So here’s what I need: your best road trip survival tips. How do you get through a road trip feeling like family togetherness builds your relationship instead of making you filicidal?

And can somebody tell me what a bb shot is?

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