Gs are for spelling

It makes all the difference. Everyone who has been to a proper fitting will tell you it is life changing. I ignored the endorsements for the longest time -turned off by the dollar signs I knew a bra from a place that does proper sizing would demand. I was also repelled by the fear that a tiny measuring tape-wielding woman would tell me that my breasts were even bigger than I imagined. Silly of course, being in denial about their size doesn’t make them any smaller. Side and top boob escaping from each double D cup assured me of that.

Sigh.

 

I finally ventured to Nordstrom’s, resigned to the need for a bra that would fit, and skeptical that it would make much of a difference. Karma came along for support (actually, truthfully, she came for her own amusement).

I wandered around for a little bit, looked at price tags and tried to hide my shock and dismay at the expense of so little material. I’d paid less for jeans and dresses than the price of these whimsical fragments of fabric and wire. Of course, the larger the cup size the more fabric and wire it involved, but only so much…even my breasts weren’t bigger than legs or butt – mine or anyone else’s.

A smiling salesperson approached me and asked how she could be of service. “I need to be sized,” I gestured toward my chest and she smiled warmly, as accustomed to such a request as if i'd asked for the bathroom, and assured me that Sue would be able to help me. 

Sue asked me what size bra I wore and then gazed mildly at my chest for a few moments, then she led me into a spacious changing room with an arm full of black bras and a measuring tape. It turns out, asking my size is more about getting an idea – understanding that the idea is most assuredly wrong. Her tools were there to drive that point home.

I stood a little defensively in the soft light of the dressing room. It was the size of a small bedroom. Space enough for me, Sue, and Karma. Karma, staked out in the corner leaning against the wall, smirked at my reflection in the mirror. 

Sue went to work, wrapping the measuring tape around my waist- just below my breasts, just over them.  Then, as instructed, I stripped to the waist and she pulled out three bras from the menagerie of bras hooked across her arm. She chirped pleasantly, white noise in the background of my brain screaming against this seeming indignity.

“We use these bras as fitting bras, they tend to be accurate in terms of the other bras. Once we get you sized here we can try on different types and see what you like.”

This is the part of the story where my boobs illustrated their sense of humor. My boobs didn’t really fit any of those bras. Too big in one size they were too small in the size below. Even Sue was perplexed. Her hands on her tiny hips and her head cocked to the side, she reached back into the myriad of bras she’d carried in and studied them carefully as if discerning a foreign language or forgotten song. 

“Hmmm,” she seemed to both breathe and sigh. 

“I’m sorry…” I offered reluctantly, an apology felt appropriate, as if my breasts were misbehaving and I should have trained them better. 

Sue smiled brightly and seemed to settle on an idea in her head. “I think we can start with Gs and Hs.” I didn’t really hear anything after that. I think she promised to be back with some selections but really I barely noticed she wasn’t there anymore.

What the hell was this willow wisp of a woman talking about? Gs and Hs were letters of the alphabet that should never be associated with breasts. Other than my sisters pregnancy boobs – filled with milk – I’d never heard of such a size. DD had seemed obscene a few years back and now here we were flying past the Ds, riding fast and loose with letters I usually only spell with. 

Sue reemerged, bright as ever, her arms loaded with an array of colors and styles of bras that I had never seen in my size…ever. Stylish and beautiful bras were always for the tiny or pert set. The bras with the little bows and thin straps. A friend with less than a handful of breasts once handed me a cute little bra with thin little straps to try on, and I lost it. “What? Do you want me to cut my arms off with these thin little straps?” For her, bras were more decoration than utility. She had no idea how heavy they can be, how cruel on your back it can be to hold them aloft. It was the last time I went bra shopping with anyone under a D cup. 

Back in the dressing room, Sue helped me into and out of a series of bras. She adjusted my straps and the breasts nestled inside each cup to get the proper look and to see if it was an actual fit. Sue was nothing if not thorough. 

A handful of bras waiting for my final decision, Sue turned her attention to Karma who maintained she was a B cup. Sue assured her she was not. Fifteen minutes later and she was nestling Karma’s breasts into beautiful bras. Turns out she was a D cup and the variety of D cups was pretty extensive. Beautiful and artistic looking bras that were utilitarian and aesthetically pleasing.

In my corner, watching Karma beam, I lamented, “oh great, you have cute pert boobs and I have stripper boobs- I look like I should be on a pole.”

Sue looked up from Karma’s fitting and shook her head as vehemently as she could manage on her tiny little frame, “you COULD you could,” she assured me with too much enthusiasm, “people pay for those, you could be a stripper!” She smiled brightly and Karma, dastardly friend that he is, almost fell to the flor laughing hysterically. Sue seemed unable to grasp why that was neither comforting nor anything close to what I was aspiring to. A few minutes in, Karma heaved herself upright and tried to catch her breath but when she made eye contact with my disgruntled face in the mirror she dissolved into another set of hysterical giggles.

Less certain of what was going on now, Sue excused herself from the room, leaving behind a panoply of bras for us to decide exactly what we wanted to buy and to allow us to finish laughing at what? I’m sure she wasn’t sure. 

Sue and the ridiculous wad I spent on bras and underwear are seared into my brain. But at least I have been assured by a tiny little woman who can wear cute little bras with thin cutting straps, that if I ever need to buy more bras I can spend a little time on a pole and possibly earn the cash I need.

Balloon sunrise- Cappadocia

I lay in the dark, unappreciative of the quiet, warmed to discomfort by the heater. Padding, first to the bathroom and then to turn off the heater, I laid down and waited for 5am –the time I was supposed to wake up. When 5am came and went, I waited for 5:45, when the balloon tour was supposed to pick me, and the three Argentinians, up. I sat outside in the brisk predawn air. My Kindle glowed a slight blue light and my head swiveled every time I saw headlights bounce over the stone gate.

By 6, I began to wonder who to call and if we'd miss sunrise. By 6:15 I was certain we'd been forgotten. Ten minutes later and a gruff driver pulled up with a dull and slightly impatient expression plastered to his face.

The ride to the launch site was short, a few turns and the balloons -in various stages of life - emerged. A few were already high over the horizon, their bright colors washed out in the emerging light. Some were mostly flat, their baskets the only upright form to them. Mine was almost filled, the balloon expanded and bobbing above a basket already filled with people.

I waited until last to climb in, a seeming generosity that was actually self-serving. The last person in, someone shared with me the previous day, ensures the coveted corner spot - ripe for pictures.

The cool air and quiet morning were intermittently shattered by the flash of blue flame roaring in our ears and singeing the exposed parts of my scalp; a welcome and terrifying warmth that made me wonder if my hair would have gone up in spiraled flame had I worn it loose.

Balloons all around us began to drift skyward, graceful like children’s bubbles caught in the wind.

My balloon finally joined them...rising, barely at first, then more steadily…with a collective inhalation of breath- joy and excitement and wonder. More roaring blue flame, more height.

I watched the horizon, broken by the jagged landscape of fairy chimneys, waiting for the sun to escape skyward. And it did, balloons dotted in front of it like party favors. We floated that way for a while, sometimes high in the clear blue sky, sometimes skirting the valleys below-close enough, it seemed, to touch the grass and rock, to jump out uninjured. And when the time came to land, we were pulled down into a field of oats. men who had been following us in a van since we first floated skyward, pulled on heavy ropes, held us steady, dragged the basket- making erratic crop designs in the field.

Champagne topped off our flight- champagne and it wasn't even 7am.

Visiting a picture

Champagne lake, Rotorua- New Zealand

An abstract oil painting. It looked like something someone rich would hang on a wall and swish wine in front of while boring friends discussed the merits of the bold color choices and nuanced brush strokes. The picture was the cover art on my New Zealand travel guide; I was determined to visit that spot (Rotorua) while I was there. I couldn’t tell you why, other than something that beautiful in nature was something I wanted to witness firsthand. And so a few weeks before I departed from New Zealand for good I found myself intermittently holding my breath (it wreaks of sulfur) and gazing at the art of nature. Rotorua is flush with all sorts of bizarre colors and designs. Boiling mud and sulfur smelling winds that colorful designs are stamped into my brain even all these years later. It is a memory I have because a picture lured me to that spot.

I’m susceptible to suggestion, photos of the Danakil Depression inspired me return to Ethiopia. It wasn’t the only reason but it was one of those things I was determined to see. The alien landscape rich with color and texture. Everything I read talked about how dangerous the journey, how hot the temperatures, how volatile the region. All of those warning were drowned out by the possibility of experiencing the landscape of science fiction movies in real life.

I never made it. It was the wrong time of year, too hot. Too dangerous. And so it lingers in my mind, in my imagination. This place that is real to me only because I saw photos that urged me to seek it out. Some mystical image acting as lure. If it were audible it would be the tune that I hum without realizing I’m humming, always there on the edges of my mind.

Recently, the desire to go to Turkey emerged and would not be silenced. I don’t remember every talking about Turkey until it became the only thing I talked about, edging out Brazil and Mali. I’ve been researching the local food of various regions. I’ve become obsessed with Turkish breakfast and have steeled myself to at least try Turkish coffee. 

In between websites dedicated to Turkish cuisine I ran across a picture of Pamukkale. I don’t even know how it happened, but all of a sudden I was gazing at what appeared to be iced wells clinging to the side of a mountain. It was immediately familiar. Something I’d seen before although I don’t know when or where. However I saw it, I didn’t realize it was in Turkey until a few weeks ago. 

Danakil Depression (http://www.sefere.net/place/danakil-depression/)

So now my attention is turned from Istanbul, and cooking classes, and cruises, and baths…to Pamukkale. I don’t even believe there is much to do there. I haven’t read that it is a place that must not be missed. But something about the pictures stirs me. Something about the beauty of the clear water in calcified wells cluttering a hillside is something I want to witness. 

It feels as if it could be a quieter version of Victoria Falls. There was nothing to do there but lay down beside the thundering water, droplets clinging to my hair, and sleep to the lullaby of raging water. There was nothing to do there but sit. Watch. Listen.  It is still one of the most beautiful places I’ve been. More than beautiful… it was powerful; something pictures can’t convey.

I hope to sit on the lip of one of those calcified puddles in Pamukkale, dangle my feet in it- if permitted, discover the view looking out. Maybe the breeze will be warm on my face, the water cool on my skin, the birds light in my ears. Maybe the vision in reality will match the one in pictures…I doubt it, the actual is almost always better than the imagined.