Hamams, also known as the Turkish baths, are not your average bath time. I don’t know what I was expecting but definitely nowhere near the full body, full contact exfoliation I received.

With visions of relaxing Thai massages still dancing in our heads, Kathryn and I eagerly make our way to one of the oldest bath houses in Kusadasi. At the doorway, an elderly and shirtless all-male staff greets us. Not exactly the gentle female masseuses I was thinking.

They throw us a towel, we strip down to our swim suits, and enter into what feels like the world’s largest steam room. As we adjust to the overpoweringly thick air, we join other bathers sprawled out on a massive marble heat rock waiting their turn for the baths.

Finally, last in line to go, Ahmet nods at me and loudly spanks the slab with his exfoliating mitt and grunts, “Up!”

Here we go…

So I obediently hop up onto the counter and tense with anticipation. My bath boy sloughs off about 9 layers of skin with that soapy sandpaper mitten of his. And let’s just say, the Turks aren’t afraid to get friendly with the scrubbing strokes. Hello Ahmet. I’m glad we are such intimate friends now.

After a solid 15 minutes of the skin peel, I head to round 2 of bath time: the “massage.”

Another giant, towel-only-clad Turk beckons me to the marble. He douses me with a thick layer of bubbles and digs his thumbs into every muscular tissue I have. He then proceeds to bend and twist my limbs into quite the pretzel… a shape you should really only see at circuses.

At the end of the massage, he let’s out a loud chuckle and gets on the tiny slab with me. Yes. Me in my bikini pressed against my round, shirtless human pretzel maker. He smiles for the camera, gives me a squeeze, and dumps a cold bucket of water over us to clean off the soap.

Now, while this may not sound like a restful day at the spa, I will say that afterward I felt surprisingly relaxed and refreshed!

So if you ever stop by Turkey and you’re into extreme adventure sport bathing, I highly suggest you give the hamams a whirl. Be sure to tell Ahmet I said hello.

Clearly Sebastian must have snorkeled through the infamous Koh Tao waters like we did because this island’s remarkable sea scapes were better than any I have seen!

While Kathryn lives for “Shark Week” and will forever be jealous of the 2009 WTI dive with the Great Whites, I was more than okay to frolic with the clown fish in non-shark infested waters. If that lowers my hardcore-ness level in your eyes, I completely understand. But watching Jaws 1, 2, and 3 as a 4th grader can scar a person. Unless your name is Kathryn Berk.

So we climbed into our 8 a.m. long boat shuttle and rode our way to the snorkeling yacht. We circled the island stopping numerous times to throw on our masks and flippers and perused the aquatic life below.

It was breathtaking to witness the vibrant world of color that exists beneath the waves. Kathryn and I would often squeal at each other through our masks underwater and point to schools of needle nose fish that looked strikingly similar to lethal barracudas. We also stumbled across this stunning lighthouse coral that looked like it had been doused in yellow highlighter ink.

Throughout the day, I was determined to pet a Nemo or Flounder look-alike (mission accomplished. No big deal.) And then Kathryn continued on her shark hunt.

We ended our snorkel fest of fun with a refreshing glass of chilled coconut water, which may have helped take the sting out of the brutal sun burns on our backs that proceeded to peel off like snake skin in the days to come. Yikes. We will leave those photos off the Flickr account. You can thank us for that later.

 Note to our WTI selves: Apply 75 SPF every 10 minutes while snorkeling in the beautiful Koh Tao sea to avoid turning the color of Sebastian.

As Kathryn and I hopped through the islands of Koh Samui, Koh Phangan, and Koh Tao, we realized why so many people flock to these places. They are little pockets of inexpensive paradise with food that will make your mouth water and massages that will make your muscles melt.

While the two of us soaked up some sun outside our honeymoon villa and gazed over our toes toward the sea foam lapping up the sand, I truly felt like I had just jumped into a postcard I had seen at Bangkok airport.

The sun slid past the horizon and we watched the islanders light torches lining the quaint restaurants and set the mood for the night life ahead of us. We satisfied our taste buds with meals of pad thai, downed some Red Bull, and headed to the infamous moon party.

Now let me just say, these people are probably the moon’s biggest fans. They celebrate the full moon, the half moon, the fourth moon, the black moon… possibly even the eighth and sixteenth moon. It’s crazy.  And we happened to be there for the black moon party. AKA no moon party, and the beaches were buzzing with people.

So, in Team Nat Kat fashion, we donned our faces with matching war paint and danced our way into the heart of the crowds. While busting moves to the classically epic sounds of Gaga, we began noticing bubbles surrounding us. Yes. Of course the dance floor had turned into a foam party. So we swam out of the growing bubble ameba to protect our dear cameras, only to behold Thai men swinging a 30 ft jump rope… on fire… that people who had temporarily misplaced their brains were jumping into.

Fire juggling, fire eating, and fire limbo commenced throughout the evening as well. Team Nat Kat took part in the latter and may have left with some barely singed eyebrows.

All in all the island dance party and fire rave united the Thai people and backpackers from all over the world with one common philosophy:  Every night’s a good night to celebrate the moon.

Let me count the ways.

1) I love how a strong nod or bow will get you far in this country.

2) I love that the Japanese are all about some lucky numbers. Especially the number 5. And lucky animals: owls and turtles.

3) I love how some characters in the Japanese alphabet look like smiley faces.

4) I love your melt-in-your-mouth sashimi and fried udon noodle dishes.

5) I love you have skyscrapers dedicated solely to karaoke rooms.

6) I love your architecture, your rock gardens, your ponds, your bridges, your lily pads, and most importantly your coy fish.

7) I love how hand sanitizer is the primary center piece for all tables, hotel desks, and cashier counters.

8 ) I love that your toilets play sounds of rushing water to encourage the relieving process.  I really just love everything about your toilets (see bathroom humor blog for details).

9) I love that you have brought back the parasol and made this simple umbrella such a must-have accessory in the bright sun.

10) I love that the Japanese live 10 years longer than Americans due to their diet and constant consumption of green tea.

11) I love that surgical masks are the new headband. Fashionable and health-conscious. Double threat. Well done.

12) I love that the Japanese never fail to say the phrase, “Thank you for waiting,” even when it’s only been 2 seconds.

13) I love Tokyo Disneyland. And that I can still feel the magic of what Mickey is saying even though it’s in Japanese.

14) I love your bullet trains.

15) I love how your people impress me countless times with such an exceptional level of kindness and hospitality. The Japanese take great pride in doing everything with care; from walking you to your train car to make sure you don’t get on the wrong bullet train, to cleaning hotel rooms until they sparkle, to making the perfect cafe latte. You amaze me.

*A special thanks to Richie Ura, Shiho Akai and Tiffany Kurokawa from the STA Tokyo branch for being the best host and hostesses through Tokyo I could have ever asked for!*

I forcefully blink my eyes open and glance at my watch- 7:29 am. A minute early and right on time for Japan. To my delight, the fabulous Tokyo Prince Hotel was hosting a Kimono Convention. No joke. Spectacular Japanese traditional attire everywhere I turned.

Right then, a lovely 4′9” tour guide approached me and snapped me out of my Kimono trance.

“Sunrise tour?”

“Hi!” I respond.
Side note:  Hi in Japanese means “yes,” not the friendly greeting that my American self is used to. This got rather confusing when I stepped off the plane in Tokyo and kept waving and saying hello back to everyone. Whoops. Lost in Translation moment #1.

So I hopped onto the yellow sunrise bus and the sight-seeing commenced.

1st stop: Ryōan-ji Temple. The only way to describe this place is serenity in it’s simplest element. It is famous for its rock garden, and it rocked my socks off. I walked barefoot throughout the entire space and experienced the aura of its zen and relaxation.

Afterward, Kyoko, my tour guide, led us to the treasured gem of Kyoto sightseeing. We strolled along behind her through rock laden walkways garnished with lime green moss and watched swans swim through ponds full of lily pads. As we turned the corner, there it stood. Radiating from between the trees, in all its splendor: the Golden Temple. This stunning architectural feat left me awestruck.

This was one of those travel moments that you just stand there and breathe in the beauty. Also known as the Golden Pavilion, or Kinkaku-ji , it’s one of 17 World Cultural Heritage sites in Kyoto, and in my book, the best.

While it would be a lovely treat to cash in a golden ticket and tour the chocolate factory, I can say with confidence that I’d rather behold this magnificent Golden Temple any day.

No matter what you call it, this space is universal. Everybody’s gotta use it, and the Japanese are forerunners for creating state-of-the-art restroom settings that have exceeded my highest expectations of the perfect toilet.

After landing in Tokyo at 6:30 am and breaking the code of the train tables to transport me to the Tokyo Prince Hotel, I head straight to the lobby’s toilet facility. The comforting sight of the stick figure in the dress amidst the mass of Japanese characters beckons my bladder, and I walk inside. You would have thought that I had entered into a sanctuary. Such a peace and a warmth welcomed me in.

As I close the stall door behind me and twist the modern lock, a speaker next to the toilet paper automatically starts playing sounds of rushing water.

“How nice of my Japanese friends to ease any stage fright and encourage the relieving process,” I thought.

I sit down on the sparkling white, clearly sanitized throne and am surprised to experience a delightfully warm sensation- a heated seat. Genius. Another point for Japan.

So as I sit there almost too in shock to carry out the process I came in there to do, I spot an array of multi-colored buttons to my right that I could have sworn whispered “press me” as I near them.

One red button adjusted the seat temperature, a blue button offered bidet services, a green button sanitized the seat, a yellow button was another spray feature, and the rest of the buttons I failed to decipher from the foreign wing dings.

After meeting up with some of the STA Tokyo staff later that day and inquiring about the high-tech nature of the commodes, I have come to find out that Japanese toilets are also equipped to measure your heart rate, blood pressure, and cholesterol level based on a urine sample it takes. Then a robotic from within will let you know if you are in need of a doctor’s check-up. The seats also raise, lower, and tilt depending on desired back support.

So congratulations, Japan. You have officially raised the bar and the seats for toilets around the world, and for that, I am eternally grateful.

Ever since I laid eyes on such a crazy cartoon character, I have always wondered what other mysteries that a place like Tasmania, with all its devils, could hold.

Although my time on this Australian island proved both of my Looney Tunes life lessons quite wrong, Casey and I discovered the adventure that awaits you around every corner of this exotic territory.

As we walked the colorful alley ways of the Saturday morning Salamanca Street market and inhaled the crisp 13 degree air, we sensed there was indeed a different spirit about this place. Something undiscovered and untamed lingered around us. Perhaps we were already psyching ourselves up for the ghost tour we had later, but whatever it was, the feel of adventure was unmistakable, and we were ready to explore.

After mountain biking down Mt. Wellington and feeling confident that my fingers, nose, and toes were absolutely going to fall off from the biting cold, we celebrated our survival by heading to a nightly safari at Bonarong Wildlife Sanctuary. It is here where Casey and I were properly introduced to the infamous Tassie Devil.

Was it 6 ft. 3 and twirled around like a tornado? I don’t think so. Casey resembled the cartoon character more than these guys did.

No, these animals were more of a muscular black cat with some rat-like facial features. However, their meow was something straight out of a Hitchcock film. Think screaming banshee plus growling demon.

Before we know it, our guide throws us each a huge leg of raw wallabee meat, and we are to hold it over the pit of these ferocious animals. Rupert, my favorite devil, latched on to the end of the leg, and we had ourselves a good ole fashion game of tug-o-war. I lifted the leg up in the air, and rupert held onto the other end solely with his strong bite. Shockingly enough, the devil won fair and square.

The next day, we embarked on a rather treacherous 4 hour hike up Mt. Amos. As I climbed up the 89.5 degree angle rock face, I thought to myself, “I wonder if I fell all the way down this thing, if I really would turn into a cloud at the bottom?” Gravity did not feel so gentle as I slid down over 4 times due to lack of proper treading and got a nice blue and purple bruise on my thigh to prove it. However, the view at the top was breathtakingly beautiful, and we even spotted a baby whale in Wine Glass Bay.

At the end of the day, we could not deny that Tasmania is a force to be reckoned with. From the Tassie devils and beyond, this island exudes adventure!

However, our time in the Tasmanian wilderness took me back to those fifth grade days of old, and I became enamored with sea life yet again.

After a long day of sight-seeing, our tour group returned to our cabin (think along the lines of a rustic Tasmanian real world house) and cooked a family dinner of spaghetti bolognese and chocolate cake. Our Crocodile Dundee Jr. tour guide, Greg, told us to “eat like your life depends on it because we have a parade to see.”

A Penguin Parade that is.

This is the moment I had been waiting for all day. I put on every ounce of warm clothing I could find to ward off the winter chill and was ready to go.

On our walk to the beach, Greg points out that we know that we are getting close to the right area because of the white stuff on the ground.

“What’s the white stuff?” we ask.

“Penguin poo,” he says with a hearty Aussie chuckle.

Great. So we settle down into our ocean view seats on the rocks and wait. And stare at the waves crashing. And wait. And it’s getting darker. And colder. And we wait.

And finally, I see a tiny black and white speck emerge from the white sea spray. It floats in and out with the surf, but eventually it appears on the sand. It’s a penguin! I am amazed at what these waves just birthed. Nature’s magic trick you could say. Then, I look to my left and 6 more little birds are huddled together, trying to decide if they should stay in the water or waddle to their nests.

“Please waddle, please waddle,” I whisper to myself.

They waddle and frolic over to the other solo penguin and get together to have their penguin pow-wow. To the nests they must go they decide, and we watch these precious birds in their tuxedo attire parade past us and into their holes.

Later that night I contemplated a second degree in marine science.

Casey and I managed to snag a behind-the-scenes tour of this city in Oz thanks to the amazing hospitality of the STA Australia staff. These guys are incredible. If you are ever in Melbourne, call them up because they know their stuff.

After enjoying the posh seating areas, colorful mood lighting, and (my favorite) powerful outdoor heaters on the best rooftop bar in Melbourne, Brendan McGrath escorted us to his blue sports car our tour commenced.

1st stop – Hosier Lane. It is here where we beheld a collection of the funkiest graffiti murals in all of Melbourne. Artists have been painting in this area for years, creating the most unique displays of spray paint; even the dumpsters and bins were covered with amazing scenes of color.

2nd stop – Federation Square. This central building of crazy, modern architectural design looked similar to a massive igloo with its glass cubes stacked on top of each other. As you walk through the ice cube entrance, you will see that this is the city’s hub for shopping, eating, and cultural exchange. The outside boasts an enormous amphitheater for Melbourne to gather and watch movies or see concerts. When you look up, you won’t believe your eyes… and may need to whip out some sunglasses. Why? Because an enormous, glowing sphere has been suspended in mid-air to represent the sun. Yes, that’s right. Melbourne, owns the second sun. There are even lounge chairs for the public to lay on and catch a few rays.

3rd stop – Puff, the Melbourne Dragon fire show. Ok now I can explain the dragons. As Brendan whirls his speed racer car into a makeshift parking spot on top of the central bridge, we hop out having no idea what to expect. The sight of the city at night over the river alone was breathtaking.

Then we hear it. The hissing sound of the dragons warming up their throats AKA the $35,000 worth of gas needed to produce this nightly spectacle. As the clock rapidly approaches midnight, Brendan sprints with us over to the left side of the bridge to get the best seats. As the clock strikes twelve, the first pillar alights with flame and the dancing fire begins. After a few minutes of the overwhelming orange, the five pillars burst with a fierce ball of fire. And these are great balls of fire indeed.

Moral of the story: Travel to Melbourne and have your faith in dragons restored.

I thought I was fearless, but today I realized how much of an enemy I have in cold weather as I bundled up with my hat, scarf and gloves on the way to our surfing lesson. You tell me what’s wrong with this picture. I could feel the hypothermia entering my body as Casey and I ducked into the cab headed for Bondi.

9:30 in the morning. Wind blowing. Rain drizzling. Temperature dropping. Sounds like an ideal day to try surfing for the first time ever, right?

As the taxi neared the beach, we stared at the rain on the frosty window laughing in disbelief that we were about to surf in an Aussie winter.

When we stepped into the “Let’s Go Surfing” shop, I felt an immediate wave of relief. Wet suits. This was going to be the one item that stood between me and cold-induced cardiac arrest.

Tonya, our attractive surf instructor, eased us into the process. Her enthusiasm for this sport she has been mastering for over 30 years was contagious. I didn’t have time to think about how cold I was because I just followed her every move. From yoga stretches to board positions to reading the waves to paddle strokes, she made sure we had it all down in the sand before we ventured into the water. Stay on the beach as long as you want, Tonya… I am in no hurry to submerge myself into ice water. I’ve seen Titanic. The ending is not pretty.

But alas, the time came for me to face my fears. Casey and I both looked up in the sky before heading in, and there, before us, was a massive rainbow from one end of the horizon to the other. That had to be a good sign; that neither of us would get eaten by a shark or experience death-by-surfing.

As I waded knee-deep into the ocean, I literally could not believe my senses.

The water was warm(ish)! I thought this must be adrenaline talking because there is no way this can be real!? It was a Bondi miracle. The water had not completely dropped to its winter temperatures yet. We had timed it just right because the cold front was coming in a week!

I was so elated by the warm water that the fact that I never completely got up on the surf board didn’t phase me!

Note to self: Always trust a rainbow at Bondi Beach.