Another day, another time to clean!

Come to think of it, you haven't checked what's inside the basement since forever! Who knows that there might be a whole thriving ecosystem, or maybe there might be a group of teens using your basement as a hangout party, only God knows unless you check.

You walk down the basement through stairs, but suddenly something compels you to be wary. You felt goosebumps all across your skin. Nevertheless, you still continue to walk.

As you reach the basement floor, you see a box in a middle of the area. Just a singular cardboard box in a middle of a cobweb-filled room.

Half of you is curious of what's inside the box, and the other half says to leave it behind.

Ya know? There's really no reason for me to come down here. A mess, like fine wine, should be allowed to age. Oh, wait; that's really a very lame excuse. Here's a better one -- I've avoided the basement for many months; what's the problem with a few more? That's a little better. Why am I so afraid of this dark, damp, dreary dungeon? The spiders like it; why shouldn't I?

Oh, come on. It's time I got this job done.

What's this box? I don't remember ever seeing it. What will happen if I nudge it with my foot? Well, the box didn't whimper like a puppy or hiss like a miniature dragon. I guess there aren't any animals in it. I didn't hear anything rattle, like broken dishes. I suppose I should just go ahead and open it.

I take out my pocketknife and slice the packaging tape. Okay, nothing terrible happened. I'm just being silly to be so scared.

I lift the top.

The first thing I see is just a large wad of crumpled brown kraft paper. Padding material, to protect the mysterious contents.

Under the brown paper, there are some more papers. Old maps, including one of someplace called the Fergana Valley. Central Asia. A guide book to Samarkand. A journal, filled with writing and sketches.

I set the papers aside. The next item I find is a golden-brown teak box. Hey, maybe this is a jewelry box, filled with treasure! I quickly open it and find ... a mariner's compass and a sextant, both wrapped in soft wool felt.

What else is here? Books. Seven Years in Tibet, by Heinrich Harrer. Hemingway's The Old Man and the Sea and The Snows of Kilimanjaro. Jules Verne's 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. Two Years Before the Mast, by Richard Dana. More travel and adventure books, some fiction and some not. No wonder the box felt so heavy.

Whoa! This is just too much! I am overwhelmed by the contents of The Box.

I feel a bit lightheaded. It must be the fetid, funky atmosphere of the dark and dingy basement.

No, there is more. The papers in The Box had their own nasty mustiness, as if they had been denied air since the time of Crusades.

The Aura reached out for me. It had no odor. It didn't make a sound. I couldn't see it. Yet, I felt it holding me as if it were a green anaconda.

I called for help. Clio, who held a doctorate in Asian studies, readily agreed to come. Herodotus, her colleague, whose expertise was in the field of ancient commerce, would also join us. Two of my drinking buddies, Rabbie Byrnes and Bill Faulkner, were eager to see the mysterious Box.

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My four visitors avidly examined my new treasures. Rabbie looked at the guide book and asked, "What's this place, Samarkand?" Clio responded, "It's the second largest city in Uzbekistan and a major commercial hub in its region." Herodotus expounded, "It's an ancient city, probably founded in the 7th Century BC, possibly the 8th Century. It was an important market city on the trade route connecting China with Persia and Europe." Bill lifted his beer. "Do you mean The Silk Road?" "Many people use that term, coined in the 19th Century. Really, it was a network of routes, not a single road, that carried commercial traffic between centers of wealth and culture."

Bill dug an old map from The Box. "Why is there this map of the Fergana Valley? I never heard of it." Clio sipped her wine, then replied, "The Fergana Valley is an agricultural region southwest of Samarkand. The modern countries of Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan, and Uzbekistan all occupy parts of the valley. It's located southwest of Samarkand. Alexander the Great took his army through here when he invaded central Asia. The valley was also part of the route of the Silk Road."

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My visitors and I settled back with our drinks and talked about the Silk Road, and Alexander the Great, and central Asia, and our love of travel. Gradually, it seemed The Aura took hold of each of them. Long into the night, we talked of travel and adventure.

What is Adventure? Here’s one definition of ‘adventure’ as a noun:

• · A daring feat; a bold undertaking, in which dangers are likely to be encountered, and the issue is staked upon unforeseen events; the encountering of risks.

Another definition, this time of ‘adventure’ as a verb:

• · To risk oneself; to dare to go somewhere or undertake something

Oh, I get it. “To boldly go where no man has gone before.” A daring feat, a bold enterprise. “Ad astra per aspera”.

Does this strange box contain an invitation to adventure? Or perhaps these items are the accoutrements a daring soul might use.

Uh, what’s going on here? The aura of the box has become more intense; its glow now fills the basement with light. The box is changing. It has become larger, and it no longer is cardboard, but has transformed into wood. Now it is teak, inlaid with a wood the color of gold. Beneath the box a Persian carpet has appeared. We five investigators sit spellbound.

We move the box to one side so that we can closely examine the carpet. Clio and Herodotus were fascinated. “The workmanship here is exquisite!” Rabbie, who always displayed an active imagination, said, “I wonder if this is a flying carpet.” Wrong thing to say! The carpet trembled, like a tiger ready to pounce, yet it didn’t move from the basement floor. Bill Faulkner spoke, “What are you thinking, Rabbie? Do you plan to ride this old rug to Samarkand to meet the vizier who is trying to cheat death?”

In an instant, my friends and I were aloft, bound for an unknown destination, perhaps in Central Asia.

Soar to great heights like an eagle. Dive at tremendous speed like a falcon. Make stupendous sweeping turns above the clouds. Erratically change direction and dart among the clouds.

From the depths of memory, I remember words of an ancient hard rock song that was a favorite of my grandfather – “Come with me, little girl / On a magic carpet ride” and “Close your eyes, girl / Look inside, girl”. Whoa! My head is filled with a dizzying, smoky haze. Now I feel the lyrics of another ancient rock song

High above a dark desert highway, cool wind in my hair
Warm smell of colitas rising up through the air
Up ahead in the distance, I saw a shimmering light
My head grew heavy and my sight grew dim, I had to …

The carpet bucked like a frenzied bull in the arena, and I come to my senses. WTH is going on? I look at my companions – okay, we’re all still together, although they are wildly bug-eyed and pale. The mysterious box is firmly settled in the center of the carpet. Its aura now encompasses the carpet and us, its five passengers.

Whither are we bound? Does the carpet have a destination? Does it somehow know how to get there?

We seem to be flying over North America, especially the Great Basin and the deserts of the southwestern United States and northern Mexico. As the carpet circled, it descended to a lower altitude over Utah’s rugged landscape. Could it be searching for something? Maybe its home? Again, I heard words from an ancient song, “Those voices are calling from far away.”

Abruptly, the carpet abandoned its circling and turned in a northwest direction. We climbed to a great height, seemingly to fly among the stars. The mountainous spine of the continent was far below and on our right. We crossed ranchland, farmland, and impenetrable forests. We turned westward where the taiga gave way to the barren tundra. For a while, we seem to follow a mighty river. Could this be the Yukon?

We are no longer over land. To our left is a great expanse of water, an ocean. To the right, there’s another ocean, largely covered with ice. We cross a large peninsula dotted with volcanoes, then some more icy water, and then land again. We turn slightly south and soon are again over the dense forest of the taiga. I think this might be Siberia.

We continue flying east and south. The forest is replaced with dry grasslands of the steppe. Soon, this landscape in turn is replaced by desert. Could this be the Gobi? The carpet again descended as we crossed a mountain range. Hm, I just can’t remember the name of this range in Central Asia.

The carpet makes another sweeping turn as it descended into a wooded river valley and landed. With a touch of panic, I wonder, “Where are we?” My companion, Herodotus, retrieves the sextant from the mysterious box. He determines that our latitude is about 38 to 40 degrees north. “I think we might be near Samarkand. This river might be the Zarafshon.”

Samarkand? The legendary oasis on the trade route known as the Silk Road? Do adventures await us here?

We were all a bit unsettled by the incredible ride that had brought us from a musty basement to this riparian wood. I suppose this is what jet lag feels like. Well, at least none of us experienced rug burns.

As Bill walked over to our Mysterious Box, he mused aloud, “I wonder if our box contains blankets or other camping gear? And how about something to eat?” He reached into the Box. “Hey, I don’t remember seeing this before!” He had found the blankets he had hoped for. Hm, a guidebook for Bukhara. And here’s a book that must have been at least 85 years old, Inside Asia, by someone named John Gunther. And food! Sorta. There were five MRE’s, one miserable meal for each of us. Who would have imagined we’d be eating these U.S. military field rations in the heart of what had once been the Soviet Union?

Herodotus examined the guidebook for Samarkand. “I think we might be in the Zarafshan State Nature Reserve, twelve miles or so from Samarkand.” Clio spoke excitedly, “We’re near Samarkand? Wow! This is wonderful! I’ve often dreamt of visiting this ancient city!” Rabbie complained, “An ancient city! Big Foreign Deal! Can we just talk about it some other time and get some sleep now?”

Everyone found a reasonable spot, dry and free of rocks, for sleeping. Although our blankets were lightweight, they were surprisingly warm and comfortable. I think we were all excited about the prospect of visiting Samarkand tomorrow. Nevertheless, we were also worn out after the events of the day, and we were all soon sleeping soundly.

It was a pleasant night. A light breeze. Mild temperature. Quiet. And yet, something eerie and bizarre might have happened. I think. I have a haunting, yet very vague, memory of something that should have come from a dream. In the darkest part of the night, after the moon had set and still hours before dawn, we all rose, gathered our blankets and clothing, and silently walked over to the Box and carpet. Like moths drawn to a flame, we could not resist the urge to be … what? In moments, we were all again asleep; the carpet was certainly warmer and more comfortable than the ground of Central Asia.

As my dream continued, the carpet rose silently and carried us as it flew at treetop height just a few kilometers to a nearby highway. We landed next to a sleek, yet rugged-looking, large SUV, a Toyota Land Cruiser 300. My dream ended (I think). We awoke; the vehicle’s tailgate opened and we found fresh pastries and coffee waiting for us.

While Rabbie was eating a large apple fritter, he asked, “What do you say, gang? Should we drive into Samarkand like ancient merchants on the Silk Road?” Clio spoke around a French-style patte d’ours, “Absolutely! We’d be fools to miss a chance to visit this ancient metropolis!”

“Okay, then. Everybody finish up and mount up. We’re goin’ to town!”

It was a quick ride into Samarkand. Yes, I did feel a bit like I was a merchant traveling the Silk Road, glad to reach this trading center and oasis in the Zarafshan Valley. Rabbie, however, was somewhat ill at ease. “How will we communicate with the local people? We don’t speak their language.” Clio reassured him. “The people here are accustomed to dealing with foreigners. Many of them, especially the merchants, speak Russian and some also speak English. Herodotus and I speak enough Russian to get by.”

We left our vehicle, not at a caravanserai, but at a large car park near the Bibi - Khanym Mosque. Before leaving our car, we withdrew large amounts of cash, the Uzbekistani sum, from a convenient ATM (really from the depths of our Mysterious Box). After paying a modest entry fee, we toured the partially restored ruins of this impressive mosque, which was built in the early 15th Century.

The large Siab Bazaar is adjacent to the mosque. There were shops selling pottery and other ceramics, clothing and other woven goods, leather goods, artwork, and FOOD! OMG! We didn’t stop to eat, but we did buy boxes of sweets and dried fruit and heavy loaves of Samarkand non, or bread. We took our purchases back to our car and then took the short walk to Registan Square.

On our way to Registan Square, we stopped for lunch at a cozy chaikhana, or traditional teahouse. My companions enjoyed steamed dumplings called manti or plates of plov, a hearty rice pilaf. I ordered shashlik, skewers of grilled lamb. Of course, we all had green tea and obon non.

I believe any city would be proud to have a public space as grand as Registan Square, a stone-paved plaza flanked by three madrasas, or schools. Each madrasa has a towering entrance, a pishtaq, which leads to a series of iwans, gateways that open onto a central courtyard. The array of these three architectural beauties, along with the open plaza, is certainly as magnificent as any forum built by the Romans.

It was now late afternoon, and we felt drained and footsore after our active day. We retired to our rooms at a nearby guesthouse which catered to European and American tourists. Then, after showers and short naps, we sought another chaykhana for a light dinner. Teahouses such as this serve as much more than places to eat; they are social centers where people gather to relax and engage in conversation. We socialized with other travelers, even those who spoke neither English nor Russian. Bill joined a group of men playing backgammon. We had a delightful evening but were glad at the end to return to our rooms and get some much-needed sleep.

“Once upon a midnight dreary.” I awake suddenly from a dark dream. In a dark, unfamiliar room. I hear a raven’s ‘caw’ coming from the darkness outside my window. I close my eyes; instantly it seems I am dreaming again, of thundering hoofbeats of stampeding dragons, their eyes glowing red in the darkness. My brain rises into semi-consciousness. What is going on? Dragons have the feet of giant lizards, not hooves. Perhaps an earthquake woke me. Oh, of course, it’s probably a thunderstorm.

Somewhat rational now. I open my eyes. Uh, what now? There’s an eerie glow coming from near the closet. Am I still dreaming? I think I’m awake. Suddenly I’m aware that my traveling companions are in my room, transfixed, staring into the eerie glow. I sit up and open my eyes wide. I see our Mysterious Box. It’s sitting on the Magic Carpet, with its lid open. How can this be? We left those things in our vehicle, at the car park. Then I see our car next to the box. But now it’s small; it looks like a1:12 scale model.

Bill cautiously walks toward the Box. He reaches in and removes something. Oh, it’s the leather-bound journal of an unknown traveler. He carries it to my bed and lays it beside me. The book has its own aura -- separate, more distinct, and brighter than the glow of the Box. Although I don’t touch it, the book opens itself and glides softly into my hands.

The open pages contain the traveler’s notes and sketches of his sojourn along the Silk Road. I glance at the text; the names of exotic cities shine like gold against the ancient paper. There’s Samarkand, Bishkek ,Bukhara, Tashkent. Even Mirv is included. After just a moment, the book closes itself and then floats entirely on its own to its resting place in the Box.

My four companions and I stare at one another, eyes wide and mouths agape. I feel the sweat of fear all over my body. The other members of our group are all pale. We turn on all the lights in the room. Gradually, we seem to return to normal; our beathing and our pulses slow; we feel in control of ourselves. We begin to discuss what we had just seen.

After a long talk, we took out the dried fruit and the bread that we had bought yesterday. “Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away.” Clio asked, “Do you suppose the Box and the Book were trying to tell us something?” Rabbie spoke, “I think they were telling us where we should go today.” My response was “But where? To another Silk Road City? There’s certainly plenty more to see here in Samarkand.” Then Herodotus offered, “Ya know, there’s the great Silk and Spices Festival in Bukhara. There’s a good highway along the Zarafshon River; it could be a pleasant drive. There’s also a high-speed train that’s similar to the trains in Italy.”

Hm, What should we do?

We five adventurous travelers gathered in the courtyard of our guesthouse in Samarkand. All of us looked the worse for wear, as if we had spent the previous evening doing tequila shots. [One tequila, two tequila, three tequila, FLOOR!]. Except for Rabbie Byrnes; he would have spent his evening with his long-time friend, John Barleycorn.

Yes, we were a sorry sight. Shuffling and stumbling as we walked. Bloodshot eyes atop dark half-moons. Pale or slightly green complexions. Slumped shoulders. Obvious signs of exhaustion and confusion.

Songbirds greeted us from the branches of a White Mulberry in the courtyard. Certainly, more pleasant than the raven I had heard last night. Bill Faulkner asked, “Was there a violent thunderstorm last night?” Rabbie responded, “You silly boozer! That was just the alcohol swirling through your brain! You need to drink some fruit juice, eat some dry toast, and take some aspirin.” However, the rest of us mumbled something like, “No, the storm was real, with strong winds, roaring thunder, and blinding flashes of lightning. Rabbie, don’t be such an arrogant ass!”

As we talk, we learn that we all had identical dreams. Narcissistic Clio, whose behavior mirrored that of Diane Chambers [from the old TV show “Cheers”],expounded upon some ancient Greek mythological figures – Morpheus, the god of dreams; Phobetor, the personification of nightmares; and Phantasos, the creator of surreal dreams. Wow! That lecture didn’t accomplish anything more than annoy her comrades, who were already tired of her pomposity.

I ask the group, “After our nightmare, did we decide how we would spend today?” Everyone grumbled something like “Uh, nope.” Herodotus said, “Look. Let’s get some breakfast. I hope we can find a place that serves good coffee. After we eat, we’ll be better able to plan our day.”

We all acknowledged the wise suggestion made by Herodotus. We found a charming small café just a short walk from our lodging. This eatery seemed to specialize in feeding hungover foreigners. Our meal started with non (flatbread)generously spread with kaymak, a thick, rich, clotted heavy cream. This was served with blessed hot coffee! There was also fresh fruit, which was wonderfully delicious and refreshing. Then, to satisfy our foreign appetites, the meal included fried eggs and local sausage.

Now that we felt refreshed and renewed, we discussed our plans for the day. We quickly agreed to have a relatively easy day sightseeing here in Samarkand. We’ll travel to Bukhara tomorrow.

We checked online and found a suggested tour that combined scenic walking and short taxi rides. “Hey, I wonder if our SUV can transform itself so that it looks like a local taxi? And would it know its way around the city?” We decided to try this idea.

Our first stop on our tour was the Afrasiyab Museum, northeast of Registan Square. Ourself-driving ‘taxi’ easily navigated the confusing city streets from our guesthouse. The museum exhibits are largely related to the ancient Sogdian culture and others from the time before Genghis Khan conquered and destroyed Samarkand in the 13th Century.

It was just a short walk, less than 500 meters, to the Khoja Doniyor Mausoleum. This shrine is considered sacred in three religions – Islam, Christianity, and Judaism – as the burial place of the prophet Daniel. The nearby spring is also considered sacred and miraculous.

Our ‘taxi’ provided another short ride, to the 15thCentury Ulugh Beg Observatory. The adjacent museum has displays explaining medieval Islamic astronomy. A good reminder that Islamic astronomers were ahead of European Christians at that time.

We found an excellent spot for a late lunch about a3-minute walk downhill from the Observatory. After this, we returned to our rooms at the guesthouse. That evening, we returned to Registan Square for the Night Light Show, when the three madrasas are brilliantly illuminated in shifting colors. There is also a full sound-and-light projection show recounting the history of the SilkRoad.