After years of visiting a place that I cherished for so long, I recently returned from Tulum, Mexico with extremely unfortunate news to share...
The first day my friend & I arrived to Mar Caribe cabanas, ( set south of Tulum ruins), someone stole all of my money from the cabana. When we notified the management, they shrugged it off w/ no concern. We also discovered that another traveller had all of his money and his passport stolen on the same property. Just a few months prior to this incident, I was attacked by a man one evening in front of Mar Caribe. The management was not concerned and when I contacted the local police, they did not take the incident seriously. The management is also allowing backpackers to stay in a vacant building that will soon be the new Don Cafeto restaurant. They are charging 50 pesos per person and pocketing the money.. The backpackers were mostly men selling and doing drugs on the premises. We also had a problem at Don Cafeto Restaurant, which is next door to Mar Caribe. It appears that when a tourist pays for their meal with pesos or dollars, (since Don Cafeto does not accept credit cards), the cashier will tear a corner of the largest bill and exclaim they do not accept ripped money. Next, instead of returning the altered bill, they will keep the money and expect the customer to pay with another "acceptable" bill. This scam is quite clever, but needs to be stopped. Please be aware!!!

Posted By Jennifer Bohdonnah on April 16, 2007, 9:57 AM

My family has traveled much of Europe and for us our favorite destination is Mallorca, Spain. If you are looking for a beautiful beach-front hotel stay with restaurants and shopping all around this is the place. The local foods are wonderful and inexpensive. A must is the wonderful sangria! There are various fun destinations from the hotels with transfers available. We attended a Spanish dance night with dinner provided. If you like history and going to cathedrals they have those side trips available too. There's lots of clubs and party spots with open patios. We are not much on the night life but found that many of the hotels had bands and other events to enjoy throughout the day. It is a resort area with spas and message studios in the area. Our 3* hotel was ever bit as good as a 4* and was very reasonably priced. I would highly recommend Mallorca. If you have any questions please feel free to ask.

Posted By Best Trip Mallorca, Spain on April 16, 2007, 9:58 AM

This blog post on Feb 25, 2007, was written by me; others on our site were written by Tash. This is my blog:

Well everyone, I wrote a fabulously witty update for all of you, but alas, it somehow was lost to the Internet gods, so here we go again.....

Saturday - After our day seeing Corcovado and Pao de Azucar (Christo and Sugar Loaf), we spent the whole next day lying on the beach. We decided to go to Ipanema instead of Copacabana because the waves were so big at copa that we could not swim and 38 degree days get a bit sweltering without splashing around for a bit in between toasting. Ipanema is actually split up into numbered beaches. They all run into one another and you can sit anywhere, but some beaches are known to be for the old, young, gay, or straight. Tash of course wanted to go to the gay beach, but we resisted and watched the many speedo clad straight men prance around instead. Our official goal for the trip is to look Hispanic when we return....

Sunday - We took a ferry across the way to Niteroi, where the Modern Museum of Art is located. We passed many blocos (street parties) on the way, but our strong sense of intellect drove us on to the museum. When we got there, it was in fact closed, perhaps due to the fact that during Carnaval, no one goes to the museum. However, the scenery there was beautiful, and instead of art, we indulged in a few salads and a bottle of wine, so it was not a wasted trip. For dinner we went to a place advertising a Rotary menu for only R$10,00. We discovered that this is a sampling of the 29 pesticos (appetizers) on the menu, and they bring the different platters in rotation. Thinking it was a great deal, we examined the pestico menu, and seeing that we were unimpressed, but everyone else seemed to be ordering it, we of course got it anyway. When in Rome.... We received a bit of everything, from ham and cheese, to fried cheese, baked cheese, shrimps with heads and feet still clinging on, fried fish, beef stroganoff, fried manioc (a potato-y substance), quail eggs... everything. It was most definitely an experience and we laughed the entire time trying to figure out what we were eating, but we decided that a rotation of all foods you don't want, really is a bad idea in the end. We met some people at our hostel later that night and went salsa dancing in the streets and night swimming in the Atlantic.

Monday - Wednesday - We spent most of the remainder of our time in Rio lying in the sun and sipping some beers. We went to Ipanema again on Monday and ate some casquinha (ice cream cone) and suco (delicious juice in every tropical flavor possible). We had a filet mignon sandwich and a chicken and cream cheese crepe for dinner. Filet mignon here is a couple centimeter thick piece of meat more like a burger, but it's actually quite tender and delicious. Tuesday, we spent the entire day drinking. We went to a bloco in the afternoon in Ipanema and ate some street meat for the first time. It was quite wonderful and it's no wonder that for R$2 it is Brazil's famed food. At night we went to a beach rave and partied till the wee hours in the morning. Wednesday we laid on the beach all day, recovered, and got some more sun.

Thursday & Friday - We finally left beautiful Rio, even though we were both tempted to stay, and moved onto a town called Saquarema. It was a very ritzy and gorgeous place. The beaches are much less crowded than Rio and the vendors a lot more scarce. We drank some beers and listened to a live Brazilian POP cover band watching the sunset. We stayed at an amazingly expensive pousada, and thus decided to go to the mercado and buy some cheap food to subsist on. We intended to live on bananas, ChocoLoaf, and beer for the next two days, but for those of you who know either us of really well, we didn't make it long. We ended up going out for pizza and not only ordered a delicious savory pizza, but saw a banana with cinnamon and sugar pizza, and ordered that as well as a bucket o' beer. We spent the next day just lying on the beach. We had intended to surf, but the water was actually quite a bit colder than in Rio and we settled on just baking in the sand, Tash working on her new tan lines in her teeny weeny little Brazilian bikini.

Saturday & Sunday - We left Saquarema for Parati. Parati is a cute little old town. The historic center used to be a fort so it is walled in like Quebec city and the interior is all cobbled streets and ornate old buildings. We are staying in a room that is much like a tree house. We need to climb up stairs through a hole in the ceiling to get to our beds, but we have the whole loft to ourselves and we are right on the river. We spent Sunday going for a boat tour around some of the islands nearby. We went to many different beaches and snorkeled for a while. We saw some huge starfish, crabs, a stingray, and many many fish and coral. It was a great way to spend the day. We're not quite sure what we're doing tomorrow, but it promises to be another day in paradise....

Posted By Stefanie Dutile on April 16, 2007, 10:09 AM

A couple of years ago my husband and I went on a wonderful trip to VietNam, Thailand and Cambodia. We traveled with a company that specializes in small groups. Our Vietnamese guide was a wonderfully enthusiastic young man named Quynh who was so proud of his country that he could not do enough to show us how exciting everything was. My husband's birthday came along while we were in Halong Bay, and Quynh moved heaven and earth to procure a birthday cake for him. This was harder than it sounds as cakes were not part of the Vietnamese cuisine or tradition. My husband was also showered with beautiful bouquets of flowers, which is part of the tradition. We were moving on the next day, and, not wanting to leave all the beautiful flowers in the hotel room, we took them with us in the van. Our next stop was a tiny village where we could walk and observe the local life. Since there were only 14 of us this was not as intrusive as it sounds. We came across a wedding being held in a courtyard. As we stood nodding and smiling at the gate, the bride's father came over and invited us all in. We were seated at one of the tables and offered the best of refreshments; candy, tea and cigarettes. I began taking pictures of the event with my digital camera, which was a novelty to most of the villagers. Soon the mother of the bride took me by the hand and brought me to where the bride was sequestered so that I could take pictures of her. She was dressed in a typical white Western-style bridal gown, but one thing was missing. My husband and I looked at each other and said "the flowers!!" He ran to the bus to get them and we presented the bride with an armful of roses and other beautiful blooms, as mama and papa and all the relatives beamed upon us as hard as they could. We were then handed a microphone and asked to sing. The group conferred and then all 14 of us serenaded the bride with a couple of choruses of "You Are My Sunshine". This was met with much approval, and, though we were invited to stay on and party, alas, we had to go. But we left knowing that the birthday flowers were given another happy occasion to be a part of!

Posted By Marilyn Schlansky on April 16, 2007, 10:20 AM

All's well that ends well!

The graduation was very nice and I wouldn't have missed it, but I almost did!

We flew into Savannah, GA(less expensive) and I had paperwork from the Budget Car rental website with a confirmed low price. I went to the airport counter to get my car and was told "I have seen this before this is NOT a reservation". I was getting hysterical by this time, as the lady explained they had no cars that were not already reserved. I think she saw the panic in my eyes and managed to (FIND) a car at twice the price I had intended to pay. I went to all the other car rental counters and was forced to go back to the Budget counter and beg to pay twice my intended price. We drove to Mt. Pleasant, SC, where our hotel was reserved.

In the meantime Billy was chasing around all over town trying to get his truck towing lights repaired. He had to be out of his room immediately. We finally saw him around 8 PM Thursday night and the truck was still not fixed. We did manage to go out for dinner with his buddy Nick and his mother.

Friday AM-Billy got ready and headed out to the graduation. I had visited once before and thought I knew where to go-WRONG! We drove to Goose Creek, missed our turn and ended up way out past the base, stopped for directions. Drove all over the SC countryside-me on the verge of tears- we arrived about 15 minutes late.

The only thing I missed was the opening speeches and although I am sure they were wonderful- I did get to see all the graduates cross the stage

It was very cold and windy, we were freezing out there, so missing the beginning wasn't so bad after all

Billy and his older brother Jack got the truck fixed. We went to Hyman's Seafood place downtown and ate an outrageous amount of fish, mussels, crab legs, shrimp and a few veggies.

Saturday we went to Patriot's Point very close to our hotel. We took a boat over to Fort Sumter and did the tour there. We went to the Battery and saw all the lovely homes and ended the day on Market Street at a sports bar watching the Final 4.

Sunday we all drove home to Tennessee

Posted By C Summers on April 16, 2007, 10:24 AM

Regarding Jennifer's comment about her bad experience at Cabanas Mar Caribe near the Mayan ruins of Tulum, Mexico, we invite others to comment, as Budget Travel is not familiar with this property.

Posted By Sean on April 16, 2007, 10:39 AM

The smell hits you first. It is unlike anything I have ever smelled before. It smells of urine and trash and fire and heat and cows and people. People. One billion people in a country one-third the size of the United States. India, in a word, was intense.

India was the first place where I truly felt like a foreigner. No tourists, no waterfront shopping area, no comfort. I honestly felt claustrophobic for the first time ever.

The airport oddities were so interesting. Men and women were separated into different security lines, with women being the ones patted down. We also had to remove our batteries from cameras, alarm clocks, etc. But, they never checked our IDs and then gave us real knives during the in-flight meal. (Which, by the way, was the best meal I had there!)

We saw everything, from the Taj in Agra to the Sikh temples in Delhi to the rickshaw drivers in Chennai. The poverty I witnessed there was much different than previous travels. Small children were running in between traffic, barefoot, trying to sell morning papers or beg for food. People without limbs scooted around the sidewalks. It was all so overwhelming, maybe because I only slept about 10 hours the entire trip, or maybe because it was so foreign that I was just unprepared. It was almost hard to believe everything I was seeing. There were such contrasts. On the train I was reading an Indian fashion magazine, looking at the latest sarees and jewelry, and the next I was looking at a man going to the bathroom on the side of the road, next to his home--a potato sack. Or, a beautiful estate garden would be across from a fire burning piles of cow dung.

I know I am lucky to have traveled there.

Posted By Tracy on April 16, 2007, 10:45 AM

I Showered in Rain Water Next to a Brilliant Blue Butterfly and Other Amazonian Adventures.

(Mar.3, 2007)

So there really are no words to adequately describe the Amazon jungle, a place unlike any other I have ever seen or experienced, but it was definitely the highlight of my trip so far. I'm not sure I can even remember all of the awesome things I did...every day in the jungle seemed like such an epic.

For the majority of the time, we stayed in a beautiful cabin lodge that was similar in many ways to our Cloud Forest accomodations, but with the added bonus of actual toilets and a limited amount of electric light. There were lots of really cool lookouts on top of trees to climb up on, too, and really yummy food...fresh fish, fruits and vegetables mostly. I had the chance to do so many activities that I could never have even dreamed about. On one nature hike, I saw the largest trees I've ever seen in my life, called Kapok trees, which were totally majestic and totally had real life Tarzan vines hanging from them. I had a chance to swing on one, and even had a Jane moment when my friend John was taking his turn and grabbed me up off the ground and onto the vine with him! So fun.

I navigated the Napo River a few times in a motor canoe, visited a protected animal reserve, spent some time in an indigenous village community where I got a chance to teach some 4th and 5th graders multiplication, met an indigenous medicine woman, listened to a shaman storyteller, and got to make a mythical clay head with ceramic pottery. I definitely faced a lot of fears during the trip, from tasting lemon ants to coming to peace with being wholly entrenched in sweat, bug lotion, dirt and mud for five days. One morning, I woke up early to shower and realized I was accompanied by an azure butterfly friend the entire time. Meanwhile, I was showering in the exact same rain water in the exact same temperature that was pouring outside simultaneously. It was quite funny, really. At the indigenous village, our lunch was interesting, to say the least...a plate filled with all sorts of vegetables I had never seen before, an entire fish, and a crunchy cooked larvae, an Amazonian delicacy. I wish I could say I tried the grub, but alas, I couldn't bring myself to do it...though from what I hear, it tasted a lot like bacon. On the whole, without trying to overly wax philosophic, I really feel like I gained a new perspective on a lot of things. It was pretty cool.

Lamentably, if the week in the jungle was the highpoint of my time here, the last 24 hours have most definitely been my nadir. Without going into too much detail, suffice it to say that all of the luck I've had thus far with digestion suddenly took a turn for the worst throughout the entire 8 hour bus ride back to Quito and all of last night. However, I am feeling a lot better now after returning to the higher altitudes of the Sierra and having passed (hopefully) most of the worst out of my system.

Anywho, today I'm back in Quito preparing to meet my new host family later on this afternoon... which reminds me, I should really be on my way to buy flowers and pack my things! Until later, all my love.--MelodyQ

Posted By Melody Quintana on April 16, 2007, 12:42 PM

How's a guy supposed to eat with swimsuit models all over the place?

It started when Jess and I went exploring for a new restaurant in Costa Rica. That meant we turn right instead of left on the dirt road in front of our lodge.

Apparently all the action took place on the other end of the dirt road, because after walking for a half hour we didn't come across a spot where we could eat.

Normally this wouldn't be a huge deal, but the main issue is that Jess's blood sugar plummets when she doesn't eat for long periods of time. She gets really loopy, lethargic and acts drunk. It's not pretty.

By the time we arrived to the middle of nowhere, Jess's hunger symptoms started acting up. Typically, this is when she freaks out. I know she is doing this because she says, "I'm freaking out, I'M FREAKING OUT!" while waving her arms around.

Keep in mind it's also in the 80s or 90s, astonishingly humid and extremely dusty. It only gets worse when a vehicle drives by and whips up some more dust while we walk on the shoulder.

I get the idea to pick Jess up and carry her, figuring a passing driver would feel obligated to give us a lift.

This works perfectly. A driver in a nice new truck -- a rarety for this area -- stops and asks if we were all right.

In unison, we say we're OK.

As our ride left, we wondered what the hell we just did.

Maybe it was our instinct to turn down rides from strangers in foreign countries. Maybe it was just the heat. Maybe it was stupidity.

There was nothing to do but wait for the next vehicle, which would come who knows when.

A few minutes later I spotted a beat-up old pick-up driving toward us. I immediately scooped up Jess and waited. This time we wouldn't be so stupid.

This was not quite the nice new truck we had just seen. The occupants spoke broken English and had no open seats. But they did stop and offer help.

I immediately threw Jess in the back of the pick-up and hopped in behind her.

In a few minutes we found ourselves at Mar Azul, the restaurant we'd been to many times.

But this time something was different. There were amazingly hot swimsuit models all over the place.

"Remember," I told Jess. "You were the one that wanted to go here."

Every time a bikini-clad model walked right next to our open-air table, it was no less surreal than if a Tyrannosaurus Rex had just passed by.

Apparently, there was some kind of photo shoot going on at the beach. It looked pretty high tech, with photo assistants, lackeys spraying down the models with mist, and even a helicopter that inexplicably made a visit.

The only clue as to what the hell was going on was the words "Bodog Fight" written across the women's bikini bottoms. Honestly, solving this mystery was the only reason I was looking there.

I Googled this information when I got home to find out that Bodog Fight is a kind of ultimate fighting league, complete with supporting "Bodog Girls." I also found a blog that talked about their shoot in our area of Costa Rica.

At one point I decided I needed to document this surreal turn of event with photographic proof. Trying not to look like too much of a pervert I managed to snap a few subpar shots that certainly didn't do the situation justice. That's when someone in charge caught me and told me no pictures.

For her part, Jess was at first annoyed yet amused. She progressively became more annoyed and less amused. At least she wasn't strung out on hunger anymore.

I actually don't remember many details about this whole experience. It was pretty much a blur. Remember those sitcom dream sequences? Yeah, like that.

I plead guilty to being a bit distracted during the meal. But aside from extracting my Y chromosome and flinging across the beach, I don't know what else I could have done. I actually think I was doing decent for a guy. I tried to initiate conversation several times.

"Yeah, I know you were trying," Jess later said sarcastically. "Every five minutes or so you'd say 'How's it going' to me."

At least I managed to regain use of my senses before Jess filed divorce papers on the spot. I asked her to take a picture with me on the beach as the sun set.

With the bikini models lounging under a canopy, a production assistant snapped our picture as the sun ducked below the horizon behind us. The whole time, I kept my gaze on the camera and my arm around Jess.

Posted By Tim Cigelske on April 16, 2007, 12:47 PM

Stef's travel blogs are keeping all of us entertained, wishing we were young again and able to do what she and Tash are doing. I look forward to the next one!

Posted By Neil Lucier on April 16, 2007, 1:09 PM

What a wonderful way to spend your hard-earned money. It is an experience you will remember the rest of your lives. Six months in South America, amazaing! Can't wait for your next blog.

Posted By Maggie Lucier on April 16, 2007, 1:22 PM

I am so jealous that you are going rafting on the Futaleufu! Here I am a kayaker and I can't afford to make that trip. Have fun for me, will ya?

Posted By Tom Lucier on April 16, 2007, 1:48 PM

Getting the best deal can be a full time job, but how many of us have the time available to spend countless hours working to get the best deal. The solution is to let others do most of the work for you, to tap into friends who have had positive travel experiences and to then ultimately undertake your own due diligence.

Internet subscriptions to airline carriers, car rental companies and hotel chains that offer discounts and subscriptions to sites like BudgetTravelOnline.com handle much of the legwork allowing you more time to enjoy life and pursue other interests. Add to that formula engaging business and personal friends in travel conversations, and a whole new world of insight into what to do and what not to do is open to you. However, in the end, there is no substitute for doing your own due diligence by surfing the net for the best information and the best prices available. Also, a little imagination never hurts.

A case in point involved a recent trip to Hawaii. Frequent flyer seats were booked eleven months in advance, inter island flights involved super saver rates, accommodations were through vrbo.com (vacation rentals by owner) at a fraction of hotel prices. Imagination came into play by letting different condo owners compete for my business and by finding a conference that was in town that had a discount car rental number posted on their web site and then using that number to book our car rentals. Travel resource web sites provided amble suggestions for things to do as did friends and acquaintances who have previously visited the Hawaiian Islands. Similarly, discounts on dining were achieved by using the Entertainment Book, getting recommendations from friends and internet sources and scouting out restaurants that have a BYOB policy which is more common than one might imagine. Needless to say, we had the trip of a lifetime on a budget that will allow us to return again and again.

Posted By David Kochel on April 16, 2007, 1:55 PM

Random Trip to Japan

We decided to see where we could go for free using mileage and hotel points and believe it or not, it was Tokyo. So for weeks we planned an itinerary, contacted friends in Tokyo and Guam, got some phrase books, and prepared for the longest flight we've ever been on.

We didn't sleep the night before our flight, and our cab driver apparently didn't either, as evidenced by his swerving off the road as other cars honked at him. We arrived at the airport in just 45 minutes, so we were plenty early for the flight. We attempted to purchase an upgrade for the 13-hour flight, but were told since we had gotten free tickets we weren't eligible. Despite the fact there were empty seats, they didn't want extra money. OK. We sat at the gate and dozed off here and there. Every time we woke up we were surrounded by less people. Eventually I decided to check the monitor and it turned out they changed our gate. We had to run to another terminal and go through security again. Always pays to be early...riight?

The flight was very smooth (great for me who hates being in the sky) and we were constantly offered drinks. We were fed 2 meals, and one included sushi. This would be the only sushi we ate on our whole Japanese adventure.

We arrived at Narita airport in Japan, exhausted. We exchanged money, rented a cell phonen, and booked a train ticket to Yokohama, just past Tokyo. As we waited for the train, men in uniform conducted the trains and bowed each time one left. We found our seats on the Narita Express train and woke up just in time to exit at Yokohama Station. We arrived in the middle of rush hour, and darted between commuters until we made it out of the gigantic station and across the street to our hotel. We offered to provide a credit card for the one night we had to pay and any expenses, but the hotel insisted the whole stay was free.

We took a "nap" and woke up around 3am in search of dinner. We wandered around Yokohama and discovered the only place open with food was the 24-hour McDonald's. Our first Japanese meal. As we waited for our food, the cashier came over to us and started talking to us in Japanese. It seemed quite long, but when we looked confused, he just said "Wait please." I thought we had forgotten toothpaste, so we found a store that was open. I instantly fell in love with this store. They sold EVERYTHING from stuffed bananas to make-up to keychains. EVERYTHING. And there was music playing in every direction. Our last day in Japan, we would return to this store and become engaged on the way out!

Tomorrow...meeting a friend from Guam in the garden, Sumida River Cruise, Asakusa and sukiyaki, Ginza, our favorite souvenir of clear plastic umbrellas, pub food and salsa dancing with a classmate in Roppongi.

Later...Electric Town, Meiji Shrine, Harajuku, Asian tapas, panarmoic views, Lost in Translation bar, Kabuki-cho, Italian dinner, Kamakura and the giant Buddha, Kyoto and the new 7 wonders of the world, dinner with friends, international brunch, and the engagement.

Posted By Lisa Kelly on April 16, 2007, 2:01 PM

SMILE. You're on Candid Camera!

With all the truck troubles coming through Virginia, we were a day and a half behind schedule, so even though we got off to a late start(we didn't leave the dealership in Salem, VA. til 10:00) we did a big push. 11 hours and 650 miles later, we arrived in Memphis, TN.

After checking in to the hotel, we decided to eat in Trumpet's, the hotel's small dining room, as the surrounding area looked a little sketchy. Walking in, we were told to seat ourselves and "self-serve" turned out to be the theme of the night. Although there were only 2 other tables of people seated, it was 15 minutes before our waitress approached us for the first time, only to be told "I'll be right with you". Although it appeared the other parties had been in the restaurant for quite some time, no one had food as of yet.

I noticed another couple going to the bar (located outside of the dining room) for their own drinks, so Bob went over and asked them if you had to get your own alcohol. "Well", the wife laughed, "you do if you want a drink anytime this millenium and you better like beer 'cos they have no wine or liquor". So off Bob went, 2 Bud Lights coming right up. While he was gone, the waitress brought a party of three their salads, but forgot their dressing. "I'll have that in a jiffy". 5 minutes later, dressing arrived and she finally made here way back to us. At this point we had been in the restaurant for half an hour. She took our order, informing us that they were out of baked potatoes as the shipment had not come in, and walked away talking to herself. "I've got to slow down" she decided "this pace is too much for one person". Bob and I looked at each other and burst out laughing. "Where is the Candid Camera?" I wondered. At this point, the only people with food on the table was the party of three, although only two of them had received their meals. They ordered another round of beers and the waitress asked the girl "Honey, would you mind running down for them? I am just flat out" Hearing that, we started laughing so hard we couldn't stop. I started looking hard for those cameras!

Ten minutes passed and our waitress was back with the bad news - Bob had ordered the Prime Rib special and they were all out. After taking his new order, she walked away to put it in. At this point, we started to wonder if we should have ordered breakfast instead of dinner because it seemed like this meal might turn into an all-nighter.

The party of three got up to leave, even though their third member had never got his food, and walked to the cash register to pay. The waitress came running after them. "Honey, you can't go yet, you haven't had your dinner" "I'll eat a sandwich in my room" he replied. "Oooooh, this looks so good, better than any ole sandwich." she coaxed "Why don't I wrap it for you?" He relented and as she left Bob called over to him "Don't you feel like you're on Candid Camera?" The group looked a little startled and looked at each other, unsure if perhaps we were commenting on the diversity of the group and the lifestyle choices of one member. After hearing the the explaination, they opened up and started telling their story. Hailing from Oregon, the group was down to give support for one member for his divorce proceedings in Memphis. "Frank, here" said the manly woman referring to the man in the wheelchair, "was in the courthouse this morning for his divorce case. The trial had been called and was about to start when his hotshot lawyer dropped dead of a heart attack. Three years and umpteen dollars later and now he's back to square one" We passed a few words with them, had a few laughs and they were off.

We finally got our dinners and Bob's burger was about on par with Micky D's. My dinner was so unpalatable I had to send it back. Even the salad was warm and inedible. So, after a hilarious 90 minute dining experience (and, no, we never did find the Candid Camera), I ended up eating dinner from the vending machine.

Posted By Elizabeth Higginbottom on April 16, 2007, 2:35 PM

Today we are in Taormina, Sicily on a warm and sunny day. Despite the lovely weather, we are at this time unable to see Mt. Etna because of the clouds surrounding it. We are at first disappointed that we did not have time on this trip to go up Mt. Etna but later we find out that in spite of all that heat and smoke, nothing delicious is actually being baked there. Somewhere around the 4th century BC, Taormina was built on a cliff, overlooking the Ionian Sea. Looming in the background(when you can see it) is Mount Etna, still an active volcano. Taormina is a charming medieval town filled with lovely piazzas, cafes, restaurants, and countless shops. The views through every archway and up every winding street and alley are the real-life version of the tacky but charming paintings I adore.
Taormina is very beautiful. We are not surprised that Goethe referred to Taormina as a patch of paradise. and that D.H. Lawrence supposedly was inspired to write Lady Chatterly's Lover here.

We wander through the town, window-shop, and marvel until our biological clocks start demanding pasta. Luckily, we find the restaurant with the most beautiful view of all. We have lunch with friends on an outdoor terrace filled with flowers overlooking the sea. The four of us consider this a great improvement over our countless dinners spent meeting halfway at the Bertucci's in a local mall. After lunch we continue walking and shopping -- buying necessities of life such as necklaces made of lava from Mt. Etna. Eventually we make our way to the Greek Amphitheater, Taormina's most famous monument. The Greeks carved this amphitheater out of the mountains somewhere around the 3rd century BC and the Romans expanded it about 5 centuries later. The conquering Arabs damaged it greatly in the 10th century. However, nothing could destroy the breathtaking view of Mount Etna and the sea beyond the theater. We also eventually visit the Roman Odeon, a small theater partly covered by a church located next door. This theater, built by the Romans in the 1st century AD, is much smaller and much,much less spectacular. Today has been one of those perfect travel days: lovely weather, incredible scenery, wonderful food, and a sense of real connection to the past.

Posted By Elaine Miller on April 16, 2007, 3:18 PM

COZUMEL, MEXICO
"Thank God for the Queen of Spain!?" exalted the taxi driver as he sped us down the modern autoroute leading to the south of Cozumel Island. It was a clear, dry day and the temperature was climbing into the high 80s. On either side of the highway the mangrove forests soaked up the life-giving energy of the sun, striving to regenerate themselves months after the devastating assault by Hurricane Wilma had denuded the trees of their leaves, leaving a barren tableau reminiscent of the devastation visited upon the Vietnamese jungle after an Agent Orange deforestation campaign.

Above us the hawks glided on currents of hot, rising air, their job of locating prey on the ground made infinitely easier by the total absence of vegetation.

The driver continued his litany of thanksgiving. The Queen of Spain called the state governor, and when she heard the magnitude of our suffering, she immediately dispatched three military cargo aircraft filled with water and food. Otherwise we surely would have perished because all our water was contaminated.

"The hurricane lasted two days," he continued. By the second day our houses were flooded and the water was up to our chest. We had to go on the roof in the wind and rain with our children, who were all crying. We thought we were all going to die, and we prayed to Jesus for our salvation.

Finally, by the grace of God, the storm moved away. If it had lasted two hours more all the people in my barrio would have been swept away and killed.

There was a great wailing of relief and thanks to God that we had survived. We sat on our roofs and waited for help, because we had no water or food. When at last we saw the Spanish Air Force planes circling above us, those of us who could ran to the airfield to await their landing, and when they landed we went inside the airplanes and emptied them by hand, passing the cartons out in a chain until all the supplies were stacked on the tarmac.

And so, because of the benevolence of the Queen of Spain all the people survived.

After came the Canadians and the Americans. Then the Mexican Navy ships docked in the harbor. They brought soldiers with trucks and helicopters, and the soldiers and police patrolled the streets to keep order.

By the grace of God, all the people survived. Not one person died. Unfortunately nobody was able to save the poor animals and they all perished. All the dogs and cats, the horses and donkeys, the chickens and roosters. All dead! The only animals that survived were those birds that knew how to survive in the water, and when the water receded from the town the streets were filled with the corpses of the dead animals.

This highway we're driving on now, when the water receded, was strewn with thousands of dead fish all the way to the southern end of the island, as far as the eye could see.

For two months we had no work and we only lived on what we received from the government. They gave us water, food and ice every day, but no alcohol or beer. Let me tell you, that was the worst of it! I can live without seeing a woman for two months, but two months without beer in this heat, and nothing to do -- that was the worst. A black market developed where you could buy a bottle of tequila for five hundred pesos, but nobody had any money, and if the police caught you they sent you to jail.

He reiterated, "I don't care if I don't see a woman for two months, but no beer? That's the worst!?"

My girlfriend Magpie and I had taken an efficiency apartment in the center of San Miguel, on the malecon, or oceanfront boulevard, just a couple of blocks from the ferry terminal. For whatever reason, the downtown business district and central plaza, with its lush tropical foliage, appeared untouched by the devastation, but that might be because the authorities determined that it be beautifully appointed for the needs of the tourist business, which is the island's only source of income. This central plaza was a far cry from what it was the first time I visited Cozumel twenty years ago. Then, it was a devastatingly ugly patch of dirt right out of a Sergio Leone spaghetti western, a lazy, filthy unshaded mound of barren soil surrounding a concrete bandshell, fit only for borrachos and the North American dropouts that inhabited the surrounding flea bag hotels.

At that time Cozumel was only visited by a few hard-core divers and by small groups of day travelers from the mainland attracted for snorkeling excursions into its wonderfully rich coral reefs. The town had one rickety dock, a t-shirt store and a store selling silver jewelry. The rest of the place was a real dive, with pigs and chickens free-ranging down the middle of its shabby side streets.

Each time I came back, the island had incrementally improved, and when the cruise lines finally glommed onto its exotic tropical beauty, a gold rush soon followed, with government and private investment pouring in, followed by an exodus of migrants from all over Mexico, seeking opportunity, as well as rich Mexicans and Spaniards who established oceanfront residences. A new ferry terminal, the muelle fiscal, was constructed directly in front of the town square. A gigantic port built to process cruise ship passengers was built a few kilometers to the south. Shopping centers housing boutiques for Cartier jewelry and Rolex watches sprang up in formerly desolate lots overgrown with weeds. Luxury resorts sprung up like jalapeno peppers. Restaurants and bars charging New York prices spread into the side streets like kudzu vines overtaking an abandoned jungle shack. Now the town, with its miniature malec- or oceanfront boulevard, resembles nothing so much as a tiny Havana or San Juan, much more charming than Cancun with a distinctly Mexican and Mayan personality.

And now that Cozumelenos, as they refer to themselves, are racing along the information superhighway with the rest of us, with 100 television stations and internet cafes on every block (not to mention the ubiquitous cell phones that they have seized upon with the voracious fury of a ravenous octopus), the people on this once-isolated backwater are every bit as sophisticated as the most jaded denizen of Mexico City or New York. Since Magpie and I had neglected to bring along a radio, we more or less left the TV on in our room full-time for background noise.

Mexican television is pretty good. There are a lot of music video stations featuring the whole gamut of popular music ranging from norteno music, which is updated mariachi played by hard guys dressed in vaquero suits and sombreros, to latin hip-hop. There are plenty of movie channels, most featuring dubbed-over American films, but also with plenty of vintage black-and-white Mexican westerns and romantic comedies. You have the choice of watching CNN en espanol, which is broadcast live from Atlanta, but with really cool, elegant latin announcers sporting sharp haircuts and modern suits. There are always soccer matches featuring the best teams of Europe and Latin America. And for hard-core political junkies, there is a public access station that shows parliamentary debates from the Chamber of Deputies in Mexico City, which was a real eye-opener!

The hands-down star of Mexican political commentary for our week in Mexico was undeniably Venezuelan president Hugo Chavez, who is not passing up any opportunity to project himself throughout Latin America. He was on CNN two or three times every hour all week, and he had a lot to say about Mexico's ruling party, the PAN, calling them lap dogs of George Bush and the Americans. Since this is an election year for Mexico, the PAN deputies in congress are highly exercised about what they consider Chavez's interference in the country's internal politics in favor of the left-wing candidate, Obrador, who is the mayor of Mexico City.

Magpie and I watched a legislative session where the deputies were debating a PAN motion to investigate Chavez and statements by the Venezuelan ambassador to Mexico to determine whether they constituted Venezuelan interference in Mexican domestic politics. It was a raucous debate, the Mexican sense of political decorum not extending to restrained behavior by elected officials. The speakers all started their speeches softly and politely, with reasoned dignity, and then built up to a crescendo of denunciations and accusations, sort of like Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture, to the accompaniment of shouts, jeers, whistles and points of order by the assembled dignitaries. Everybody was playing to the home audience, and they knew what their constituents expected of them -- something spicy!

The motion to investigate Chavez passed, but later that day, when the Venezuelan strongman appeared on the screen, as though in response, he sang a song by the fantastically popular Spanish singer Rocio Durcal, a kind of singing Simone Signoret, who had died earlier that day. Later on, the Venezuelan government announced that it was increasing housing subsidies for all its low-income citizens.

What effect all this is having on Mexican voters I cannot say. But the other big story of the week, the massive demonstrations taking place in the States by undocumented Mexican workers protesting the imminent immigration legislation by the U.S. Congress, aroused plenty of emotions and indignation. Every Mexican knows somebody working in the U.S., so the issue has an emotional aspect as least as strong in Mexico as it does in the U.S.

This issue has many conflicting aspects to it. Nobody wants to raise the point that those regions of the U.S. that have been most impacted by Mexican immigration are areas that were historically Mexican territory for many centuries before they were annexed to the U.S. as a result of the Mexican War of 1845, a war that was described by many commentators of the day, including no less an authority than Ulysses S. Grant, who participated in it, as an abomination and a blatant land grab. This area, stretching from Texas to Northern California, was the richest part of Mexico, so on one level you could say that the Mexican people still retain the residual sentiment that they have some indefinable rights in that region.

Another aspect of the situation is that NAFTA, unlike the European Union, made no provision for movement of people across borders to compensate for the inevitable dislocations and contradictions that would result as a consequence of free trade. This glaring omission has unfortunate racial overtones to it, the Americans and Canadians wanting access to the not inconsequential Mexican market and cheap labor pool without having to accept the possibility that Mexico might come to them.

Anyone who takes the trouble to read the classified section of Mexican newspapers, where jobs are advertised as paying one hundred fifty dollars a MONTH, knows that trans-border migration is inevitable. The problem is that this influx of cheap labor is depressing wages in the U.S., where American employers are happy to pay these substandard wages and no benefits for work for which they would otherwise have to competitively bid.

It should be noted that Mexico takes the integrity of its own borders very seriously, maintaining a large standing army, navy and air force, and has long pursued a policy of forcibly repatriating illegal immigrants back to their poorer neighboring countries to the south.

Magpie and I enjoyed a week of near-perfect weather during our Cozumel vacation, and every day we visited a different beach or snorkeling area. The big nature park at Chankannab had been devastated and was closed for repair, but a few kilometers to the south a beach called Playa Sancho was open for business, and we rented a couple of deck chairs under a newly refurbished palapa.

I swam out a couple of hundred meters to where the water was sparkling clear. The coral, which had been covered in sand kicked up from the hurricane, was arranged in little bouquets separated at intervals of a few meters and extending in all directions. Despite the bland, almost lunar aspect of the sand-covered landscape, it was clearly rich in nourishment, as schools of large blue, purple and black angel fish darted between the formations to leisurely nibble at each for a while before zooming to the next. I would hover at the surface above them, studying each feeding group for a while, when some other point of interest at the periphery of my vision caught my attention, and then I would swim in that direction. Sometimes it would be a particularly large and colorful parrot fish or an intricately sculpted coral formation that drew me. I found a sunken ridge of coral fragments and, knowing these depressions to be particularly attractive to the fish, followed it for several hundred meters.

All at once, I found myself in a murky, brownish patch that, I discovered to my horror, to be infested by a very large school of thimble-sized jellyfish. This was a particularly wild stretch of beach, Magpie and I being the only bathers as far as the eye could see in any direction that day, and jellyfish, even tiny ones can do a lot of damage to humans with their toxic discharge, so finding myself hundreds of meters from the beach, in the midst of a swarm of them, filled me with inquietude. I had once seen a television show about an Australian diver who had just narrowly escaped death after being stung by a jellyfish no larger than a fingernail. Were these ones toxic? Would the exertion of swimming cause the poison to circulate faster through my bloodstream? These were some of the questions that went through my mind.

I finally managed to get clear of the swarm of jellyfish, apparently no worse for wear, to find myself comforted by a large heterogeneous group of brightly colored tropical fish feeding on a coral formation. Large blue angelfish;, lovely grey fish with blue markings; grey ones with just one large white dot at the posterior end of their torso; fluttery blue and yellow fish resembling delicate, charming feather dusters; robust black-and-white checked fish with lurid, red bottoms all swam about their business, taking no notice of me.

Suddenly there emerged from this idyllic scenario, as if to remind me once more that I was in the midst of wild nature with absolutely no device of human civilization to shield me, an enormous golden barracuda, more than a meter in length and headed unswervingly in my direction. The face he presented to me had a serious, not to say grave, aspect to it, quite unlike the cute little denizens of the deep served up in the Walt Disney "Nemo" movies, and the fact that he was following a direct trajectory toward me was not in the least reassuring, particularly since I was about a half-kilometer from shore.

Magpie is fond of reminding me that barracuda do not attack humans. They also say that about sharks. But these are wild animals we are describing here, and they do not follow any literary rules of etiquette, as guys who have lost arms and legs, not to mention even less fortunate witnesses, would be happy to attest if they could still be around to discuss it.

I took a page from the Octopus School of Wisdom, and started thrashing my arms and legs wildly to let the creature know that I was alert and robust, and he swam away.

Deciding that I had had enough Wild Kingdom for one day, I made a dash for shore, stopping every few meters to turn around and make sure I wasn't being tracked. I was plenty alarmed. Next thing, I came face-to-face with another barracuda (or maybe it was the same one? How would I know? It?s not like they wear license plates!) I performed the same thrashing manoeuvre, and this one swam away as well.

At length, I reached the shore and made it back to the palapa where Magpie was relaxing with an iced rum cocktail. She had immediately returned to shore after experiencing the jellyfish. When I told her about the barracuda, she casually remarked, ?Maybe they were attracted by your gold chain. In their mind, the sunlight reflecting off the gold reminds of the glittering scales of a fish.?

I immediately removed the chain from my neck.

The Palenkar reef, which stretches between the Fiesta Americana Dive Resort and the El Presidente Hotel is our favorite snorkeling site. There is a small beach at Dzul-Ha where, for the price of a drink, you can inhabit a shaded table on a seaside terrace all day and walk into one of the world?s greatest coral reefs at your leisure. Magpie and I put on our snorkels and swam southward in the direction of the Fiesta Americana, about a kilometer down the beach, in search of a beautiful undersea forest of purple fan coral where we had spent many hours exploring the previous year.

Every modern artist works by the rule that colors and shapes possess the latent energy to release emotions in the beholder, so it is a mystery to this writer why more artists have not taken to the undersea world for inspiration in the same way that Georgia O?Keefe brought the mysteries of the orchid or the American Southwest desert landscapes into the salons of the art world. Why have not dress designers gone in search of striking color combinations and patterns so readily available as to be literally at their fingertips just by donning a mask and wading into the therapeutic, warm coastal waters of the Mexican Caribbean?

Alas, the marvelous coral forest was gone, decimated by the furious devastation of the hurricane. Shattered fragments of fan coral lay on the ocean floor, covered in grey sand, the myriad of exotic sea life that formerly sustained itself on them in such harmonic tranquility also gone. But as we swam, a closer inspection of the terrain made apparent to us that the miraculous restorative evolution of nature was already at work in this hidden garden. Tiny purple fans the size of maple leaves were already springing from the ocean floor, and vibrant, green patches of brain coral had affixed themselves like skin grafts to the surface of dead formations. Magpie returned to our beach transfixed at having been privileged to witness the rebirth of nature at such close proximity, and we wondered aloud how this powerful, eternal cycle of destruction and restoration may have transformed the psyche of the indigenous Mayan civilization. The Mayans, who had a highly evolved culture of architecture and astronomy, also had great mathematical expertise, having discovered the concept of the number zero. They also had a written language, which implies literature. Tragically, the conquering Spanish destroyed all the written records of this great civilization. What marvels of philosophy and poetry, inspired by the terrestrial paradise they shared with the animals of both land and sea were lost to the drunken conquistadores and sociopathic agents of the Inquisition? Who has the insight to imagine what psychic imprint of wisdom is left on the souls of the surviving Mayans, secrets locked forever in the genetic chemistry? That is the role of the artist.

On our last full day of snorkeling in Cozumel, Magpie and I went to Playa Paraiso, just north of the cruise ship terminal, which we know from previous trips to be a real hotbed of sea life.

The cruise ship pier being under repair from the ravages of Wilma, the ships, huge, immaculate floating hotels with names like ?Pearl of the Caribbean,? were moored at sea right in front of us. At the side of each ship?s hull, near the waterline, was a solitary little door were the shuttle launches would pull up to disembark cruise passengers and bring them to shore for a day of sightseeing. You expect passengers of huge ships like these to disembark down a big gangplank at a dock, so seeing ferries pull up to this little side door was a bit incongruous.

Anyway, what interested Magpie and me was what was teeming beneath the surface, not what was going on above it. We adjusted our masks and snorkels and jumped in.

You're immediately transported to another planet. Floating above this world in the clear, warm water you soon forget that you're in water at all, and it is like flying through the air at the top of an atmosphere whose inhabitants are also flying few feet beneath you, as though you were flying in the air above the birds. That is part of what makes exploring sea life so fascinating, an extra vertical dimension that you don?t get on dry land.

One wonders what our culture would be today if the ancient inhabitants had had access to those mundane objects that we so take for granted today, the sealed diving mask. Of course, the engineering expertise it takes to fit a glass lens to a rubber mask that forms a vacuum around your eyes and nose has only been perfected in the last century. Prior to that, people could only gaze over the water's surface and speculate on what took place beneath. If previous civilizations, with their great sculptors and painters had had access to this simple instrument, the mask, might not our world today more reflect that which takes place over 90% of its surface? Would not our architecture reflect the inspiration of coral formations, our clothing and interiors mimic the shimmering, gaudy reflections of the deep? Would not the epic poetry of the ancient Greeks and Romans have recounted mythic adventures that took place beneath the ocean's surface, our religious deities portrayed as gods residing in magnificent undersea palaces? Unfortunately, now that we have the tools to study these heretofore forbidden regions, the masks, scuba tanks and undersea vessels, we have not the artistic inspiration or curiosity to bring them into our cultural realm.

Magpie and I found what we were looking for: what had once been a huge school of silver fish that resided in these waters. On previous visits, we had been astounded by the size of the school ? millions of fish, a carpet of them, stretching hundreds of meters. This immense megalopolis was an astonishing sight, and we wanted to see it again before returning to New York.

Unfortunately, this swim brought home to us a more graphic understanding of what damage Wilma had effected on the marine environment than had any of our previous excursions. The huge school of fish had been completely decimated. Where once existed millions upon millions of fish was now reduced to a small group of perhaps several thousands. All those millions of fish gone! It would take years for the school to return to its former size. People see the surface effects of the hurricane, Magpie had kept insisting, without giving any thought to the damage done to the marine life by the seismic churning of the sea.

The stupendous magnitude of the damage was incontrovertible, yet what was left of the school behaved eerily like nothing had gone amiss. What that school of fish does there, I couldn?t possibly imagine. It had been there for years that we knew of, and never broke ranks, even to hunt for food. Was it in the path of a current of microscopic algae and could just sit there as its food was brought to it? The shimmering reflection of the sunlight on the fish?s scales reminded me of what Magpie had told me about barracuda confusing my sparkling gold chain for a fish, and now I came to really conceptualize the logic of that.

What marvel of intelligence or communication causes fish to gather in the millions, to instantly separate and regroup as though by instantaneous thought transference, swimming back on themselves and forming a complex and intricate geometric ballet, forming kaleidoscopic patterns of visual enchantment?

Might it not be indicative of a collective wisdom formed by billions of years of evolution? Who says that fish are stupid? People have never given any thought to submarine intelligence except in dolphins who are, after all, mammals, and therefore more comprehensible to us, but who knows what thoughts or wisdom are locked in the mind of a fish.

People are generally conditioned to think of fish as dumb corpses packed on ice in a Chinatown stall, but I have had occasion to look into the eyes of many a live fish in his own natural environment and have discerned from those experiences a lively intelligence and curiosity. They have not hands to construct, or a spoken language, but who can imagine the thoughts, memories and emotions that might be trapped inside them, that might obsess them?

We came across a huge eagle ray, a monstrous spotted creature at least ten feet across, with a barbed tail at least twelve feet long. His face, impassive and pensive, was eerily humanoid. He stared as us for a moment without curiosity and then fluttered his batlike wings at us, as though to bid us adieu, before swimming out to sea.
--Dean Borok

Posted By Dean Borok on April 16, 2007, 3:19 PM

Exploring the Lost City of the Incas

As a self-proclaimed travel addict, I'm always looking to embark on the next crazy adventure. But with an irrational fear of commitment, a very short attention span, and
extremely limited free time, I can never research or plan anything in advance. That's why when I spontaneously signed up to hike the Inca Trail in Peru two weeks
beforehand, I wasn't sure what to expect. All I knew about the country was that it boasted the world's longest mountain range, and that a Uruguayan rugby team crashed
there in the '70s and had to eat each other for survival (as depicted in the film "Alive").

But whatever skewed expectations I may have had, they were far exceeded. As I watched our plane skim over the snowcapped Andes Mountains, I knew this trip would
be like nothing I've experienced before.

The countryside of Peru is absolutely astounding. The views are breathtaking literally.
At an altitude of up to 14,000 feet above sea level, we often found ourselves short of breath. To combat altitude sickness, we had to chew cocoa leaves and hash--
unfortunately, not as fun as it sounds! At such a high elevation, the weather can also get pretty cold any time of year, especially at night. Luckily, there are vendors selling fuzzy warm alpaca gear everywhere (and at a fraction of the prices you'd find in the States).

In order to acclimate to the altitude (read: party) we spent four nights in Cusco, the Southern Peruvian city that served as the capital of the Inca Empire five centuries ago.
For a place I had never heard of, Cusco had it all. Amidst ancient stone temples and natives tending llamas and sporting traditional Andean dress, we found a ton of trendy cool restaurants and an awesome nightlife scene that doesn't die down 'til 6 AM on any given night of the week.

But the real fun started when we hit the trail. It?s hard to imagine that four days of climbing mountains from dawn to dusk, in hot and cold weather, through sunshine and
rain, could be enjoyable, but it was both physically and emotionally rewarding. Of course, there were times I couldn't believe I was voluntarily putting myself through such agony, but (at the risk of sounding like a cheeseball) being in a completely novel territory and able to spend time with friends, uninterrupted by cell phones and television and other daily distractions, made for some real bonding. (Plus, there's nothing quite like laughing your ass off when your prissy friend falls into a muddy ditch at 4 in the morning.)

In fact, the Incas regarded the trail as a spiritual journey. They would usually walk it barefoot throughout the night for two days straight. And although my thoughts focused
more on the number of minutes left until lunch than the delicate balance in nature, being in such an ancient peaceful setting really offered me some new perspective.

As a Westerner (and as a New Yorker in particular) it?s strange to be in a place where no one hurries, where instead, people live in mountainside shacks, tend to their livestock, and sell Gatorade for a living. I felt lots of mixed emotions, but above all, I felt privileged to have had the opportunity to leave my chaotic life behind for a short while and experience such a different world.
And just when we were sure we would die of exhaustion in this third-world country and that no one back home would ever find us, we arrived to the fascinating Machu Picchu, one of the greatest marvels of South America, and the most visited tourist attraction in
Peru.

Because the Incas did not possess a written language, not much factual information is known about Machu Picchu. It is believed to have served as, among other things, a
university, a country retreat town for Inca nobility, and a preparation place for women who were about to be married. (According to our tour guide, there is also speculation that it was the site of sexual escapades between the Inca people--and that's right--
llamas). When the Spanish conquered Peru and the Inca Empire in the 1500?s, they never found Machu Picchu. It was discovered in 1911 by American professor Hiram Bingham (who is also notorious for robbing the place) and was designated a UNESCO World Heritage site in 1983.
We explored the ruins in awe for hours and absorbed all we could of the Pre-Columbian culture before finally heading home. What had started out as a haphazard last-minute trip ended up being a phenomenal experience and one of the best decisions I?ve ever made.
So grab some Powerbars (and personal hygiene products please) and hit the trail for an experience you-ll never forget.--Valerie Paolucci

Posted By Valerie Paolucci on April 16, 2007, 3:21 PM

We always wanted to go to a SPA but just couldn't afford it. Its always the high end ones you read about. Then we read about the great health resorts of Hungary. The one that caught our eye was the Thermal Hotel Margitsziget on Margaret Island right on the Danube, with Buda on the left and Pest on the right. Lets clear up one thing right now, Budapest is really two towns, Buda and Pest, did you know that? Well I didn't. But back to the SPA. The deal was called the Margitsziget Thermal SPA Special, 3 weeks for the price of 2 weeks. It sounded good all ready. Included in the package was roundtrip from New York, transportation to and from the airport and the hotel, 21 nights accommodations with half board (buffet breakfast, lunch or dinner) and 15 SPA treatments per week. Full use of the indoor and outdoor pools, the thermal pool, fitness center, sauna and steam room. The price to go in July was around $2700 per person. A deal, unbelievable. So we gave it a shot. The flight was on Air France, the pick up at the airport went smooth. Now the hotel - as we drove onto Margaret Island, you immediately noticed how well the grounds were taken care of the flower beds were in bloom and the colors were radiant. There is a water park on the island, a couple of other hotels, a church and a place where many of the locals and tourist come to enjoy a day in the park. The hotel I should say the hotels, there are two owned by Danubius are at one end of the island. Both are in great shape, with the Thermal Margitsziget being the newer one.They are only about 10 yards apart, and connected by a tunnel. The lobby area, which includes a desk area, a lobby bar and a small store was immaculate. The room included a refrig, plenty of closet room,bed, bathroom and a balcony. And a huge white bathrobe, which I found out, you spent a lot of time in, going from treatment to treatment. Clean, it was clean and really looked good especially after that long trip. Dinner that night was something we were looking forward to, with a total price tag of $2700 I didn't really expect much. But, much to my surprise, the buffet was overwelming there had to be at least 4/5 entrees, there were potatoes, veggies and a huge salad bar, dessert table, including ice cream . We found out later that the restaurant serves international, dietetic and Hungararian menus. I couldn't wait for breakfast, and we were not dissapointed. Another fantastic buffet. If you could not find something you liked at both the breakfast and dinner buffet, you got problems. The next morning we had an appointment with a Doctor. If you have something wrong, he will set you up with an treatment that may help, otherwise, nothing wrong, he list the treatments that you will be having throughout your 3 week stay. The next stop is the scheduler, everything was on a 20 minute appointment: massage, mud treatment, traction, individual physiotherapy and others. You don't like the treatment or the person who is doing it, you can change no problem. We spent a lot of time in the thermal pool and the regular pools. We asked that we receive no treatment on Wednesday and Saturday, those were our tour days. The bus stopped about 10 yards from the hotel. We bought a bus/train/tram/trolley pass and would go into Buda or Pest every chance we got. It was only about a 15 minute ride by bus into an area which had a big mall and access to all the othe transportation. Buda is the older part and Pest is the newer part. Both have lots to offer. It was an incredible trip and we will be going again in July 2007 for 3 weeks. You cannot beat the price, the facilities, the food and the SPA. The staff was excellent and we cannot wait to return.

Posted By John Rybczyk on April 16, 2007, 3:35 PM

See London First Class on a shoestring.

My wife and I have visited London for research at least twenty times and always go "first class." First, throughout the year, we buy everything with our AAdvantage card. This gives us the needed miles for an upgrade to Business class.

Second, we select a flat rental agent from "Europe Lets Go" for a studio or one bedroom apartment (flat in the UK). This costs about half the price of a nice hotel room plus we shop for food and prepare our own meals. Consequently, we save on both rooms and food.

Third, we buy week-long passes from London Transport which allows us to go anywhere in the city for seven days.

DO NOT EVEN THINK OF RENTING AN AUTO. AVERAGE BRITS DO NOT DRIVE IN LONDON.

If you want to take a trip out of the city, go by train or bus. The UK has a wonderful mass transit system that will take you to any part of the country.

Fourth, buy tickets to first run plays at the half-price window in Lecester Square on the day of the performance. We have seen all the best plays for half price.

Fifth, do not carry cash or travelers checks that must be traded at high exchange rates for British pounds. Leave your money in your checking account at home and sign up for a pin number. At thousands of London ATMs, you can get as much money as you will need for 2-3 days at bank exchange rate. Do not check out money each day because the fee is costly; do not take out enough for a week because pick-pockets are everywhere.

Sixth, buy all souvenirs at shops or pushcarts on main streets instead of waiting until you are at the airport to return home.

Finally, prepare sandwiches in your kitchen before leaving your flat for home. Airport food and souvenir vendors, know they have a captive audience so prices are extremely high.

Posted By Dr. E. R. Milner on April 16, 2007, 4:00 PM

Six months in South America; this blog is dated
March 29, 2007 and posted by Tash

Our past week in Argentina has been a flurry of activity and an immense kick off from our flip flop days of Brazil. Our longer than expected week in Ushuaia, aka. the End of the World brought us in contact with Sea lions, birds and penguins, oh my! We spent a luxurious afternoon on a cruise through the picturesque Beagle Canal, where we sipped wine and took in the plethora of wildlife native to this chilly area. As an extremely tourist town we were pleasantly surprised to be on a huge catamaran with a glassed in double decker cabin, a far cry from the dilapidated fishing boats of our rustic Brazilian cruises of the past. Delightful!

Being in the Patagonia of Argentina we headed off to check out the National Park, Terra del Fuego the following day. In true form we rolled out of bed at 10, scarffed our free breakfast and managed to make it to the park around noon. The 7 km trail we opted for stretched the coast line of the canal, very Disney-esque with bunnies hopping down the trail. It was hard not to break out my Snow White dress and wander singing through the trees. That was until the following day on our trek up to the ice caves when I had an intense Julie Andrews moment at the peak of the Andean mountains, and couldn't resist singing "The Hills are alive with the Sound of Music". The ice cave was located at the base of a glacial shelf and surrounded by these amazing rock faces that were intense reds, oranges and yellows. We rounded the peak to see the ice shelf and a small intensely aqua coloured lake at the base. Inside the ice glowed teal blue from the sunlight, it was totally surreal to stand under this thick layer of ancient frozen time and to look up and see rows off bubbles and debris.

From the ice caves we booked it to the airport to catch a flight north to the town of El Calafate, Argentina. What brought us here as does everyone else was the Perito Moreno Glacier in the National Park. We booked into a day tour leaving at 8am that day which to our surprise included an informational guide and local tour of the wildlife of Calafate. By 9:30am we were all crowded around road kill with our cameras out as it was devoured by the native gigantic condors. The glacier was amazing, we hiked it, boated it and pictured it to death, even caught a couple chunks fall off into the lake.

A couple hours North of Calafate is the small town of El Chalten, our next pit stop and kick off point for our first trek. We camped two nights amongst the soaring peaks of the Andean Mountain range and opted for a loop trek through the park. In keeping with our early mornings we managed to drag our butts out of bed to catch the sunrise over the infamous Fitz Roy peak. Very picturesque. An hour later and an additional 600m upwards we were at the base of the peak. It's hard to take in the diversity of the Patagonia as you walk through sandy valleys one moment and rich forests the next all along surrounded by soaring mountains carved with glaciers. It was amazing and a great sample of our impending 5 day trek in Chile...

All in all I have to say that in addition to being a wildly beautiful area of South America, I can honestly say that I have also put to good use my quality educational knowledge to date. I've traveled the renaissance European explorer route of Magellan whom I had written my grade 5 history report on. Experienced the geographic phenomenon of Glaciers as studied in GEO 325 at McGill. Wandered the anthropology room of the ethnic communities of Ushuaia and finally we are able to put to good use all those hours of quality Spanish class. Es Bueno, no?!

Posted By Natasha Popek-Koniesczko on April 16, 2007, 4:32 PM

Saturday
Venice, Italy
January 6, 2007
Venice is such a foreign place. Unlike Tuscany or other regions and cities of Europe that have the familiar sights and sounds that connect me to home, everything about Venice, from the moment you come out of the train station and see an impressive church across a shimmering canal, is other-worldly. It even defies the rest of Italy, sometimes using words like calle instead of via for street, campo instead of piazza and ca rather than palazzo. It's also all pedestrian, all the time. The stepped bridges even make biking an impossibility. There is a unique push cart with two sets of two front wheels for moving goods from boat to shop. The vendor rolls the cart to the step positioning the top set of wheels on the first step. Then by rocking forwards and backwards, is able to alternate sets of wheels in such a way to actually roll the heavy-laden cart up and down stairs.

Our schedule (from the time that we left the house in Padua, to the choice of train to Venice, to the speed of the slowest Vaporetto up the Grand Canal, to our decision to see piazza San Marco -- which we usually avoid -- this time) had us colliding head on with the beginning of a solemn reenactment of the adoration of the three kings coming slowly across the little bridge leading into the grand square and into the Basilica for a Day of Epiphany (also Kings' Day) church service. A banner carrier in 18th century frilly collar, gold vest and long baby blue coat ceremoniously led two slowly beating drummers. About 30 royal Venetians in medieval dress preceded a regal Turkish envoy of about 30 replete with oversized multi-colored turbans, veiled princesses and umbrella carriers. The detailed costumes -- and Venetians know costumes -- included men in red and orange tights and brightly colored pointy slippers, courtly ladies in long dresses and jackets, and groups of young girls in bright dresses, vests, and white lace. All faces were immaculately made up. Then came the Eastern royalty. Three Turkish gift-bearing kings in long velvet robes and pouffy turbans were accompanied by armed guards and attendants of all imaginable sorts. Each was followed by his veiled Arab queen and her entourage, some were keeping a Persian carpet between queen and sun using four long poles. The procession passed under the huge portal facing piazza San Marco and disappeared into the basilica.

Whew! They were walking slowly, but it all seemed to be over so fast. As Anne said, we're usually in the back row craning our necks to see a parade but today, they could have stepped on our toes! And there was no pressing crowd. None of the Venice event websites mentioned this and there were no posters in town promoting it. Anne asked a police woman what was going on and she didn't know. You just had to be there at the right time. How we appreciate these serendipitous moments!

We had heard about, and came to see, the Witch Regatta on the Grand Canal. In addition to being Kings Day, it's also Befana (witch) Day when witches riding old brooms bring gifts and candy (or coal) to children while they sleep. To celebrate, ugly Venetian men dress as hags and race one-man, one-oar boats from the Academia bridge to the finish line at the Rialto bridge where a large old sock was hangs from the balustrade. We'd seen several befanas warming up their rowing muscles in the canal on our vaporetto ride to San Marco from the train station. Squeezed on to a little stone landing beside the packed Rialto Bridge, a campy musical combo with a real good tenor entertained the huge crowd while an emcee on a loudspeaker announced the beginning of the 29th annual Regatta of Befana and called the boat race in the horserace style. The first three finishers were awarded ribbons, then the crowd dispersed in search of lunch.

By 11:30 AM we'd seen much more than we came to Venice for. We could have gone home happy already! One important thing is that this time of year, with fewer tourists, you can see real Venetians doing the things they like to do. In the summer, they must lay low and wait until most of the strangers leave, but in the winter, they come out to play.
A development since we were here last are big black and white signs painted on the corners of buildings marking not only the street or campo name but the sestiere (area). We still get lost -- it's a given in Venice -- because when wandering we stop paying attention to the map, and not all the little lanes and vicolos are on the map. Also the ubiquitous directional signs showing which way to the Rialto Bridge or the piazza San Marco, or the stazione still point opposite directions at many intersections.
We took the recommendation of Marcella Hazan in City Secrets and ate at La Colonna in a quiet off the tourist-beaten path near the Fondamenta Nuova on Calle de Fumo. From noon to 12:30, we're the only ones here so we get the waiter's full attention.

At last, seafood! We enjoy the insalata di mare, cigale di mare (sea crickets!) and a real good whole grilled orata.
It's a perfect day for a long after lunch to wander-- sunny and crisp. Anne saw a poster announcing a free 4:00 choral concert at I Frari or officially, Santa Maria Gloriosa dei Frari. Remembering last night in Padua, we got there plenty early and got good seats. The Titian Assumption (of Mary) is the centerpiece and grabs your attention from the front door 320 feet away. The Bellinis and Donatello's John the Baptist are harder to find but just as impressive. A young peoples' choir from Vicenza enters singing, carrying luminarias. They sang an assortment of familiar Christmas songs in Italian, English, and German. The church is very cold; both the audience and the performers are in their warmest winter coats, scarves, and hats, but the youngsters polished voices warmed us all and everybody really loved it.

We decided to stay in Venice for dinner but so many of the recommended places are closed for a couple of weeks so we settled for a tourist trattoria not far from the train station, and were pleasantly surprised! More seafood: huge grilled shrimp and Anne had a white polenta (we call this grits in Georgia) with her fritto misto.

Reluctantly, we took the half hour train ride home and thought: This is so convenient to Padua, we'll have to return one night this week for dinner!

Posted By Anne Woodyard on April 16, 2007, 4:51 PM

What do you get when you cross the morning after a great night out, a hot and humid desert, and a bowling alley? My worst hang over ever!

The Way Outback tour came highly recommended to us by a couple of friends that had been on it just recently. We decided that during our 6 months studying abroad in Sydney we too should visit Alice Springs and Uluru National Park in the center of Australia. We chose the five day tour over the three day because we heard it was better and we had the time.

It was a little awkward the first day as we all piled into the back of a very serious looking safari type truck. We sat four people very close together on each side of the enclosed truck facing each other. Our guide drove and our guide-in-training rode shotgun. This was not a luxury tour, this was a camping tour that filled your day from before sun up to just after sun down with hiking and riding in the back of a very bumpy, hot vehicle. It was the best tour we did in Australia and very possibly ever! All ten of us got along famously, we were fast friends. Sleeping out under the stars every night was actually quite comfortable, but anything would have been after hiking in near 100 degree F weather. Water was our friend!

After such a fabulous five day tour we all came back to Alice Springs on the last day at around 3 or 4 P.M. None of us wanted to say good-bye so we made plans for all ten of us to meet for dinner. Alice Springs is a very small town so there wasn't a big selection of restaurants to choose from. However, even if there had been we would have still gone to Bo Jangles. This restaurant is crazy! If you are in A.S. you know it right away with its swinging saloon doors, peanut shell floor, crazy, eclectic decoration and resident snakes. The food is quite good and gives you the option to try Kangaroo (which we ate a lot of living in Oz), Camel, Emu, Crocodile and one more that is escaping my memory. And of course the drinks aren�t too bad either.

The next few hours we will skip by. I�ll only tell you that they involved good food, good drinks, good friends, a strip tease to the music of Madonna, two other clubs and a go go dancing cage--good times!

The hostel we were staying at cuts off the air conditioning at 9 A.M. to save energy and money. At 9:16 A.M. the morning after the night that began at Bo Jangels we were in pain and sweating like pigs. We attempted a cold shower but the moment I stepped out of the bathroom the heat surrounded me and the thumping in my head made me sweat all over again. We needed liquids and some kind of food. Our hostel was a few blocks outside of the tiny town center. In this heat and in our condition we weren't going to make five steps let alone 5 blocks. The only place closer than the five plus block walk that had any food besides snacks was a bowling alley. Yes, the ideal place for a hangover (sense the sarcasm) and it was filled with a dozen kids on a field trip. At least it had air conditioning. My husband (then boyfriend) and I spent most of the time in our respective bath rooms enjoying the cool air and attempting to escape the noise.

Over all, it was a fantastic and memorable trip. Note to all: don't drink so much when in hot weather.

Posted By Jodie Y. on April 16, 2007, 6:10 PM

Dear First Time Vietnam Traveler,

The first thing you have to realize is that nothing is what it seems.

No one has sex outside of marriage here apparently. Yet the teenage abortion rate is horrifically high. Everyone seemingly has a mobile phone and a motorbike but the average wage is a dollar a day.

Befriend a local and they will spend their last few cents on a meal for you. They will refuse to take anything towards the cost (and you probably shouldn't offer) and they will be genuinely honored to eat with you. You can make a friend for life in seconds. At the same time, if someone collapses in the street, people will walk by. Or worse, stop to stare but do nothing.

As a foreigner the police will leave you alone. They know you bring money into this country. But that works both ways too. They may not help you when you need them either.

Everywhere is manic with activity yet strangely serene. Eventually your ears will filter out the noise and you�ll fall in step with the traffic. You�ll wonder why it seemed so scary when you first arrived.

I understand that when you think of Vietnam the chances are your first thought is of the American War (that's what it's called in these parts -- and what else would they call it, if you think about it for a second). By all means go to the museums, the tunnels and the rest if that is your thing. But Vietnam is much much more than that.

Seventy percent of the population were born after the war. And the American war was a blip in amongst centuries of other wars. In my experience Vietnamese tend to look forward rather than back: understand the horrors of that war. Put it in context and move on. Vietnam has.

Don't get too tied down with that communism thing. Vietnam is communist in name only. In terms of the likes of education and health care the capitalist country you left is likely to provide more for its people. As for freedom, well don't expect criticism of the government in the newspapers, but you don't suffer a nanny state here either.

And yes.. the opening up to commerce has helped Vietnam prosper. But don't forget this is on the back of a rare 30 years of peace. I would guess that this is the most significant factor in the upswing.

Don't worry about your personal safety. Or at least don't panic about it. Vietnam is probably the safest place you will visit. But don't be stupid. Hanoi isn't too bad but by all account bag snatching is on the rise in Saigon. Just keep things close to you. Honestly money belts are not needed. Stick you wallet in your pocket, like you do at home.

People will rip you off sometimes. They need the money. But that doesn�t mean that people will ALWAYS rip you off. Sometimes the price they say is THE price. There is no need for haggling. Other times you can haggle and haggle to get a couple of cents knocked off. Why bother?

Find out what things cost. Don�t accept the rip off price but accept the reasonable price. And while we�re at it, westerners don�t always pay more than locals (transport aside). That�s a myth.

And yes people are poor here. Ignore the TV shops, the motorbikes, the cars etc. It�s for a (growing) select few. Most people still live in a one room home and sleep on the floor. Remember that.

Learn a couple of words of Vietnamese. Hello and thank-you will do it. It'll make people smile at the very least. Smiling is important here. Smile when you�re haggling, smile when you're arguing, smile when you�re asking for your money back. People will appreciate it and actually it's a nicer way to live. If you�re being over charged make an "oh my god" face, but do it half smiling. They'll realize they've been sussed but they�ll smile back in an "I've been caught?" way and most likely offer you the real price.

Relax...they can smell nervous tourists and it's like a red rag to a bull. At least pretend you know what you're doing without being arrogant.

Learn to enjoy it even when things go wrong. They will go wrong. Vietnam is slapstick and bizarre and that is why so many of us love it. Vietnamese people know their country is bizarre. Get stuck in a traffic jam in a taxi and the driver will turn to you laughing, shrug and say: "Vietnam." As if that is the reason for the madness.

Remember, each cock-up is another experience and another good traveler's tale. Learn to laugh at the problems and live with it.

Oh and they will call you fat. They will ask how much you weigh, how old you are, how much you earn, how much your camera cost. Compared to them you probably are fat -- and answer the questions truthfully -- who cares?

As Michael Caine says in The Quiet American: "They say, whatever you are looking for, you can find here."

It's true. On every level from beautiful beaches to amazing cities. From boiled dog to bangers and mash. From street food to the Sheraton. How much you submerge yourself in Vietnam is up to you. Eat at street stalls if you enjoy the experience but you don't have to. Don't feel guilty if you only eat in top restaurants. Your dollars will still pay for a wage here. Likewise don't think you understand Vietnam and its people just because you've sat on plastic stools and eaten noodle soup.

And there is a seedy underside, and there are drugs, and there is corruption and prostitution. But where doesn't have these?

There is no where else like Vietnam. People who have been here longer than me, have told me that only five years ago it was all bicycles on the road. Now it's mostly motorbikes but more and more cars are starting to appear. Vietnam is changing. And although I wish I had seen it then, now is also fascinating. The change is here but McDonalds and Starbucks haven't arrived yet. Nothing is ruined. Not yet.

You should realize that people either love or hate Vietnam. It is that type of place. But if you at least try to love it then it is more likely to work for you. Come here already smiling and with an open mind and it will be ok. Start to lose your temper over the traffic, the service, the roads or the food and it will only get worse. Nothing works here if you stop smiling.

My final piece of advice is: play the idiot.

Play the big western lump. Catch their eye when they're laughing at you (you are funny) and laugh with them. Pull a face at the kids.

Leave your ego and impatience behind and it'll work out just fine.

Posted By ourman on April 16, 2007, 7:23 PM

A friend and I were spending only one day in Casablanca, a stop on a trans-Atlantic cruise two years ago. We had been cautioned not to walk in the old town, unaccompanied by cruise personnel, since we would be endangered by pick-pockets. (This seemed to be a customary warning everywhere we stopped, as only in American cities is one safe from such violations. HA!) And, even worse, we had to remember we were in an Islamic country and may be endangered simply by being Americans. Yes, I realized we were not particularly popular at this stage in our history, but felt quite comfortable entering the maze of bazaars that seemed to be the essence of this beautiful white city. So, though my friend was not nearly as confident as I, we approached the old city.

As we neared, a young Moroccan fellow offered to be our guide. This seemed like a wonderful idea to me, but my friend, who had taken the "being American" warning to heart, said, when asked where she was from, "Canada." I looked at her with astonishment. Then, almost instantly, I sensed his next question. "Oh, where in Canada?" Without a pause, she responded, "Quebec." "Merde," I thought, my eyes rolling, desperately wanting to be back on the ship. I knew she spoke not a word of French and that he, more than likely DID -- and fluently. Naturally, he began questioning her in French. She was completely "at sea," and not on a cruise ship, and I was red-faced with embarrassment. "Ou est la toilette?" I asked, knowing that we would probably be directed to a nearby hotel to make our escape. My ruse worked. We -- maybe -- saved face, but at what sad expense?

Posted By Macy Creek on April 16, 2007, 8:02 PM

White, Black, Red

white:

i've watched it all tumble over; this stretch from lake vic to lake al known as the white nile. and i know why. at murchison falls the entire river rolls snake eyes and takes a hard dive, hitting the floor like a drunk fresh off the tilt-a-whirl. so much water, so much force, so much falls. at the base, the crocodiles wait patiently for whatever flows past. they're big, the crocs. we see one with it's mouth agape that must be four meters.

it's later, in jinja, that i take my hard dive. in a raft over level five rapids, one level below "deadly." they call them bujagali falls and they give me a permanent souvenir. a scar, below my chin, from where the oar connected with my face and split my skin.

jane, our guide, asks me if i want stitches. this is the last chance to get out of the boat before the end of the day and we hit the next six sets of rapids, many of them also level five.

there's no mirror. maybe it's bad? jane shrugs. the big german looks grimly at my face, the blood. i feel woozy. i tell her to tape me up and put me back in. what the hell. chicks dig scars.

the raft only flips twice.

black:

the sedan car is not made for these roads. our driver does not mind, or slow down. he floors it down rocky dirt tracks as the stones beat a loud percussion against our undercarriage. it is hard to stop wincing, especially when he splits the break line, tapes it up with hair ribbon, and decides not to slow down.

i yell out to stop just past the entrance and he slaloms to a halt fifty feet later, begrudgingly backing up to drop us off. as if if he drove fast enough we'd forget we paid him to take us here into the forest. and let us walk a while.

we get a guide, an older guy with a quick pace, and he leads us down an overgrown path telling us we probably won't be lucky, probably won't see anything. but we are. he stops and listens and we hear it, a screamed "hah hah hah" that he describes as "chimpanzee's making telephone calls."

we struggle through the jungle until we find them, a family of about twenty chimps in the trees, on the ground, staring back at us from big black eyes in big black faces. they're bigger than i expected, stronger. they walk up trees using their hands and feet. they perch in forked branches and eye us warily. they are, we're told, dangerous. they are, i see, our closest relations. practically human. black furred, opposable toed, staring back at me practically human.

red:

it's after seeing the largest falls at sipi and on our way to the second set that dennis tells us about it. dennis is local, an orphan, and twenty-three. he karate-chops banana palms as he passes and runs up the steep rocky hills to show he can.

when he was twenty, in front of his community, he was circumcised. it was a public ceremony. to prove his manliness, he could not cry out, tear up, move, swallow hard or show that he felt anything at all as they cut away his foreskin. it hurt like hell, but he didn't flinch. when it was over and he was wrapped in the ceremonial robes, he drank an entire case of soda.

after the hike, he takes us to the local (and only) hangout in sipi. it's a dingy room with dusty couches, a "panasonaeoic" television, and old promotional posters hung crookedly on the walls. it is there that we begin discussing AIDS. a surprisingly erudite farmer says he heard the disease was created as bio warfare by the americans and got out of hand. we say we've heard that rumour too, but don't believe it. another man says he's heard that syphilis can turn into AIDS and that condoms give you cancer. i let my wife, the scientist, dispel these myths. we sit around, watch local music videos and eat matoke -- mashed, fried green banana paste. we feel oddly at home.

and now we're in nairobi and tonight we'll be in addis ababa, where email will be difficult to say the least. we're not sure what we're in for. we only found a guidebook to ethiopia from this decade yesterday. we're reading it quick.

Posted By Zack Kushner on April 16, 2007, 9:01 PM

Walking Through Fea
My husband died in February of 2005. We had been married for 47 years and even though I was an independent soul, you don't live with someone that long without feeling lost and fearful that maybe it was all too much to handle. I was faced with tasks that seemed daunting at a time when I was most vulnerable. Not big things, really, but all the quotidian details he had always handled: balancing the checkbook, filling out the tax forms, making sure the water softener was full and replacing the furnace. At times like these, you either go forward or stop in your tracks. I went forward, albeit with some misgivings, anxiety and trepidation.
Later in the year, when my middle daughter, Connie, expressed her yearning to see London and Paris, I thought, why not? I'd come this far, I guess I could jump into another challenge. So, in October of 2005, we journeyed to Europe for eight whirlwind days in London and Paris. We had only eight days available because of her work and home responsibilities. I found a trip that covered the places we wanted to visit, including a trip on the Eurostar, which would whisk us under the English Channel from London to Paris.
My previous trip abroad was to Italy in 2001, and I was in Florence when 9/11 burst on our lives. I got home safely and on schedule, but for a few years the thought of foreign travel was less appealing to me. Fears abounded about terrorists and security issues, not to mention the widespread dislike of Americans. All that kept me from planning another trip.
In a way, because that fear had subsided, this trip became another journey -- through other fears.
Connie had experienced some bad flights with turbulence and it left her with great anxiety about flying. But she wanted so much to see our target cities that she courageously refused to give in.
After we landed in Gatwick, her natural gregariousness and practicality took us unerringly around London on foot, on the Underground and occasionally by cab. She even convinced me to go on the London Eye, which was, we were told, an experience we must not miss.
The Eye is a giant ferris-wheel-like contraption erected by British Airways to celebrate the Millennium. In large glassed-in cylinders, it takes passengers high, high above London for a 360 degree view. Not for me, I said, because I am paralyzed by heights. You go -- I'll watch. How I ever let her talk me into boarding this invention I'll never know. I just remember hurrying toward the structure by Westminster Bridge as she pulled me through security and into one of the open, glassed in capsules. If Connie could face her fear of flying, I thought, I can do this! I went through with it, which is the important part. The Eye moves almost imperceptibly upward, slowly rising high above London as it makes its circular course. I glanced down once and almost panicked -- we were out there in space with only a narrow strip of wood and a bench in the middle of the capsule. That, I claimed as my own. I thought I'd never get off that apparatus, but of course, before I knew it we had reached the summit and were on our way down.
"It's almost over, Mom," Connie said, "they're taking pictures of the descent! Do you want one of us?" It was the most rhetorical question I'd ever heard in my life. We disembarked and I was still alive and breathing and thankful for the earth under my feet. As my niece said later, "you faced your fear and walked right through it."

Posted By Maria Murad on April 16, 2007, 9:57 PM

So I'm in Switzerland now with your STORY OF THEY DAY! This is pretty classic, one thing I will never ever forget on my travels. I went walking along the lake today just checking it out and enjoying the first day of nice weather ive seen for a few days when I hear a bike riding slowly next to me. I step to the side thinking maybe they need more space. So I see its a man and he says something to me in French and gets off his bike. I say I don't speak french and he proceeds to speak to me in english. Nice guy for the most part but I have no clue why he stopped to talk to me. He said he knew I was a tourist and loves to talk to people and see where they are from. Ok fair enough, im from Chicago and I work in hospitality. No my city doesnt have a lot of crime, no all chefs arent fat, yes im 23 and not 15 on and on and on. So I ask him which direction old town is in to try and sort of move on and he says he will show me, that he has no plans for the afternoon. Ahem. So I was like alright fine. So we walk over there and he leads me to a church, I go in and when I come out he has locked up his bike and is sitting on a bench waving me over. For a brief moment I thought he was gone but alas, he had saved a bench for us. So I sit and he is telling me that he is taking a year off from work and that he is happy inside and we should always be happy and we all work too hard yada yada. I keep nodding and nodding. He then tells me that women keep him happy and that he loves women. I nod once again. He then tells me that its like the hunter and the prey, its just the "natural game of life" he says. So I ask what his wife thinks about that since he had a ring on and he says she knows, and that he wouldnt ever "really" cheat on her. Silence. Then he says im beautiful, and he says "look at you, im eating up your beauty like a sandwich." LIKE A SANDWICH FOLKS! I nod and smile and say thanks and he nods back and then pokes my love handle and says "well maybe you are a chef" and I sort of retort and say, you just poked my side while I was slouching and did you just call me fat? He says "no no, im sorry I shouldnt have done that." to which I reply "I know you shouldnt have done that, please dont touch me." He says ok and keeps rambling on about this and that. Finally im like "ok you know, I want to see the Russian church please point me in that direction and ill go ok?" He says he will take me, and I say you can take me but then im leaving. He does, says his name is Anthony and that im beautiful and leaves on his bike. Seriously, what is wrong with men sometimes and where do they get lines like that?

Posted By Kelly on April 16, 2007, 11:47 PM

Hey BT folks, this contest is a nice idea and all, but this sentence really turned me off from participating:

>>And once you send it in to us, it becomes our property--intellectual and otherwise.

Sorry, I write for a living and find this a wee bit piggish.

I enjoyed many of the entries and hope the winner enjoys their stint as a guest blogger.

Posted By Sheila at Family Travel on April 17, 2007, 10:49 AM

The trail was so steep that I could not touch my heels to the ground without falling backwards down the mountain. Loose dirt covered some sections. I had to focus on each step as my legs fatigued, my breathing accelerated, sweat leaked from my forehead and soaked my shirt. I was elated.

I followed my guide Tophil, a sub-20-year-old local I had just met while walking through southwestern Uganda. He was soft spoken and desperate, but too proud and strong to be a beggar. Occasionally as I walked behind him I caught a breath of a strange and perilous odor, like bubble gum but sweeter, and turned like milk turns. I kept a friendly distance and tried to lead the way up his mountain.

My friend Tom once told me about a conversation with an old boss of ours, a silly wise Jewish woman. After listening to him tell about his journeys and aspirations she looked at him with obvious sentimentality and said, "You've got the wanderlust kid." This weekend I had the wanderlust.

Just the day before I had shown up at the bus park in Kampala, Uganda's capital city, not knowing which direction I wanted to go. Could be east or west to find mountains according to a guidebook I had just skimmed in a local bookstore. I chose west on a whim and settled in for the "six" (read: eight) hour ride to Kabale, which some call the Switzerland of Uganda.

Kabale is nestled in the folded landscape just north of Uganda's border with Rwanda. Its local wonder is Lake Bunyoni, undisputedly the most beautiful lake in Uganda, which is host to a number of lodges catering to travelers of all types and budgets. There is canoeing, kayaking, hiking, and plenty of relaxing.

The bus traveled faster than was wise. The tires screamed at the road and pedestrians stared in disbelief, their heads making quick pivots to watch us pass. The equator was a short blur as I found my way, for the first time, into the southern hemisphere.

Then we stopped in the middle of nowhere. Just stopped by the side of the road and waited. Everyone else seemed to know what was going on, or not to care a bit. I asked the man who sat placidly next to me what was happening. "I don't know," he stated in a tone that held neither anxiety or curiosity.

Soon the bus completed a long three point turn, headed a hundred yards back up the road and turned onto a dirt path that was just wide enough to hold us, though not without our windows stripping leaves from the roadside trees. We went far too fast on this road as well, the dust from the white soil thrown in chalky jetwash behind us. The villagers whose homes we roared past pointed and laughed and gawked as if a bus had never passed this way. Suddenly we were stopped again.

Some words passed through the driver's window and a local man gestured behind us. When the bus was jammed back into gear the rear tires spun. We were stuck. The entire bus offloaded and the men took their place behind the mechanical beast. We pushed like Samson might have and slowly the back right tire emerged from its shallow sandy grave and the bus shot forward. Now it would have to turn around, for the road to Kabale was a narrower track branching behind us.

The driver pulled forward and positioned the bus for an impossible maneuver. He gunned the monster and it lurched, backwards, onto the soft side of the mountain. It looked like it might work, but then it was stuck again. The men once again shouldered the bus's steel frame and liberated her. The driver quickly reversed his maneuver back onto the road and sped off down the path to find a place to turn, leaving us passengers standing in the silence of rural Uganda.

I looked down the side of the mountain, down a terraced valley that swelled to round mountains on the horizon. The sun was setting through brushstrokes of cloud. I sat on the grassy roadside and smelled the air and watched a local woman watch me sit. We smiled.

The bus roared back and recoiled to a halt. We regained our seats and were moving. Windows had to be closed because branches were now slapping and gripping at the inside of the bus. Finally we found the main road again, seemingly only a mile from where we left it. The sky was almost dark so the curves were surprise forces pushing me against the window, then the man next to me, then the window

We stopped in Kabale without an announcement and I barely made it off the bus before it roared off to its next destination. I walked to a little hostel that I had called that morning from the buspark - the Home of Edirisa. It's a wonderful little traveler's nook that is connected to a development program called the Heart of Edirisa. "Edirisa," in the local language, means window, and this little organization provides a beautiful view. The compound is quiet and comfortable. A lofted sitting area called the Nest is a wonderful place to read, chat, or take a quick afternoon nap, and they will serve you homemade pizza there as well. I slept in a dorm room for just over $2 per night, and the private rooms are very reasonable as well.

The next day I began walking, following the wanderlust, down the road to Lake Bunyoni, but I didn't intend to get there. It was Easter morning and I greeted the locals as they made their ways to different churches, the women a prism of colors in their traditional formal wear. That's when I met Tophil, who offered to lead me up the mountainside to his village. I gladly accepted and promised him the equivalent of $3 for his trouble.

When we finally reached the top a patchwork of terraced mountains rolled across the earth, gently nuzzling the clouds. My heart inhaled. My mind stopped and looked out the window. I wanted to sleep wrapped in that soil and sprint along the ridge. I followed Tophil as he pointed out various crops, his elementary school, his church, his home. He taught me how to greet old women passing in their most formal dresses for Easter. They smiled with a girl's glee and what remained of their teeth.

We passed through the village, greetings and smiles surrounding us like the terraced hillsides and friendly clouds. Soon we reached a dirt road and followed it around the side of the mountain until we could see the lake. It's true, it must be: this is the most beautiful lake in Uganda.

Posted By James Pearson on April 17, 2007, 11:17 AM

For the first time in the 2.5 years we've lived in Durham, NC, we finally made the easy two hour drive down I-40 to Wilmington on Easter weekend. During our two day stay we saw everything on our list including the New Hanover County Arboretum, Airlie Gardens, the historic riverfront, and Wrightsville Beach.

The arboretum offices were closed for the weekend, so we snuck pup in and made sure she didn't eat any of the flowering plants. Sculptures in the lake along with the multiple daffodils in bloom made for a tranquil setting--until the large dog that lives in the yard adjacent to the arboretum caught site of Riesling! Numerous japanese maples gleefully reminded us how lucky we were to have procured our own two years ago for the handsome sum of $12.

Our next stop was Airlie Gardens, which has only been regularly open to the public for about 9 years. After a leisurely stroll around the 67-acre garden, we all concluded that the $5 donation was well worth the cost--especially in the spring. Hundreds of tulips were in bloom and the whole grounds was encircled in bright pink azalea bushes. There were many attractive vistas to stop and take in the lake and planted gardens.

Pup had to stay in the car this time around, but due to the cold front, she was probably the warmest of all of us! It was clear that the azaleas and tulips were peaking during our visit but, unfortunately for others, the annual azalea festival was still a week away.

At this point we headed downtown to check-in to the Blue Heaven Bed and Breakfast. The owner, Jay, was very nice, helpful, and chatty. He had a giant stash of menus from many of the downtown restaurants and confirmed that the few places we had researched were good choices. Our review with details about the three good restaurants we tried can be found in an earlier post.

Historic downtown Wilmington is charming, clean, and full of second-hand shops and restaurants with catchy names. And although Wilmington reminds me of other semi-coastal towns, Savannah and Charleston in particular, it manages to maintain a sense of uniqueness all it's own.

On my brisk Saturday morning walk with pup, the only others out and about were dog owners with their pets and we received many smiles and a few good mornings. After a filling home-cooked breakfast (and three (!) coffees for me), we packed up and headed out.

On the way to Wrightsville Beach, we took a detour drive around Greenfield Lake. Although it was too chilly for the three mile walk, Eric managed to get a few shots of the peaceful scene while shivering joggers shuffled by.

The forty-degree weather didn't deter us from walking on the beach, however, and in fact, my sandled (soon to be barefoot) feet were warmer in the sand!

As usual, Riesling adjusted perfectly fine to the sand and continued her quest to be the first of us to get wherever it was we were going.

The next time we visit, we will definitely stay close to the riverfront area. It was an easy 5-10 minute walk from our B&B past historic homes with tended gardens to Front Street and lots of restaurants.

We picked a good place to stay and tasty restaurants for this visit, but there are still other things to see--when the weather gets warmer of course! Next time, we will travel further south to visit Carolina Beach State Park and try some restaurants we missed the first time.

Originally posted on April 17, 2007... please visit our blog for links and accompanying photos.

Posted By leandra on April 17, 2007, 12:56 PM

I used to think that the best way to visit any city was to approach your stay like a relocation. That by trying to make yourself at home, you would open yourself to a wider range of experiences than the typical hotels-and-hotspots tour.

But a contrary strategy works just as well. If you want to rediscover the place you call home, treat it like a tourist destination.

After two years in Shanghai, our family of four is packing again, this time for Vermont. With the weeks counting down until our summer departure, we've begun asking ourselves what we haven't seen or tasted yet. And what we want to do one more time, before the inevitable downturn in our personal boom-and-bust economy.

Here are two of the definitive responses, one at each end of the cultural and culinary spectrum. Strangely enough, you have to carry your own plates at both of them.

First, the splurge. Thanks to a convergence of business travelers and pleasure seekers, many of Shanghai's five-star properties offer extravagant Sunday brunches. Three hours of more-or-less wholesome dissipation at the Westin Bund Center can include caviar, foie gras, lobster, and a river of champagne (Piper Heidseck, if you're so inclined). There are serving stations on two floors surrounding a grandiose atrium, a genuinely diverting stage show, and, as you meander between the mushroom risotto and the roast duck, you'll overhear conversations in German, Italian, and Finnish, among others. A pleasantly hallucinatory experience for about $70 per adult, half that for children; reservations essential.

You'll leave satisfied, but not necessarily fulfilled, because fulfillment requires awareness. Brunch at the Westin is a transitory cocoon. Fine and silken, but also soporific.

On another Sunday, we'll wake and breakfast at home. A debate will begin over the relative merits of Shanghai's two principal varieties of soup dumplings. The English name is misleading. These delicacies are not served in soup; rather, they contain soup: a little burst of hot and fragrant broth, along with a mouthful of ground pork or minced crab, encased in a wheat-flour wrapper.

Maybe we'll make the short drive to Nanxiang Town, original home of the steamed xiao long bao, where several blocks of dumpling restaurants flank the entrance to Guyi Garden, a classic Ming Dynasty maze of ponds, rocks, and bridges.

But more likely we'll opt for the pan-fried shengjian mantou at Yang's, on Wujiang Road. Until last week, this side street near the Nanjing Road West Metro Station hosted an untidy throng of pushcart vendors, hawking everything from barbecued oysters to bootlegged movies. These freelance capitalists have been displaced, however, in the name of public order, municipal cleanliness, and copyright protection.

Because Yang's occupies two legal (and nearly identical) storefronts, our meal will be unaffected by the crackdown. And for that we'll be thankful. The miraculous price--about 50 cents for a plate of four--doesn't begin to explain their appeal. These dumplings are simultaneously crisp, succulent, tender, and savory.

The long lines might have something to do with our anticipation. All that sizzling and steaming, along with the white-aproned task force churning out fresh dumplings with astonishing precision. Then there's the cheerful throng inside, on three levels linked by a narrow staircase, and the eager hunt for a few stools at one of the communal tables.

In a world of perfect fulfillment, our dumplings are just cool enough to taste by the time we find our seats. After that, it's all a matter of technique. Our preferred method involves a judicious lift with the chopsticks, a prudent nip in the wrapper, then a pensive slurp--all before taking that first bite. You can spot the amateurs by the soup stains on their shirts.

Posted By Peter Fong on April 17, 2007, 11:05 PM

I found out during a week of travel in early August that it's not only when in Kansas that I have to vacation to find mountains and waterfalls. I went north; oh my, it is beautiful. I traveled with Natalie, another volunteer from southern Benin who had never seen the upper part of the country. We met Sunday night in Cotonou, then took the bus to Parakou the following day. Parakou is the Cotonou equivalent for the north of Benin, which makes it quite a hopping city. Parakou is the mid-point of the country north and south, and is the junction to continue northeast toward Malanville, or northwest to Natitingou. Natalie and I went in both directions.
We spent Monday afternoon in Parakou with one of our colleagues who lives there. We had wanted to be tourists and go through the museum, but it looked rather dead and the volunteer said it wasn?t too exciting, so we followed her to her missionary friends? home. There I found a playground; not just any playground, but a magnificent, Erika-sized playground! I swung on the swings for a while, then balanced with Natalie on the teeter-totter, and then swung again until we had to leave for the market. Our hostess is an excellent cook, I learned; we had pad Thai, salad, and white wine for dinner.
The terrain changed significantly just south of Parakou. There are hills and large boulders in Benin! The south is mostly flood or coastal plain, filled with palm-oil trees on land that was once covered in a seasonal rain forest of towering Iroko, Fromagier, and other beautiful trees. The change to climb-worthy hills and boulders awaiting scramblers was a lift for my soul I hadn?t known possible. The vegetation appeared mostly the same as the south, but re-texturized.
On Tuesday we left for Karimama, a town farther north than Malanville, and home of the most northern volunteer. Natalie and I had to wait about an hour for the taxi to leave Parakou, and we had to wait again in Guene, the junction for Karimama, but after ten hours and a small rainstorm, we arrived. Toward Karimama the land flattened again- we were on the Niger River floodplain. The vegetation changed; baobab was the tree I could identify, and all the plants were scrubby and more widely dispersed, like pre-desert. The rainy season had just begun, so the vibrant young green plants reminded me of spring. And, of course, there was lots of mud.
The volunteer in Karimama speaks Dendi. A working Dendi, which means not really fluent, but much better than my Mina communication skills. We ate lentil burgers and treated our hostess to a beer as well. The next morning, we went to the Niger River and gave her a good looking over. We rented a canoe for a couple of hours, and stayed on the river and walked on the little island for most of the morning. The overcast sky and the rain from the day before kept the sun from beating us too badly, and the landscape and the company were ever so pleasant. Our boat guide spoke Dendi and rough French, so Natalie and I were given Dendi names and traded vocabulary in three languages: Dendi, French, and English. Mina was useless that far north. My Dendi name is Fatima. (in Mina, my name is Kwasiba, which means I was born on Sunday. I was born on a Sunday, right?)
We left that same day?s afternoon, after a nice nap. We stayed the night in Kandi, another busy little northern town. The next day we arrived in Parakou again, to find a taxi to Djougou.
Djougou is a lovely town with lots of commerce, tree lined streets, and one mean omelette sandwich stand. I was also more cold in Djougou than I have ever been in Africa- I slept with two sheets over my legs! The next day was warm, and Natalie and I caught a taxi direct to Natitingou. There, we dropped off our stuff and went to eat the best lunch a person can find in the north: pounded yams with peanut sauce and wagasi, a type of cheese. Oh, you have never found yams pounded so smoothly or a sauce so sweet and perfectly spicy. And the cheese, well, whoever does not like it, I will gladly pick up your slack.
Natitingou is in the Atacora Mountain Range. ?Mountains;? these aren?t the Rockies, but I was winded after climbing to the top (which took about 10 minutes hurrying). The vegetation was much the same as in Karimama, but up-and-down. Valleys and peaks and waterfalls and everything but snow.
On Saturday we took our time getting going. The night before had been on the town, drinking tchoukoutou, or fermented millet. It?s good stuff. We ate French toast before heading out with a third volunteer to find a taxi to Tangieta, another village about an hour north of Natitingou. Tangieta is a lovely town too, I am sure, but we only looked for zemidjans to take us to the waterfalls, another 40 kilometers away.
The afternoon spent at the waterfalls was my favorite. That?s hard to say after the morning spent on the Niger River, but in the end, it?s mountains and waterfalls that I love. The zemi drivers liked to move right along, so while sitting on my zippy moto I watched the beautiful countryside slide by. The mountain range was to my right as we drove to the waterfalls, with cornfields and Mango-Acacia tree farms to the left. As Tangieta drew farther behind us, the groupings of huts became smaller and the road grew ruttier. While I was looking right and left, the zemi driver was intelligently looking ahead; I know this because that?s where he directed my attention to two monkeys! Two monkeys, just spending time in their natural habitat, in front of me! It was like a city-dweller seeing deer for the first time; as in, I was very excited, but the zemi driver told me he saw them often.
At this point in the report I would love to give you a description of the bird life, but in place of that I have a confession with an excuse: I forgot two critical items because I packed hurriedly, 1) my bird book, and 2) my binoculars. Oh, c?etait grave! I can tell you I might have seen a black-bellied or a Senegal bustard, a Senegal parrot or a yellow-bellied fruit pigeon, a little ringed plover or a crocodile bird, and some kind of hornbill. I tried to identify what I had seen in the north after returning to Athieme, but it was too frustrating. The birds and the trees and the landscape were beautiful. (Some kind of barbet, or was it a species of woodpecker? I just don?t know!)
I can describe for you what I saw of the people. The north has a reputation for being calm; no price haggling, no harassment for money or marriage; I think this reputation is true to form. From the dealings I had with the northern Beninese, I have to say hassling was not part of the process. The friendliness I find in the south was just as apparent in the north. The most distinctive people in the north are the Fulani, the mostly nomadic cattle herders. Their features of high cheekbones and fine face structures make them easy to recognize. This culture of people also dresses a little differently with a different manner of wearing cloth, and with the addition of many bracelets and delicate make-up. ?Beautiful? is the best way to describe what I saw.
We discovered upon arriving that there were two waterfalls, the first being short and wide, the second, after scrambling over rocks and tree limbs, we found to be tall and thin with a perfect swimming hole at its base. And the water felt beautiful, as water usually does.
I was accused of swimming too long, the reason why we had to wait for the rain to pass. But pass the rain did, and we raced back to Tangieta for a taxi to Natitingou. Zemidjans are the best method of drying off after swimming. The following day was the long bus ride to the south. Home again, home again! I brought back lots of wagasi for my friends in Athieme, and many pictures for myself. I do love my home, but I also really like going places.

Posted By Erika Kraus on April 18, 2007, 11:04 AM

So picture this:

You're hiking down a wadi in the middle of the Jordanian dessert. Desserts have a certain appeal; they are serene and calm. One could find themself in a walking meditation. But after about 3 hours in the scorching dry heat, you start to yearn for the comforts of a Bedouin tent.

Then, the wadi gets narrower. The walls get steeper and redder. You keep hiking. Now the air is cooler because of the shade and a breeze provides a much needed respite. You look up at the wadi walls, which are getting redder and redder, and see a concave niche! A sign of a long extinct Nabatean civilization.

You continue to traverse the wadi, which gets narrower by the yard. It turns left. It turns right. At this point, the wadi is so narrow, that only a few people can walk through at a time. Another right, another left and then you see it.

The first glimpse of Petra is straight out of a movie (Indiana Jones, to be exact). You see the treasury walls carved straight out the mountain, and for a minute, you forget to breathe.

Beyond the treasury lie the ruins on a whole city, most of which was formed from the surrounding rock formations.

Although there is no way to verify the age of this city, it is said that Petra Petra is mentioned in The Dead Sea Scrolls, which date back to before A.D. 100. Petra, under the Nadateans, was once a major caravan trading outpost, connecting routes from Gaza, Damascus, the Red Sea, and the Persian Gulf.

Petra can be seen in one or two days, depending on your stamina, physical ability, and level of interest. There are many tour companies that take groups of tourists into the wadi via air conditioned tour buses. Many can be found around the Dead Sea resorts in neighboring Israel. A word of advise: bring your own bottled water and stow it away in your backpack. Bottled water purchased at the location can be extremely pricey!

Posted By Jennifer Katz on April 18, 2007, 12:42 PM

Of course I meant "desert", not "dessert". Spellcheck didn't catch my mistake. :(

Posted By Jenniefr Katz on April 18, 2007, 1:07 PM

Several summers ago, my husband and I visited my father's family hometown of Omegna in northern Italy, where we still have dozens of relatives. We went to a gelateria to buy dessert to bring to a cousin's home where several relatives were planning a welcome dinner for us. We ordered several liter containers of gelato, which was hand-packed for us, of course! When we went to pay for it, we realized we had only francs from Switzerland, where we had just been, and no lira at all.

Embarrassed, we told the owner, Francesca, that we would return as soon as possible once we obtained lira, but she refused. She asked if we would be in Omegna the next day, and when we replied that we would, she insisted that we take the gelato that evening and simply pay her the next day! we were amazed at her offer, knowing that if this had happened in the US, the gelato would have been returned to the freezer, awaiting the arrival of payment.

Needless to say, we returned to pay her, and returned every night during our stay of one week. The gelato that first night was the best ever, flavored with the generosity of Francesca.

Posted By Carol Strahlendorf on April 18, 2007, 1:15 PM

Before and after the Wedding, when we would tell people our honeymoon
destination, the question posed to us many times was "Why Argentina?".
And of course being savy, adventurous travelers, we would reply "Why
not?". There are many reasons why we picked Argentina, but I'd rather
tell you why it left a lasting impression on us. The food and wine
were excellent, the people were so friendly (even though my Spanish
leaves little to be desired), the landscape, culture, and city life
beautiful and unique. We walked the famous cemetery in the Recoletta
neighborhood in B.A. We took 12 hour bus rides with the locals to get
from city to city. We drank mate and took a horseback ride in the
mountains surrounding Mendoza. (Mate is a drink made by steeping
dried leaves of yerba mate in hot water. Locals drink this out of a
gourd with a metal straw.) We shopped for local handicrafts in
Bariloche; silver jewelry, alpaca scarves, and leather goods.

Of all the things we experienced, I'd like to highlight three
important life lessons I learned on our honeymoon.

1. You Can Forget How to Ride a Bike

The first weekend of our trip, we took an 18 hour bus ride to Mendoza,
the heart of Argentine wine country. We stayed at a very nice Youth
Hostel, Hostel Alamo, with a friendly and helpful staff. There were
posters up for a tour of the wineries - "Bikes and Wines". The hostel
helped us buy our tickets and we set out to catch the bus. After a 30
minute ride, we reached the bike rental shop. We picked out our
bikes, were given helmets, and started off on the path. Now I know
what you must be picturing in your head, a dirt path lined with tall
green trees, surrounded by vineyards. Not exactly. The vineyards are
located in a rural area outside of Mendoza, one that is fairly busy
with cars, city buses, and industrial trucks. So we set out toward
the winery at the end of the map, deciding to work our way back up and
visit others along the way. You know the phrase, "It's just like
riding a bike, you never forget". Apparently you can forget how to
ride a bike, which I found out VERY quickly. I think the last time I
had actually gotten on a bike and ridden down a road was a good 15
years ago. Now remember, Judah just did a triathlon, so it was really
hard for him to understand why I couldn't balance the bike very well
or successfully make wide turns.

This turned out to be a most memorable day. We visited three nice
wineries, each very different. The first one was a small, family run
winery, owned by a French couple who had relocated to Argentina in the
90s. The second, was the oldest winery in that area, opened in the
late 1800s. The third was a much more high-end, mass production
winery. But I digress from my first life lesson. After leaving the
third winery, we decided to have some lunch and made our way to a
restaurant nearby. We came up on an intersection where we needed to
turn left. I am sure the big, red truck waiting to turn onto the main
road made me a little nervous. Whatever it was, as a made the turn I
realized I was headed straight for one of the water ditches that lined
the streets - - - - all I could think was "Here I go." I road into
the water ditch and took it like a champ. I took a good gash to my
right shin on the way into the ditch and got totally soaked. I
immediately stood up, shocked, yet thankful I was not more seriously
hurt. Two men who had seen it happen (and I might mention that it was
a busy intersection in the afternoon, so a lot of locals probably had
a fun story to tell over dinner that nite) helped me out of the ditch
and were asking if I was okay. Judah had stopped and was pedaling
back to check on me. At that moment, the last thing I wanted to do
was ride that bike, but I got back on it and we pedaled on to the
restaurant.

2. There Is Such a Thing As Too Much Beef

Judah and I ate our way through Argentina. Most meals consisted of
meat, meat, and more meat - - - usually beef, washed down with the
national beer or a bottle of wine. There are many parrillas (local
grills that barbecue meats) where you may feast on an assortment of
pork, chicken, and the ever popular various cuts of beef. I am
certain we increased our red blood cell count during those two weeks -
steak, blood sausage, tripe, venison.

One of our favorite meals was in the La Boca neighborhood of B.A.
This is an area where many Italian immigrants settled in the early
1900s and it is known for it's wildly painted buildings. We had lunch
in a parrilla just across from the soccer stadium. It was a true local
hang out. J. said it was the best steak he had eaten, ordering two.
The chorizo I had was delicious, and surprisingly so was the salad.
There were 5 guys working that day. Two men running the food. One was
cooking the meat, the other was making the salads. There was a young
guy running the cash register and making the fruit salads and coffee.
There were two young guys taking orders and serving the food. See the
photos of La Boca and the parrilla in the gallery. Look for the
brightly colored buildings.

3. It Takes Two to Tango

If you know us, you know we love to dance. So there was no question
about it, we had to take tango lessons while in Argentina. The first
lesson was actually the first day we arrived. The lesson was a very
informal, group lesson at the Tango Academy. It gave us a chance to
learn the basics, but was not very helpful. During the two weeks, we
took two private lessons, each with two different young couples. Each
time, we learned new things about tango and realized that it truly is
a dance of communication between two people.

Before I wrote this, I asked Judah what he would remember most
about our honeymoon. He commented that "We didn't kill each other."
While that is true ;-), what he did go on to say was that even though
we both are avid travelers, this was our first lengthy trip together.
Our honeymoon was unique because of the location we picked, but it was
special because we took the opportunity to spend some time by
ourselves and make new memories.

We encourage all of you to get out there and see the world! Whether
it's the next state or an ocean away - - - - traveling allows you to
leave your usual everyday worries behind for a minute and not only
learn about other cultures, but also learn about yourself.

Posted By C. dal Cais on April 18, 2007, 4:44 PM

Sometimes you just want to run away from your life. What better way than to grab 8-12 of your best females buddies and high-tail it out of dodge. Twice a year my friends and I do just that. We are mostly suburban housewives living near Los Angeles with kids, dogs, minivans and husbands. But sometimes when life get too tough, we drive, occasionally fly, 2-3 hours away to a luxury spa.

With 4 moms per room the cost is somewhat affordable, even for a penny-pincher like me. So far we have ventured to "The Green Valley Ranch" in Vegas, which we all agreed was posh, and modern fab. While some of us gambled, most of us enjoyed their amazing spa. There were many dining options as well. Another highlight was our trip to Carefree, Arizona where we stayed at the very tony "Boulders Resort and Spa". We just went nuts for this place, the spa, the hotel and the grounds were just "zen"tastic. We really never wanted to leave that place. And we got a really great rate because they gave us a Costco discount. The bathroom was to die for.

We have been to the "Ojai Valley Resort" more than once and that is usually our default spa. It was our first and holds a special place in our hearts. We love the rooms, the spa and restaurants. We have been to many others but I can save that for another blog. Wait till you hear about our trip to "La Costa" it was very "real world"

Posted By Nina Bellow on April 18, 2007, 10:35 PM

Michael and Dan's Rust Belt Tour

We had a driving trip through the states from western Pennsylvania to eastern Iowa on our agenda for a while. Michael was scheduled to teach a class for IRS in Cincinnati, and this seemed a great opportunity to get in some of that trip. This abbreviated Rust Belt Tour covers Ohio and southern Indiana, broken into two legs, with Nashville, Tennessee thrown in for Dan, and Cincinnati for Michael. Our apologies to folks in Illinois and Iowa, we're keeping you on the list for future trips.

Thursday, May 9

Michael had been out in Cincinnati since Monday. The plan was for Dan to fly to Nashville, meet our friend Peg Harrington, and together we would drive across Kentucky to rendezvous with Michael in Indiana. I arrived at BWI to discover I would be flying with the K.C. and the Sunshine Band World Tour 2002. Bonus points to anyone who can name three songs covered by the group. Let's just say the band has not aged well, did not appreciate Southwest's get a number at the gate boarding process, and were loud and whiny. In a tribute to the joys of contemporary flight, I also got to see an elderly gentleman explode in anger at a Southwest gate attendant. Like the rest of us, he had stood for an hour for no reason. Unlike the rest of us, he dared complain about it, and was hauled off by airport security. I had always thought the movie "Brazil" was dystopian, not predictive.

Once in flight the trip was uneventful. Peg greeted me at the airport and was her usual joyous self. She treated me to a tour of her funky neighborhood, lovely duplex (in Nashville, that means two apartments sharing opposite halves of a ranch house), and introduced me to Fred the Basset Hound of Destiny. Fred, delight though he is, was off to the vet's, aka "the Spa", for the weekend. We checked out Berry Hill, a neighborhood not unlike Houston's Montrose crossed with D.C.'s Adams Morgan, en route to real Tennessee BBQ at McNeeley's. Mmm-mmm.

This was my third trip to Nashville, and I am proud to say that in none of those visits have I been even close to the Grand Ol' Opry, Opryland, Opry Mills, or the rest of the entertainment-plex that Gaylord Enterprises runs out on the highway. My first run through, with Michael on our Southern Tour, took in the Parthenon and Centennial Park, and was sort of a dud. On a second visit two years back Peg's husband showed me the state house, Bicentennial Mall, and a lot of sports stadiums. Eh. Miss Peg is separated from said husband, and her take on Nashville is indeed superior. My advice to aspiring visitors is to get a local guide if you can, one who is not trying to get accepted at the Belle Meade Country Club. Nashville is reminiscent of both Houston in its wide roads and driving emphasis, and a Southern state capital in culture, gentility, and racial history. Interesting. There is good food and good conversation, but it does require some inside-knowledge to ferret out. There is much 'keeping up with the Joneses', but that can be laughed at politely if one chooses not to enter the competition.

After lunch we drove out to Andrew Jackson's estate, The Hermitage. This is a big ol' Southern plantation, and is stuck in an interpretive time warp by about twenty years. Remember when Mount Vernon tours emphasized gracious living and referred to "servants", rather than "slaves"? Like that. We found one panel in the visitors center discussing slave life in the entire complex, and saw no people of color as visitors or staff. Political consciousness aside, it is a nice estate, with spectacular French Empire wallpaper telling the story of Telemachus from the Odyssey (yeah, we had to look it up also), an odd pairing of Doric and Corinthian front and back facades, and spacious grounds. The gardens were not lush as we expected. Perhaps the Ladies Association was trying to be historically accurate? Perhaps they are broke, and dealing with a drought? Either way, a very nice expanse and window into the life of a man who helped bring democracy to America.

We drove back into town to check out Peg's church, St. Ann's. This is the funky Episcopalian establishment of Nashville, with a nice modern building erected just last year to replace its historic home (wiped out by a 1999 tornado). Prime architectural moments downtown are the 1990's Bell South Tower, Adelphia Field, and Country Music Hall of Fame. The tres modern 1950s Liability and Casualty Building looks like a variation of Frank Lloyd Wright's Price Tower, all aluminum fins, very nice. There seems to be money in Nashville in the last decade, and an effort to fill the urban renewal gaps of the 1970s with appropriate and involving architecture.

Nashville's main Post Office was a 1930's art deco wonder, abandoned for a suburban loading facility. This year it was converted to the Frist Museum of Art. The conversion is good, preserving the original main hall and adding a great garden plaza, and the art on display is excellent. The Frist has decided not to assemble a permanent collection, instead showing traveling and temporary shows. It is an interesting strategy that they are making work. Does this turn an art museum into more of a convention center? Yes. Is it successful? Yes. A show of modern art from the 1970-90s was at least as good as the recent Broad Collection show at the Corcoran. They also had Indian art from Philadelphia, religious art from the Walters, and Faberge from New Orleans and the Forbes Collection. Sculptor Gregory Barsamian was showing sculptures that spin and use strobes to animate them wonderfully. Best of all is the Frist's hands-on art room, where table stations walk kids and adults alike through the essentials of art (line, shading, perspective, color, pattern, collage, material: you know the drill). Peg created a Matisse bunny collage, and I made an impromptu flower sculpture. Fun, in a way that I've only seen done as well in Denver.

Peg showed off the architectural delights of residential Nashville, which has unique versions of bungalows, Queen Anne's, four-squares, and Arts and Crafts. A greensward by the Cumberland River preserves a dramatic, still used, railroad trestle. Given Nashville's hilly contours and railroad heritage, trestles are a regular part of the landscape, but this was long and beautiful even on those terms.

Dinner was at the Gwersthaus, most excellent German food. In the Southern tradition, all the vegetables came sweetened, and they did amazing things with corn bread. Delicious, with dead animal heads as decor. Peg attempted to instill Nashville pronunciations in me: I'm afraid the only one that seems to have stuck is 'di-mun-brin' for Demonbreun Street. We drove down Music Row to see the recording studios for country music. Interesting that these are not downtown, but instead a cluster of their own.

Friday, May 10

I got in a walk around downtown, checking out Union Station, the Kefauver Federal Office Building (don't know Estes Kefauver? Nixon was a protege), the Customs House, Ryman Auditorium, and Gaylord Center. Breakfasted with the early morning crowd in the Bell South cafeteria, then met Peg at my hotel. She took me on a tour through their new Robert-Stern-designed Public Library (a beauty). Walked through the old Arcade, a wood and glass shopping mall predecessor between downtown blocks. Not as old as Providence's, or as fancy as Cleveland's (see below), but nicely not rehabbed at all, with a grungy and pleasant mix of cheap food and barber shops. Lots of Southern lawyer-types in pastel seersucker suits (guys still wear those here). Retail downtown is dead, but you can walk around the old "men's quarter", home of the original Maxwell House Hotel, where Teddy Roosevelt announced the coffee "good to the last drop". Printer's Alley still has jazz and blues clubs, but of course, 10AM is hardly the time to see them in action. The Tennessee Foxtrot Carousel, by one of my all-time favorite pop sculptors, Red Grooms, was closed up like a drum, unfortunately. As a consolation prize, I got to go into Hatch Show Print, across Broadway, and see the original presses where they've been producing country music and circus posters for the last century.

Lunch with Peg and her friend Maggie at Swett's, home of meat and three. Basically, a cafeteria, think Scholl's, with superior side dishes and excellent chicken-fried steak. Maggie is a hoot, a woman whose life encompasses enough Nashville anecdotes to fill a book, but whose genteel demeanor will prevent them from ever being committed to print. We took a drive through Green Hills and Belle Meade. Belle Meade is the quintessential country club district, the aim of all who aspire to Tennessee wealth pre-country music. Eh, if you've seen Weston, MA, Chevy Chase, MD, or River Oaks, TX, you've seen Belle Meade.

Off to the final art stop in Nashville, Cheekwood estate and gardens. The Cheek family were the Maxwell House coffee money, and their former home holds the largest collection of art in the city. Hysterically, as we drove through the entrance gates, we were greeted with howls of "thar's no paw'r! no paw'r anywhar!? Translation, power lines were down, and staff did not know how to take entrance tickets or open the house without it. We parked and strolled the gardens, which hold a magnificent Japanese area, flowering shrubs, and a forest trail of modern sculpture. They've installed a George Rickey mobile (think the long red spiny sculpture in front of the Hirshhorn) wonderfully between two trees overlooking a valley, and have a great Robert Turrell sky piece that you walk into, like walking into a concrete WWII bunker that opens up to the light.

We high-tailed it onto the highway and drove four hours through Kentucky to Columbus, Indiana. Peg had discovered Columbus a year back, and encouraged us to have a look. The town is the home of Cummins Engine, successor to a variety of heavy industrial concerns that started in Columbus in the late nineteenth century and really prospered after WWII. In the early 1950's a progressive congregation hired Eliel Saarinen to rebuild their church. The town so liked the building that the Saarinens were invited to design several other buildings. Cummins Engine began to sponsor use of great modern architects for other urban construction, and in the last 50 years have turned Columbus into an architectural mecca, a model for how modern design can enrich American life. There is a Robert Venturi fire station, Cesar Pelli shopping mall, I.M. Pei library. Existing Victorian buildings have been renovated, parks integrated into the city, and infrastructure like bridges built with new engineering principles as well as quality design in mind. Most of the residential architecture is the usual run of Victorian-GI Bill-1980s tract housing that you find all over America, and the major retail is a highway strip north of town, which makes the integration of modern ideas even more amazing. Columbus' visitors' center, complete with Dale Chihuly glass works, disseminates walking and driving tours of the community.

First, though, we met up with Michael at the Columbus Inn, a hotel created out of the old Richardsonian town hall. We think we educated the desk clerk a bit as two guys and a girl checked into their suite, only to return a minute later with the girl announcing "I'm not sleeping alone on a sofa bed". We traded up to two lovely adjoining rooms without incident. The renovation had stripped most evidence of the old town hall in place of a sponge-painted, faux antique look, but the rooms had nice antique sleigh beds, Neutrogena toiletries, and HBO and Showtime, which compensated.

Michael found Cincinnati as racially segregated, sadly, as we remembered. His stay there was uneventful, with the exception of being able to visit the childhood home of our friend Anne Dammarell, who now lives in Adams Morgan. It is a Richardsonian Romanesque house of immense size. He was able to chat with the current residents, who were kind enough to share with him some of its recent history.

What time was it? Indiana counties can choose to be on Eastern, Eastern Daylight, Central, or Central Daylight time. Columbus is on Eastern, so Peg and I had not actually gained an hour, and Michael lost one. Annoying, but interesting. Being on the edge of Eastern Time, it was pleasantly light fairly late, so we took a walk around downtown. They have a striking memorial to Columbus residents lost in wars during the 20th century. Designed by Thompson and Rose and Michael Van Valkenburgh, it includes the usual lists of names, but also letters from some of the dead to family back in Columbus. Beautiful and touching. The local newspaper, The Republic, has editorial offices facing the county courthouse, in a Skidmore, Owings, Merrill masterpiece that is wide-open glass to the street. Must be a fishbowl to work in, but looked amazing at dusk lit from within. Venturi, Scott, Brown worked with the city and engineers on bridges into town, producing two red cable-supported wonders, one cable-stayed, the other arch-suspended. Great lit up at night. We walked back to the Inn and crashed.

Saturday, May 11

Breakfast at the Inn was great, with fresh eggs in a charming room on the ground level. We visited the Visitors' Center, saw the introductory video and displays, and walked through a restored 1890s garden. We picked up a driving map and hit the town. They have 2.5 and 5.5 hour drives mapped out, we chose the shorter. It really did take that long, even without a lot of park-and-get-close-and-personal stops, perhaps because the map and roads were not always in sync. The brilliant directional guidance of Miss Peg and Michael's natural sense of direction prevailed over my slavish adherence to the printed word. It was fun to introduce U-turns to the conservative drivers of southern Indiana. There's an excellent parking lot (no joke) by Dan Kiley at one of the Saarinen churches, giving hope that cars and gardens don't have to be enemies. Some of the churches, schools, and commercial buildings on the tour are amazingly good. Many are mediocre modern pastiches. It was great to see it, outside the usual urban context, in a regular town. Exhausting, however.

Michael knew there were signs of civilization in Columbus when we found a Chinese buffet in a strip mall for lunch and to decompress. This was a truly Indiana experience. The Chinese food was quite acceptable, with the usual hot-and-sour soup, Szechuan chicken, lo mein, etc. It shared the buffet tables with mashed potatoes and macaroni and cheese. Good Mongolian BBQ. Best was the dessert table, with chocolate and vanilla pudding, brownies, sprinkles, kimchi and sushi. One has visions of butterscotch-pudding-and-kimchi. Fun, tasty, and cheap, three of our favorite adjectives.

We abandoned modernism after lunch and headed one county west to Nashville, Indiana. This town is known as a local antiques headquarters. We were disappointed by the antique malls on the main stretch, seeing nothing we could not have seen at similar stretches on the East Coast. In-town itself, however, was a nice tourist mix of craft galleries, tschotchke shops, and ice cream places. Got a comprehensive index of quilt patterns, assembled by a local quilter. Very fun and a nice walk around after the mornings drive. Once a month the local 4H hosts an antique exchange at the county fair grounds, so we walked over and were happy to discover more unique stuff at much better prices than out on the permanent antique strip.

Drove back to Columbus, pleased with our full bellies and shopping finds. The intersection from the highway back into town is an attempt to make the transition without a cloverleaf, using dedicated access lanes and stoplights. Works well, with a lot less space eaten up, and in a more pleasant driving experience. Cool. Took a walk through Mill Race Park, which was reminiscent of both a county park and of Renzo Piano's modern work in La Villette outside Paris. Recent rains had flooded much of the grounds. It was cool to trace where the high water had hit, while avoiding the mosquitoes bred in its aftermath. The Commons is a Cesar Pelli designed mall downtown. One can guess that this was supposed to revitalize downtown, you can almost hear the city fathers bowing to that wisdom in 1975. It's a flop, a black glass design with a Sears at one end and a great interior playground at the other. Think Ballston Common with a Jean Tinguely sculpture in the food court.

For dinner, we decided to hit corporate food on the highway, and ran into a Mothers' Day conundrum. There were 45 minute waits at Red Lobster, Texas Roadhouse, Applebee's, and the other chains. Settled for Mexico Viejo, a local enterprise, for surprisingly good Mexican food with no wait and excellent service. Southern Indiana, who knew the food could be so good?

We liked the newspaper offices downtown so much that we decided to drive out to see the printing plant. Being a newspaper printing plant, it was way out of town. We abandoned the tour map and hit the highway, to find it in an industrial park next to a Toyota plant. It was worth the trip. The architects were inspired by the editorial building in town, and had a similar wall of windows facing the highway, this one showing the massive color presses used to put out the paper. Very cool. Of course, three folks walking around a building in an industrial park at night next to the highway is probably not safe and definitely suspicious, so we hopped back into the car and downtown to retreat to our 24-hour HBO. There was a Woody Allen retrospective: we'd forgotten how funny he was in Sleeper and Everything You Always Wanted To Know.

Sunday, May 12

Peg and I had to take off before breakfast, unfortunately, so we said goodbye to Michael and left him to partake of our share of the muffins. Had a long but not unpleasant drive straight back to Tennessee. Peg introduced me to my last insider-tip in Nashville, burgers at Fat Mo's: juicy and delicious. She dropped me at the airport, and I flew back to BWI without event. Ran into our friend Katie Robbins on the bus back to Greenbelt, she had just gotten back to D.C. from Phoenix. We exchanged stories over dinner on U Street. Got back to Seaton Place thirteen hours after leaving the Inn: a long trip, but a good one.

Friday, May 17

We had thought that Michael would finish up in Cincinnati and drive up to Cleveland, meeting me there. The IRS had other plans, however. Michael came home early and we flew out to Cleveland together in the afternoon. The flight was uneventful, aside from my being requested to submit to a simultaneous body search and hand bag check. Disarming them with the question "What's bothering you more, the intact syringes or the loose needles?", I was let go with a body wanding. We picked up our rental car and drove across town to Cleveland Heights, home of our friends Rachel and Greg. They are among the few people of our generation who seem happy in their chosen field, both professors at Cleveland State. Their six-month old daughter Alison is a delight. They fed us the best we ate on this entire trip, a tour de force of vegetarian cuisine complete with fresh greens grown under lights in the garret.

An overview follows, before jumping into our drive. Ohio has a great number of mid-tier cities. If they were consolidated into one, they would compete with New York, LA, or Chicago. They could play on their strength of diversity in unity and compactness, but do not seem to have caught on. Instead they compete with each other for state and federal money and attention, a game in which they all lose. We never heard an Ohioan recommend seeing something in another part of the state. After the initial surprise that we had chosen their city for a vacation, they often realized and could praise the good things they had locally, but had only derision for their peers. If small is truly beautiful, Ohio's cities have captured a better mix than in larger American centers, and could emphasize that in national attention.

Unfortunately, they seem doomed to failure. The only places we visited that were not in obvious decline were Oberlin, stable with the college, and Columbus, growing with banks and insurance companies. The rest are "donut cities", with a compact 1920-1990s downtown, decayed ring, and nice suburban housing. Ohio based a lot of its wealth on the manufacturing/industrial sector that boomed in the 1950s and left in succeeding years, and their leadership has not found a way to really fit with the current economy. Interesting. In some ways it's a time warp, a possible laboratory for urban change, but sadly often a disaster in the making.

On the architecture/design side there is a lot that is good. A recent publication called "Building Ohio" (Jane Ware, author) lists the top buildings to see in the major cities, and was an excellent guide as we drove around. Ware lists the strengths of Ohio architecture as:

1.) coming out of a society of educated affluence (all those 1870s industrialists who founded colleges next to their factories), which engendered an infrastructure of optimism that future years could fill out,

2.) the wealth that the industrial and agricultural sectors produced in the state, enabling the training and hiring of the best practitioners, and

3.) the "hybridism", or sharing and morphing of ideas, that came together as Ohio cities competed with each other and with the older cities of the Eastern states.

That seems as good an explanation for the excellent buildings we saw as any. A partner volume on the architecture in smaller towns of the state is being written.

Saturday, May 18

Rachel and Greg have given up on the Cleveland Plain Dealer, so we delighted in breakfast with the New York Times. First stop was the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. This I.M. Pei shrine to the music industry was built specifically to jumpstart a tourist economy in Cleveland. Like the best of Pei's commemorative architecture (JFK Library, National Gallery East Building), it is a stunning glass hall surrounded by galleries that function well and the supporting services one needs in a modern museum. Strike one, it was Cleveland high school band day, and the place was jammed. Strike two, the exhibits are poorly curated, with no historical overview or even thread to justify bringing the many interesting objects together. My guess is that the exhibits respond to big donations, and when Atlantic Records drops dollars, their top artists are emphasized in the displays. The costumes were the best part.

The Rock Hall is on Lake Erie, so we walked next door to Hornblower's for lunch. This is a restaurant on an old Lake steamer, now permanently moored downtown, and was pretty good. We took a walk around downtown. The 1890s Arcade building is on its second renovation: a 1980s attempt at a shopping mall failed, but a 1990s transformation into a Hyatt seems to be succeeding. They preserved the fabulous glass ceiling and wrought iron storefronts, the upper ones becoming hotel rooms. Public Square is the original four blocks first laid out by Moses Cleveland (yes, they dropped the "a"), now a nice park at the heart of downtown with a big war memorial. This park is cut by the main north-south and east-west avenues that divide the city into sections, and is bordered by modern office buildings and a 1920s Art Deco tower. That plan (original plat, park, avenues, offices, Deco tower) is so standard to Ohio's cities that I'm going to refer to it as "the Cleveland plan" for shorthand in the rest of this write-up. The Art Deco here is Terminal Tower, one of the best. For decades it was the tallest thing between Chicago and New York. Built by the Van Sweringen brothers who also developed the suburb Shaker Heights, the Tower rises above the subway tracks that lead east to the Heights and west to the West Side and airport. On either side it had major department stores and a hotel, with offices above, and a shopping stretch and major atrium in the tower base. If you can imagine Woodies and Hecht's on either side of the Empire State Building with Metro Center station beneath it you get an idea of its importance. Even better than Rockefeller Center, Terminal Tower (now called Tower City) still functions as the best downtown development we've ever seen. To our shock, having packed only shorts and t-shirts, the temperature was in the low 60s and expected to remain there, so we got ourselves some cooler weather gear. North and east of Public Square the city laid out a Beaux Arts Municipal Center, filling it in the 1920s with a library, convention center, city hall, and Federal Reserve building. It doesn't quite hang together, probably due to lack of lake access, but is a pretty spectacular feat of urban planning.

We hopped into the car and headed back east to University Circle. It's not really a circle, but a collection of major streets that come loosely together surrounded by the art museum, symphony, and Case Western Reserve. We checked out the new Frank Gehry classroom building at Case, then went to the Cleveland Art Museum. They've got one of the best Asian collections in the country, and a great selection of European and American master paintings, including two of my favorite artists, Crivelli and Caravaggio. Then we took a drive around Shaker Heights. I had seen this suburb from the air, but never had a chance to check it out on the ground. Although the street plan is interesting and subway connections excellent (thanks to those Van Sweringens), the housing is just not as good as in Cleveland Heights, a short distance to the north. Both of these suburbs are filled with great vernacular housing from the 1880s-1920s, in all the familiar Victorian styles, but Cleveland Heights seems to have more character. We don't think it was just loyalty to our hosts, but couldn't quite place the difference. We stopped at Shaker Square, the still active retail development planned by the Van S's, for books and coffee, then picked up good take-out Thai for dinner with Greg and Rachel.

Sunday, May 19

Greg made us buckwheat pancakes for breakfast, and we headed west to Toledo. Ideally, we would have driven in a circle around the state from city to city, with no drive more than a couple of hours. We couldn't figure out how to make that mesh with our travel dates and open days at the museums, though, so ended up doing more driving than we needed to. If you plan on retracing our steps, going from Tuesday-Sunday will let you do the circuit at a more leisurely pace. The Ohio Turnpike is a long, dull, but efficient connector across the state. You don't see much, but you can book it to Toledo in a few hours. Michael got to revert to Houston training, put it into cruise control somewhere around 80 MPH, and we were still among the slowest on the road.

Tony Packo's Hungarian Restaurant is Toledo's signature eatery: celebrities come to show they've been to the city, and hot dog rolls with their signatures are framed on the walls. We can't make this stuff up. It may have started as Hungarian, but is now mainly hotdogs and chili, with decent German potato salad. Michael was disappointed with his stuffed cabbage, but I relished my chili dogs. The main draw in Toledo is the Art Museum. This is one of the best in the country: Owens, Libbey, and other glass money have gone into both the building and the collection. It is more Corcoran than National Gallery in scale, but with a better Renaissance-to-Impressionist painting continuum. The Peristyle Hall auditorium is a thing of beauty, a lecture hall in the shape of a circle, surrounded by Greek columns, toped with a shallow dome that is painted as the sky. Not Las Vegas, but a clear progenitor.

That done, we chose not to linger in Toledo, but headed back east on the Turnpike to Oberlin. Are you confused by the cities yet? We couldn't have told you Canton from Akron on a map before this trip. Here's a quick orientation. Going clockwise, from the upper left corner of Ohio, on the Lake, is Toledo (glass). Due east is Cleveland. Youngstown (steel) is east again, almost on the Pennsylvania border. Turn southwest to hit Akron (rubber), then south to Canton (auto parts). All four of these are in the northeast corner of Ohio. There's a long farm section south through Amish country and then Appalachia. Follow the Ohio River west on the state's southern border to Cincinnati (Proctor and Gamble), northeast from there to Dayton (aircraft), and north again to return to Toledo. Columbus (government and banking) is dead center, in the middle of that circuit.

Oberlin is beautiful. Like Hanover, NH, or Williamstown, MA, the college is the town. They have a lovely green surrounded by the campus, with a music building by Minoru Yamasaki looking like a three story version of his World Trade Center. The Allen Art Museum was designed by Cass Gilbert as a Renaissance palazzo. An addition by Robert Venturi stays nicely in the background, deferring to Gilbert's palace. The collection is small, as befits a college, but fantastic, with masterpieces by secondary artists and secondary pieces by master artists. In addition to a Red Grooms sculpture of New York commuters, they had on display Hogarth's complete "Rake's Progress" and "Harlot's Progress". Hogarth is one of Michael's favorite artists, so he forgave me dragging him into two art museums in one day. We retreated for dessert to a nice coffee house on the green; then took a walk through residential Oberlin. The houses are similar to what we saw in Cleveland Heights: nice enough, but we were on a quest. There is a Frank Lloyd Wright 1950s residence here, but it was far enough out that we had to backtrack to the car to get to it. The Allen maintains it in excellent condition. We arrived too late for tours, but no one stopped us as we walked around and took pictures. If you've seen the Pope-Leighey House in Mount Vernon, no need to make a special drive, but this one is wonderfully sited on its original location, still in a residential neighborhood but surrounded by woods.

We were able to use daylight right up to 9PM most nights, thanks to that edge of the time zone thing, which helped here. Stop now? Nah, we could get ahead of schedule! We booked it back onto the highway and headed through the western suburbs of Cleveland. Dinner at a Macaroni Grill was surprisingly good, not bad for chain theme food. Then we drove south to Akron and checked in to the Crowne Plaza Quaker Square. Akron turned a former Quaker Oats factory by the side of the tracks into a theme shopping destination. The oat silos were converted into a hotel. The rooms are 24-foot diameter circles, with bathrooms and balconies cut like wedges into the original concrete of the silos. Pretty cool, and fun, and a nice place to drop offer after a heavy day.

Monday, May 20

The morning gave us a chance to check out the public spaces of the hotel. The silo exteriors in the lobby are covered with carvings in concrete of suns, planets, smiling clouds, and other 1970s "I've taken drugs but will keep this Up With People clean" motifs. The shopping area is too small to be a success, with an odd railroad theme using actual rail cars, but has a good toy store. Pie and candy stores make their wares on site; we regretted having to pass them up. We walked around downtown, which is similar to Cleveland's, with the Deco tower a bank that looks like a Chicago Tribune Tower competition runner-up. Not a lot of action, but it was early, and we found a greasy spoon in the basement of an office tower for a hearty breakfast. As Akron is very hilly, the buildings use the hills to provide entrances on multiple levels, and skywalks to make connections. If you built Rosslyn in 1930 and gave it more green space you might get Akron.

The E ticket in Akron is Stan Hywet Hall. Stan Hywet (say "stan hue-it") was the family home of the Seiberlings. Mr. Seiberling made it big with Goodyear Tires, and when he was forced out of the company he founded, went on to found another of the big rubber companies, since merged out of existence. He and his wife toured Europe to determine the appropriate baronial home for a rubber king. They did not buy rooms or structures, but did stock up on Tudor antiques and sketches. They commissioned Stan Hywet as a modern country house with Tudor styling. So, there's an English banquets hall with animal heads, armor, and a telephone hidden behind linen-fold cabinetry. The structure is concrete and steel, but veneered and painted to appear medieval. It sounds phoney, but in execution works wonderfully. The tour takes you to the big public spaces you expect, but also bedrooms, bathrooms, kitchens, and swimming pool, all those neat places that house museums often neglect. Also unlike many great house tours, it appears the Seiberlings really loved each other. They shared a bedroom, rather than having separate wings, and although they had separate baths, these connect via a window above the tubs. Nice. The gardens are extensive, beautiful, and well maintained, with a great Japanese style garden using woodland plants of the northeastern U.S. Shouldn't work, but it does. We had lunch in the former stables. Beware salads in Ohio: this is a land that has not discovered lettuce in varieties other than iceberg. Dan wisely chose a sandwich, Michael chose less wisely.

We drove south, passing within spitting distance of the Football Hall of Fame (ugly) in Canton, through the Amish country. We stopped in "Dutch Valley", a tourist trap of gift and furniture shops with a buffet restaurant as anchor. This is done at least as well as in the more famed Pennsylvania Dutch Country, and with smaller crowds. The cheese and smoked nuts we picked up to eat on the road were excellent, and we were able to get fresh fruit at a farmstand.

Our goal was Zanesville, where the Zanesville Pottery creates Fiestaware. We never did see the factory, but the retail shop in front had excellent deals on Fiesta and other ceramic ware. If Williamsburg Pottery Factory wasn't closer we would consider driving out to stock up on flowerpots for the backyard.

Zanesville is on U.S. 40, the original National Road, one of the first federal roads built to help settlers go west. Its other claim to fame is the Y-bridge. Instead of crossing the local river once, the bridge was built in the shape of a Y, so you could cross easily from two separate points on one shore. Or, you could go across and never really cross the river at all. We drove up to the bridge on 40, stopped at the Purina Dog Food Processing Plant, and hit a barrier. One leg of the Y had been cut off and was being rebuilt. So, despite valiant efforts, we were forced to leave the National Road and head on west to Columbus by interstate.

We circled Columbus on their beltway to a western suburb, Plain City. This is far from the main Amish concentration, but has an authentic settlement of Amish farmers. More to our interest, it had an authentic Amish family-style restaurant. We stoked our fires with all-you-can-eat fried chicken, baked ham, and grilled sausage. All of the vegetables are cooked with some form of pork or beef, we pondered ambushing vegetarian friends there. We found a Motel 6 and turned in.

Tuesday, May 21

Tim Horton was a Canadian hockey player whose donut chain has made in-roads into Ohio. They make decent scones and muffins, and provided the friendliest service of our trip. The Ohio State Capitol had several architects, but one of them was early American painter Thomas Cole. The Capitol looks like an architectural folly from one of his paintings, all Roman pillars topped by a cylindrical tower. The interior has been restored lavishly and is worth the visit. We were surprised to encounter little if any security, a far cry from what we're used to in Washington. We did a downtown walk. Columbus modifies the Cleveland plan by putting the Capitol in the middle of the center park. Several grand movie houses have been saved and are used for live performance, a lesson Washington would have done well to learn. Their Art Deco Leveque Tower looks terrific outside, but has suffered a poor 1980s marble interior redesign. Best of all, they have a downtown mall anchored by a Marshall Field's, so we got to stock up on Frango Mints. Columbus had the healthiest downtown of any in Ohio. It probably helps that it has not seen economic decline, since its anchor industries, government and banking, are ones that have grown rather than shrunk since the 1970s.

North of downtown is the funky new Peter Eisenman Convention Center, not a level floor or straight line in the whole complex: its Deconstructionist! Sadly, it is built on the site of their former Beaux Arts train station, a real loss. The gay neighborhood of Columbus, the Short North, lies just north of that. Yes, a gay neighborhood. Other Ohio cities have gay populations (okay, maybe not Cincinnati, that hotbed of conservative values (as a Columbian told us, "it was a city of Confederate sympathizers, you know")), but they are diffuse. Columbus is proud to point to the Short North as one of their funky neighborhoods. Good Victorian residential areas stretch out east and west of High Street, a funky shopping street almost worthy of Chelsea in NYC. Really. Who knew? Checked out the art galleries, tschotchke stores, and places that will never sell a bathing suit in my size. Fun. Gay guys in Columbus look so much more normal than the buff boys of D.C.: if I needed to re-enter the competition, I'd definitely consider coming here.

Further up High Street is the campus of Ohio State University. This is one of the largest campuses in America, probably the world. We did a driving tour, then parked to see the Wexner Center. OSU wanted to attract name architects to the campus, and preferred they build on the Mall, the main grass expanse. Unfortunately, most of the Mall is full of older academic structures. So, when Peter Eisenman designed an art center that filled unused space between two existing Mall structures, the administration jumped. They got a classic Eisenman building, lots of major corridor, odd angles, and stairs to nowhere. It was financed by the Wexner family, owners of The Limited chain, hence the name. I was prepared to hate it, even looking forward to doing so. Couldn't do it, it works really well. The show on exhibit, "Mood River", was difficult to understand, but easy to like, with artist installations of contemporary commercial design. A waterfall, for instance, made out of Phillipe Stark chairs, and a tornado of suspended skateboards, bikes, and other gear for extreme sports. Good gift shop, too.

Back toward downtown, Topiary Park, also known as Deaf School Park, was planted a few years back with a topiary rendition of Seurat's "Sunday Afternoon on la Grand Jatte". The foreground figures are over life-size, and there's a marker for where you stand to capture the view that mirrors the painting. Better though is to wander amongst the shrubs, discovering just how many figures there are in Seurat's piece. Did you know there's a whole boat of guys rowing crew in the background? I didn't, and I'd made the painting a regular Art Institute stop when I lived in Chicago. The topiary armatures are almost filled out; it should be even better to go visit in about two years.

On the river (Which one was this? Who can keep track, the only one of any substance is the Ohio itself, and it only flows through Cincinnati.) is a well landscaped park, gift of Battelle Labs, with a model of Christopher Columbus' Santa Maria. The ship was closed, but adjacent to the park is the Columbus Police Department. Over the entrance is carved a poor translation of Kant, "Dedicated to justice for all in the firm belief that obedience to the law is freedom." Very George Orwell.

We had booked a room in a gay B&B in Columbus' German Village. This was a neighborhood of brewery and other industrial housing, really cottages, from the nineteenth century. In the 1970s a few residents saw the potential of inexpensive housing that could be renovated easily. They coined the moniker "German Village" partly in tribute to the former residents, but also partly as a marketing shtick to encourage a unity of style in the rehabs. It's worked, and German Village is one of Columbus' headlined tourist attractions. The neighborhood is walkable, the shopping pleasant, and the coffee house local and good. A former elementary school is now a center for the sale of crafts by seniors: a great opportunity for hand stitched, American-made quilts at low prices. Also of cheesy crocheted, dried flower, and wooden items, but one must suffer the dross with the gold. We checked in to the Brewmaster's House, a great renovation of a large Italianate building on the outskirts of the Village. The host was pleasant, gave us a room and bath on a floor to ourselves, and left us in the privacy we prefer.

For dinner we went to Schmidt's Sausage Haus, serving great German food (four varieties of sausage! red cabbage! German potato salad! sausage stew! struedel light as air! buffet!) for over 100 years. Then we headed south on High Street to Wal-Mart. What does Ohio have that D.C. doesn't? Wal-Mart, and this was our opportunity to stock up on underwear, socks, and those other necessities you really don't feel like paying full price for at Hechts. The aisles not having exhausted us, we went back to the Short North to see the nice gay boys at play in the evening and to check out their big Queen Anne homes lit up at night. Pretty.

Wednesday, May 22

After breakfast we stopped at Yankee Trader, a Short North seller of all things for parties. Amazing prices on the best selection of crepe paper crap I've ever seen, in a lifetime of looking. I got their card. As we drove north out of town we passed the Ohio State Fair Grounds and Ohio Village, maintained by the state historical society. If we get back, they are on our list of sights to see. Then, northeast by highway to Youngstown.

Columbus was the healthiest city we saw, Youngstown the most depressed. Downtown follows the Cleveland plan, but outside the first ring of office buildings are only acres of parking lots and a few decrepit retail establishments. We were shocked at the conditions, couldn't spend $5 despite stocking up at a convenience store that looked like Hollywood's interpretation of the South Bronx. Youngstown elects James Trafficant to Congress regularly, and his brand of corruption seethed from the sidewalks.

So, what were we doing there? Our friend Nisan had suggested adding Youngstown to our itinerary for the Butler Art Museum and the Historical Center of Industry and Labor. He was correct, they are worth the trip.

The Butler is one of the best museums of American art, period. We were stunned by the breadth and depth of the collection, especially their contemporary. The steel may have left the Mahoning River Valley, but some money stayed behind. The original building is by McKim, Mead, and White. They had a temporary show of electronic art that was stunning. The museum abuts the campus of Youngstown State University, which has oddly landscaped its center mall into circles of grass. Interesting, would like to know who the landscape architect is.

The Historical Center has got to be a Trafficant-sponsored effort to bring tourism to Youngstown. It worked, it brought us. It failed, we were the only non-staff people there. A lot of Ohio cities seem to be trying to jump start tourism by building little museums, a la the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Like the Rock Hall, the Historical Center is a bust. Also like the Rock Hall, the building, by Michael Graves, is a treat. Unlike the Rock Hall, the Historical Center tells its story well, with interactive activities and exhibits that lay out why steel came to the Mahoning Valley, how Youngstown fit into the Pittsburgh system, changes in industry and management, plusses and minuses of unionization, and the mismanagement of the 1960s that led to the losses of industry in the 1970s. To be honest, it looks like the industry would have died there in any case: they had exhausted the convenient coal and ore that it relied on, and had not invested in infrastructure to make existing plants economical. However, that decline was precipitated by foolish and selfish moves by owners who had, unlike Mr. Butler, abandoned Youngstown for mansions in New York and Chicago.

There were also two pleasant surprises. The Mahoning County Courthouse has a terrific domed center hall, well worth the stop. South and west of downtown runs linear Mill Creek Park, developed in the early 20th Century to plans by Charles Eliot (Boston parks system, worked with/student of Olmsted). The park looks like it has seen a recent infusion of money, maintenance, and construction, and frames its creek well.

Running north from Youngstown are the other two steel towns of the valley, Niles and Warren. Warren is where William McKinley was born, but we sped on through. They look like they still have economies, with contemporary highway strip mall culture. Wanting to avoid the toll on the Turnpike, we took back roads to suburban Cleveland. We had dinner at Max and Erma's, a chain out of Columbus that is basically Clyde's west. If you've eaten at a Bennigan's, you've had Max and Erma's. We then went on a fruitless search for cheap chain lodging in Cleveland. We ended up going all the way across town, finding a Fairfield Inn near the airport. Michael is convinced there are no hotels in Cleveland, expect for the high-end ones downtown, due to racism. I'm not sure if it isn't just due to the low demand for travel accommodation: is Cleveland really on anyone's vacation list besides our own?

Thursday, May 23

Back to Cleveland Heights for a final breakfast with Rachel, Greg, and Alison. Got to meet Greg's mom, visiting from England, who was a sweetheart. Back to airport, caught our flight, and did the Metro bus from BWI to Greenbelt and Green Line home.

An amazing adventure into the messy industrial heart of America. Was odd for a few days back to be in a place where no one makes anything. Then we got used to it, and reveled in the availability of mesclun and organic chicken wrapped in plastic.

Posted By Daniel Emberley on April 19, 2007, 1:23 PM

Grave-Hopping and Beer-Shopping: Easter in Pittsburgh

Every year, my father gives up alcohol for Lent and though he grants himself a few dispensations along the way, he's usually pretty dry during this period. He lasts until Holy Thursday, the day Lent ends. This year, when he comes to pick me up at the Pittsburgh International Airport on the Saturday before Easter, where I've flown in to from Washington D.C. to spend the holiday weekend with my family, he's anxious to tell me how good the Iron City beer he had tasted with his fish sandwich on Good Friday.

Pittsburgh has a large Catholic population. During Lent, when Catholics can't consume meat on Fridays, most of the eating establishments heavily advertise and offer specials on fish sandwiches. They are especially popular in bars, which must sell food under Pennsylvania law. The typical sandwich is made with foot-long breaded and fried cod, served on a Kaiser role and slathered with mayonnaise. A couple of fish sandwiches can be bought for fewer than ten dollars. The best places to find them are at parish-sponsored fish frys, but if you want them from a restaurant, go to The Oyster House in Market Square.

In addition to eating fish and drinking beer, my dad tells me he's been buying others fish and beer. He explains that it's part of his celebration of my late grandmother's birthday which is also on Saturday. We decide to go visit her grave, though first my dad wants to buy flowers. His favorite flower shop is closed for the holiday, as are most small businesses in the area, so he sends me into an open pizza shop to get directions to an outdoor flower stand.

The young man at the counter, who's munching on a slice of pizza, gives me directions to a gas station around the corner where flowers are being sold in the parking lot. Before leaving, I buy my own piece of pizza. The Pittsburgh area has a strong Italian-American presence so some of the best meals can be found at local pizza shops. My favorite is Pizza Palace in Penn Hills where the dough is thick and slightly undercooked and the amount of real mozzarella cheese on the pie is twice the amount that comes on chain-store pizzas.

After eating, my dad takes me to the gas station and for five dollars I buy pink carnations to place on my grandmother's grave. Of course, we don't just visit her grave. We also go the grave sites of great-aunts, great-uncles and great-grandparents, though due to snowy weather, my father says we can hold off on praying for them until Mass the next day.

That's what we do during Sunday service when my hometown parish of St. John's is beautifully filled with flowers and the choir adds joyous music to the experience. Then, we visit my uncle in a nursing home in Oakmont, which is an old-fashioned small town comprised of big houses, cobblestone streets and shops that run parallel to train tracks. In June, the U.S. Open will be held at the Oakmont County Club, which is located right beside my uncle's nursing home. All the local hotels in the area are said to be sold out during the June 11th -17th week, so we make jokes that my uncle can stay with the family during this time and rent out his nursing home room.

In the evening, we enjoy a traditional an Easter meal of ham, potatoes, hard-boiled eggs, vegetables and sweet Easter bread. My Dad serves us a very pungent red table wine. I can't tell whether it would be categorized as a Shiraz or Merlot and there's no label because his friend Dominic--a 350-lb. silver-haired, self-employed businessman from Sicily--gave him the wine, which he made himself in his basement.

No matter the varietals, the wine helps me get a full night of sleep. The next day, I am refreshed and ready to do sightseeing with my parents before I head back to D.C. I want to go to the Andy Warhol Museum, which is the biggest museum in the country devoted to a single artist and filled with the American Pop culture art that made Warhol famous. My Dad says traffic will be too bad there due to the Pirates baseball home opener and instead we go to Phipps Garden Place in Oakland. Inside, we explore botanical gardens that include replicas of a South American jungle and the forests of Thailand. I learn that from May 10th through November 11th, Phipps will be holding a Chihuly exhibition where twenty glass sculptures will be on display and situated to highlight the beauty of the existing gardens.

When we're done at Phipps, it's time to end my trip. Before dropping me off at the airport, my Dad buys me a beer and uses the opportunity to reflect upon how much better life is in Pittsburgh than D.C. (A beer in Pittsburgh costs $1.00-$2.50, in D.C. it's $5.00-$8.00.) Then he drops me off, but not without first buying me a rose from a corner flower stand that we stop off at along the way.

Posted By Carolyn Polinsky on April 20, 2007, 3:40 PM

Le dernier Metro

The title of today's piece is taken after a Francois Truffaut movie. Made in 1980, set during the last war, it stars Catherine Deneuve, who is, as she has been for 45 years, the most beautiful woman in the world.

Paris is a private city; many secrets happen behind the sidewalks, behind the massive and forbidding doors. Some, however, are right in front of us, waiting for us to find them. They are still hidden; it takes some effort to find them.

We found one on Friday night.

Hidden in plain view, by itself on a quiet street way out in the 20th Arrondissement, in the village of Belleville, annexed to Paris only within the past hundred years or so, is the Parc du Belleville. It is above Pere-LaChaise Cemetery. About 5 blocks from a Metro station (just about the theoretical maximum distance one CAN be from a Metro station in Paris), right there, around the bend. . . there are a few street lights here, and as you crest the hill and veer to the left, there is a pool of limpid, ecru light spilling onto the narrow sidewalk. It must be here, the street dead ends at a cliff at the top of the Parc.

Over there, on the left -- it is so much smaller than imagined, a tiny, narrow room -- if the door were wider it would hit the bar when it opens -- a row of tables down the right side of the building, and three more on the left after the bar. Perhaps 45 people could fit into this dingy, buff-colored room with the photograph of Edith Piaf in the back and the black and white tiles so typical of old Paris' bistros.

It's a throwback. Come on, it's not dangerous to go somewhere unexpected -- step in. You've been brave enough to telephone and make a reservation and survive the experience. Your reservation is for 8:30, you enter at 8:27, and, lo! behold! Every table is reserved, only the names on the cards are "Edith Piaf", "Josephine Baker", and "Maurice Chevalier". You are a few blocks from Menilmontant, another neighborhood annexed in the 20th century, which spawned Chevalier.

You are about a million miles from the Champs Elysees at this moment, and 70 years from the present.

You are about to step into pre-War Paris.

The bar, the refrigerators behind it with their buff-colored doors that are two inches thick, with the pull-down latch handles typical of the 1940's -- the architecture, the paint itself, might well have seen the German occupation. And little has changed.

You are seated. The telephone is next to your table, on the wall. It never rings.

It is useful, however -- the large ardoise, or blackboard, with the evening's offerings, is propped on the phone for you to read.

There are 4 entrees, a soup and three salads. There are 6 main dishes, and two desserts. Simple fare -- a steak; roasted lamb shanks, blanquette du veau, a veal and mushroom stew served in a white "blanket" over rice.

You order -- a bottle of tap water is placed on your table automatically -- no room for foofy water here. Wine is available -- one flavor only -- vin maison -- by the bottle or by the pichet, or pitcher.

The room fills in moments -- the whole long wall is occupied by a single group of about 30 people. How did they all get here at once? There's three generations -- it's not a business group, that's for sure. A young man of perhaps 16 is carrying a large, unwieldy case by its handle. Several of the young men step up to the bar; others begin to drink at the table. A short chorus of "happy birthday" is sung in French.

The salads arrive -- two whole cold goat cheeses on a slab of country bread, toasted, sitting atop greens for Kelli; Endive, lamb's lettuce, roquefort and walnuts for me. Better than I was expecting.

As we are waiting for our main dishes (Kelli, the steak, which is typically French, meaning utterly untrimmed, and about 50% inedible, and me, the veal stew, for which I've been Jonesing for two weeks; finally, I've found it, and it's as good as I hope), she arrives.

I don't have the power to describe this woman -- finch-like, I think, comes close -- delicate, high voiced, petite, yet dressed in a dark red organdy dress with a skirt that has petticoats underneath, and bright, brilliant, St. Louis Cardinals-red high-topped sneakers. The look is altogether la Boheme, including the many bracelets and the intricate ivy-vine tendril tattoed from her right wrist halfway to her elbow. She is somewhere betwen 40 and 65 years old, probably; or not.

She lugs case after case into the back of the room, setting them on top of the silverware service furniture. A few are clearly accordion cases -- French accordions, with buttons on both sides, no keyboard. They look just like the half-dozen vintage instruments on the shelves above the heads of the birthday group.

Shortly after nine, she announces to the barman (right next to our table) in this improbable bird's voice that an aperitif would be of great benefit to her voice.

About 9:30, as the plates are being cleared, she unpacks an accordion, opens the cases, and they turn out to be expanding file wallets. Inside, they contain many sheets of paper, and on those sheets of paper, many words in French.

Words to songs.

Songs that you are about to sing.

The entire restaurant becomes the stage for a theater with no spectators.

For three and one-half hours we whisper, bellow, and generally gasp with joy at the fact that French, perhaps the most difficult language on earth to understand when sung, actually turns out to be pretty easy to SING in -- at long last, music that is MEANT to come out of my nose........

the second pitcher of wine goes down well. The foursome of Swiss people at the adjacent table have toasted us, have begun to speak to us in a polyglot of english, french and german (the two closer to us), and english and french (the two farther away). The closer ladies have trouble coping with the accordion music -- one actually gets severe "chicken skin" from the music, and begins itching uncomfortably.

I have a dear friend whose wife is deathly afraid of clowns; I did not know this when I got him front-row seats to Fool Moon at ACT a few years back. Poor Kat had to excuse herself at the intermission, because the show is done entirely in mime by graduates of the Pickle Family Circus; she missed her husband's stage debut -- I knew one routine looked for a certain type of person from the audience, and her husband was perfect for, and perfect in, the part. Still, it was then that I learned that fear of clowns is real, and pretty serious to those who suffer it.

Apparently, fear of accordion music is, also -- where I just get a little giggle of glee at the thought of 2,000 Chinese children in Mao jackets standing in Tienanmen Square playing "Lady of Spain" on their Chinese-made accordions (this is the visual image I got when at the Chinese Trade Show at Fort Mason 20 years ago, when we FIRST saw ANY products from Mainland China -- people came to the show solely to try Tsingtao Beer -- but when I turned a corner and saw two dozen mother-of-pearl and candy-apple-green accordions in the case, my imagination took off at breakneck speed and produced the image above), some people get physically ill. Our immediate neighbors went home early.

Nobody else did.

AT one point, the lights dimmed and a birthday cake came out with a Roman candle on it. Try blowing THAT out, kids.

The young man opened his case and pulled out his own accordion, got up and played two pieces. Older folks from his group began to dance, and that then became a staple of the evening, along with the raucous, uproarious, and remarkably in-tune singing. The most "modern" song we got had a copyright of 1960 -- some were more than 150 years old.

Then, individual members of the "audience" got up and started doing solos with the musician, or call-and-response songs, or even, in one case, a gentleman wore the accordion on his back, and the lady danced with him while playing it behind HIS back.

To suggest that a marvelous time was had by all is to radically short-change this experience. How often do you get the chance to step into a time machine? How often do you TAKE THE CHANCE? Why not?

Of course, as always in Paris, there was a price to be paid. Yes, you are absolutely allowed to have "too much fun", but it's not on the installment plan, it is pay-as-you-go.

We exited the building at 1:15.

Le dernier Metro, the last Metro, is at 1 AM.

From our spot atop the cliff above the park, we could see the Montparnasse tower. You can see it from most parts of Paris, and somehow, it always seems just about 10 blocks away.

Not this night.

The symbol of modern Paris, it looked 70 years away. The Eiffel Tower was almost too small to find.

We were a long ways away. From anything.

We descended a staircase of perhaps 100 steps to reach the street below the park. The map book showed a Taxi stand a few blocks away. We found it.

Unfortunately, none of Paris' 11,000 cab drivers had the same map book we use, apparently. None were at the taxi stand. We began to walk, from the outside edge of the 20th.

We walked, from abandoned taxi rank to abandoned taxi rank. We shared the streets, for the first hour, with young couples too much in love to go home yet -- much handholding and smooching was observed -- and, just at the French don't eat French Toast, they apparently do not French Kiss in public -- it is all pretty tame and enchanting.

We crossed the 20th, and crossed into the 11th. We found the rue Oberkampf, and walked from one end of it to the other. We reached the Canal St. Martin. We saw 10. 955 of Paris' 11,000 cabs, each with a yellow light on top, indicating it was already occupied.

We went to the Bastille, we crossed into the Marais, in the 3rd, then the 4th, Arrondissements. We trudged through the Marais, looking for a night bus, but they just changed the night bus system in october and haven't put up the schedules and routes in all the bus shelters yet, so we never found one.

We walked through the Place des Vosges, past the Hotel Sully, and over the Sully Bridge to the Ile St. Louis. Then, across the island, and into the Latin Quarter at the Arab University. Then, along the river front for another half-mile. We found one taxi stand which was occupied by someone who was, himself, occupied by several other people, each of whom took turns holding coversations with each other. After a while, we abandoned that spot, and trudged to the Place Maubert, about 4.5 miles from where we began the evening. There, we had about 20 companions waiting for the one cab every 15 minutes that came by.

After three cabs were taken by people who had arrived after we did, I decided that being polite in 27 degree weather had its shortcomings. We wandered to a corner, and when a white-lighted cab came down a side boulevard, we literally went into the street and stood in its way.

The cab driver pointed out that, on a Friday, they only make money between 1 and 3 AM, until they have taken home all the people who have missed le dernier Metro. A young, well-spoken (in English, too) Arab with a spotless Renault cab, he was very apologetic when he took a wrong turn that took us a block or two out of the way -- I could not have cared less; we were off our feet.

These "common" folk who make a city run often know the most about it.

I asked him if he lived les Banlieu, the suburbs where the troubles had been happening last month. He said "no, I live further out in the country. Paris is a very, very stressful city to work in -- if you are not here for the art, for the monuments, for the history, it is a very hard place to be. I need one day a week where I hear birds instead of sirens."

Posted By Michael Duca on April 20, 2007, 3:59 PM

April 3, 2006 - After waking up in before dawn in Chugchilán - a remote mountain town in Ecuador's central Andes - and retracing our steps back along a windy dirt road through Quilotoa to retrieve my forgotten journal, we headed north to El Chaupi. We arrived in the small, dusty town off the Pan-American highway with our hopes set on the Hacienda San José del Chaupi, and walked the remaining 3km out of town to the working farm and guesthouse. The farm was well situated at the base of the Illinizas - twin 17,000 foot peaks we planned to climb the next day.

We reached the farm around noon, feeling as though we had a whole day behind us, and ready to settle in and maybe indulge in some high quality napping. After waiting on the porch for a few minutes, and warding off three large and excited dogs, a small woman in knee-high rubber boots and overalls came to let us in. A note posted to the side of the front door informed us that if the owner was not at the farm, the caretaker (Juan) would call him so he could return and welcome us personally. We set down our heavy bags, took off our boots, and made ourselves comfortable in the well-appointed but empty living room.

Thirty minutes went by, then forty, and I finally became restless and stood up to wander around. A bulletin board held postcards, trip information, and a hand-written note asking us to make sure the dogs didn't follow us if we left the farm, as they were liable to get lost in the mountains. If necessary, the note read, we were to use a stick to discourage them. However, the note entreated, San José del Chaupi encourages kind treatment and respect of all animals.

I continued to explore, peering down the hall to the vacant guest rooms and making my way back through the dining room. On a cupboard, yet another hand-written note invited us to help ourselves to the breakfast supplies within - eggs, tea, coffee, and chocolate. The refrigerator held butter and cheese, and we were invited to ask Juan, the caretaker, for fresh milk. After boiling water for tea and chocolate, I returned to the living room to wait.

After another 45 minutes with no sign of our host, we decided to head into town and pick up supplies for the next day's hike before the rain made its daily appearance. First, we checked in at the barn to inquire if Rodriguez, the owner, was expected any time soon. The same rubber-boot clad woman came out to greet us.

"He'll be back in a few hours."

"A few hours?" I confirmed. "Would it be better if we found a different place to stay?"

She shrugged. "If you want."

We still held high hopes for the place, so we returned to the main house, piled our bags neatly in the corner, and walked to town, accompanied by the most energetic of the three dogs. He'd apparently figured out the stick trick, and followed us from a distance of 50 meters. Stocked up on tuna, Tupperware, and pasta - plus crackers, chocolate, and snacks - we returned to the Hacienda and set to the kitchen. As we sat down to eat, Juan the caretaker finally showed up. Rodriguez, the owner, would be back tomorrow morning he said, and would bring breakfast - wait just a moment, he'd call him now to let him know we were here. I sat back down to my pasta, and when I returned, Juan had left. We would have the Hacienda to ourselves until the next day. Eventually, we picked out a room, made the bed (another handwritten note told us where to find the sheets) and finally took that nap.

The next morning, Rodriguez was back and preparing breakfast. After we packed for our hike, we sat down to fresh rolls, fresh juice, and fresh (really fresh!) milk from his cows. The meal was rounded out with scrambled eggs, butter and jam, and plus coffee, tea, or chocolate. After breakfast, Rodriguez drove us to the trailhead and wished us luck.

Contact Hacienda San José del Chaupi:

Website: http://www.hostal.biz/sanjose.html
Email: farget@hostal.biz

Lodging, including continental breakfast, starts at $10 pp. Rodriguez can also provide transportation to several trailheads and points-of-interest in the area.

Posted By Amy Ransom on April 20, 2007, 6:19 PM

GO TO EGYPT! What a wonderful place to learn about the ancient history of the world.

Cairo, with 17,000,000 people has very few traffic lights and it is amazing to see how they travel. They believe in tooting their horns and, in many ways, are rather polite.

From Cairo, you can go to see the Pyramids and the Sphinx and even take a train trip to Alexandria.
Alexandria has rebuilt their library (the old library burned). It is a marvelous library with a globe shaped dome and wonderful interior. You can also go to see King Farouk's palace which is very close to the Mediterranean Sea.

We stayed at the Marriott which was built for the Queen when she came to Egypt to open the Suez Canal.

Fly to Luxor and board a Nile ship. The ships stop at many ports where you can go to see The Valley of the Kings, and many, many other temples.

Visit the Aswan Dam and from Aswan you can fly to Abu Simbel. This temple was moved to save it from ruin due to the building of the Aswan Dam. It took four years to have it moved. It is a spectacular sight and has a most interesting history.

Posted By Dolores Gyory on April 21, 2007, 8:47 AM

A break down of the expansive boroughs 3.8 million people call home are explained while enjoying the 360 degree view on the roof of a West Hollywood condo. My temporary home, in the affluent neighbourhood known as Miracle Mile, will make for easy transportation options in my car-less adventures. From this view, my eyes dance on the horizon: the infamous white block lettered "HOLLYWOOD" sign, Studio City, Beverley Hills and finally to Downtown L.A. Here the city is divided into a slew of districts: Little Tokyo, the Art District, the Financial District, as well as Central City East, also known as Skid Row, "an area rife with homeless people, discharged mental patients, low-quality, inexpensive housing, violence, prostitution and illegal drugs."

Intrigued by this transient lifestyle, I request an evening vigil through the ghastly district of failed dreams. The Fashion District, central in the West Coast apparel industry, is blocks from one of the largest established populations of homeless in United States , estimates poll in from 7,000 to 8,000. Where the sidewalks, according to city research, have up to 30 times the bacterial contamination of raw sewage. Even by night, the situation allows for the visitor to experience the heavy toll of this observance; the intrinsic influence the lifestyle in downtown Los Angeles offers.

Naivety had left me dumb to the beauty fashion designers have embraced and attempted to convey to the public. First-handedly, I was able to appreciate the inspiration found from the usage of deconstructed materials, graceful lines discovered in layers built for insulation from the harsh city street life. Function essential for construction of each garment; the innovative form consequential, thus playing a secondary role upon evaluating design in relation to aesthetic.

They say everyone on Skid Row belongs, it is by no mistake life has led them there. It is here, Synchronicity provided the eerie location for the lesson Life had to offer. In finding truth within the realm of creativity and interpretation: I find resolution with my decision to learn from the environment while traveling.

Posted By Marie on April 22, 2007, 6:39 AM

Having lived in six different countries over the last ten years, I have had the chance to take my time to explore and the opportunity to find the best bang for the buck in every place.

I've passed on this information to many friends and so, here's my gourmet list of the Best Bang for the Buck for budget travelers:

Paris - Walk along the Seine starting on the Right Bank and cross the river on the Pont des Arts, Paris' prettiest footbridge, toward the Left Bank. Continue towards St. Germain des Pres, buy a crepe for 5 euros at the stand right beside the St. Germain des Pres church. Sit on a bench and enjoy the people watching on Paris' famous cafe intersection where the Deux Magots and the Flore are.

Marbella - Go to the Casco Antiguo (Old Town). Window shop and meander along the cobblestoned streets then stop at the Plaza de Los Naranjos for a "ration" of churros con chocolate.

Montreal - Walk on Boulevard St. Laurent and stop by Schwartz's Deli, a Montreal institution, for a smoked meat sandwich.

Napa - Get a gourmet sandwich or a salad at the Oakville Grocery then have a picnic at one of the many wineries that offer picnic areas as long as you buy their wine.

New York - Go to Gray's Papaya for a hotdog and a fruit shake.

Santiago - Go to Paseo El Manio in Vitacura and have a coffee and croissant at Le Fournil, a French boulangerie loved by locals.

Buenos Aires - Have a cafe cortado and a grilled ham and cheese sandwich at Biela. It's a bit expensive but worth it for the people watching on the Recoleta.

Manila - Wander around Intramuros in the old Spanish walled city then stop at a cafe in the courtyard beside the San Agustin church.

Posted By Roselyn Sugay-Helbling on April 23, 2007, 7:49 AM

Most people have things in their life that they've always wanted to do, but for some reason, have never gotten around to doing. I'm no different.

There are all sorts of reasons for putting off these experiences. Some are pretty valid reasons -- affordability, time, or physical limitations. Some are not so valid reasons --procrastination, braggadocio, or unwillingness to put forth the effort.

Today's post is about one of those things that I've always wanted to try, but haven't. I've used all the above excuses, at one time or another, but what I realize is that it all comes down to fear. Is it time to face my fear?

If I had ever left home to join the circus, it would have been to become a trapeze artist. Those gracefully looking people who fly through the air, leaping from swing to swing, hanging down and catching one another, have always fascinated me.

It turns out that you don't have to join the circus to have this experience, you can learn to fly through the air at the Trapeze School of New York.

Opening for the 2007 season on April 28th, the TSNY will be setting up their outdoor rigging of tall poles and cable at their new location on top of Pier 40 (Houston and the West Side Highway). The school uses safety harnesses and lines to keep you safe as you climb steps up to a platform 23 feet high above the ground. That's where you will take your first leap. They assure everyone that it�s a very soft net below.

The view from up there is said to be spectacular, even breath taking, but I'm not sure if it's actually the view that takes your breath away, or if it's fear. Surrounding the trapeze area is plenty of space for observers. If you get up the courage to do it, I figure you're going to want to have lots of people there to witness it.

In you first class, you will learn about the safety gear, and practice hanging by your heads and knees on a low bar. Then it�s time to climb all those stairs to the higher platform. And then. . . you hold the fly bar. . . and jump! (My heart is racing just typing about the experience!) The instructors will be there to give you strong encouragement, but the decision of when to jump is up to you, so any moments of hesitation (fear?) are treated with patience and respect. When it's all over, you fall into the safety net, and then crawl to the side where you are helped out of the net by an instructor.

Subsequent times on the bar will teach you the knee hang, which is just like hanging on the playground -- upside down and arms hanging free. If the instructors think you're ready, they may also teach you the flipping dismount. And, in that very first class, you will likely have the opportunity for a catching. Deep breath here, that's moving from a knee hang, into a hanging position -- from someone else's arms. That's really flying!

As scary as the whole things sounds, it also sounds incredibly exciting! A few other important things to know about learning to fly:
� Ages 6 and up can participate
� It's an activity that suitable for a wide variety of people, and you don't have to be particularly athletic.
� Classes are approximately 2 hours long
� Classes can accommodate 10 people
� No special clothing is required, and typical work out wear is a good choice. Loose clothing (that could get caught on something) is discouraged.
� Like any workout, you may be a little sore after this experience. Additionally, bumps, bruises, and blisters are not uncommon.

Classes can be booked online, advanced reservations are recommended as classes to sell out, and at the site. They are offered every day of the week, at a variety of times. You can check the schedule here. Classes are $65, with discounts given for multiple class purchases.

It all sounds so incredibly thrilling to me. Who knows, this may be the year that I face my fear and go flying through the air.

Posted By Mary Jo Manzanares on April 23, 2007, 7:19 PM

Following my stay in Lisbon, it was on to the island of Sal in the Republic of Cape Verde (#62 for anyone keeping track). Cape Verde is an archipelago of ten islands off of the western coast of Africa. As its name implies, Sal was once an important center for salt mining, but once that industry died off, they turned to fishing and more importantly,to tourism. I can't really say how well the fishing thing went, but I can tell you for a fact that you can't throw a Strela Beer without hitting a sandal-wearing pink tourist. The majority seem to be German, with a mix of Portuguese and Brits thrown in, but regardless of nationality, they are everywhere. I signed up for a day tour of the island, expecting it to be myself, my friend, Javier and the driver so imagine my surprise when the guide showed up at my hotel lobby and escorted Javier and I out to a waiting mini-bus with about a dozen tourists waiting inside. Now imagine my further surprise when we turned onto a dirt road and were bookended by about 6 other minibuses, each full to capacity. We were in the midst of a travelling tourist caravan on an island that is only 30 km by 12 km big. At first glimpse, the island which is flat, dry and very arid does not seem to merit all this attention, but once you start seeing all that it has to offer, it is hard not to be won over. On this afternoon alone we visited a natural pool, with its calm, inviting waters. We visited the abandoned salt flats, located in the crater of an extinct volcano. Within that crater, there is a lake with enough salinity in it to cause anyone who enters it to float ala the Dead Sea. The minerals in the lake cause it to take on a rose colored hue which has to be seen to be appreciated. Coolest of all was a stop to see something that was not there. Let me explain, after some 15 minutes of driving through desert-like conditions on a dirt road, we were asked to step off the minibus. Standing there in the middle of all this dryness, we were then asked to turn around. Believe me when I tell you that right there, on the very same dirt road that we had been driving on, we could see what appeared to be a very large body of water. It was a mirage, a real, no Hollywood special effects, and I swear I had not been drinking, mirage!! I can honestly say I have never seen anything like it. And if natural pools, pink lakes and mirages are not enough for you, consider that Sal is one of the top five places in the world for wind surfing; that the music, a mix of African and Portuguese rhythms is world reknown; that the people are genuinely friendly while crime is low and that Cape Verde is just a short four hour flight from Portugal and you start to understand the booming tourist trade. A cursory glance at the many billboards advertising real estate deals and the sight of construction cranes scattered all around the town of Sta. Maria reveal that Sal is quickly being bought up and developed by and for the tourist masses, so I don't know how long it will retain its small island feel, but for now it is definitely worth jumping on the tourist caravan.

Posted By Berti Pozo on April 24, 2007, 10:56 AM

Chile's Patagonia via The Back Door

We were trekking to the glacier in Lolo Escobar's backyard on a trail he created with a hand-axe. That in itself seemed incredible. Patagonia's backyards feature few swing sets but some include a thorny wilderness inviting adventurers to get hopelessly lost. That's why you go with a local.

Among even them, Lolo is considered an anachronism. Compact and quirky, we can say he's serious and sincere but not above a prank. He helps run the family ranch, carves ingenious animal shapes from discarded roots and studies the Guide to Native Plants and the Bible. Given his scant contact with the outside world, it doesn't seem incongruous to call himself both ecologist and evangelist.

My friend Tara is an experienced hiker, so I found her aghast watching as the pack horse was saddled with 60 kilos to head up the mountain for a few days. She had already cocked a brow when Lolo's sister packed us glass jars of honey, four kilos of bread rolls, homemade fruit preserves and marmalade. But we did stop her short of including a whole raw leg of lamb.

At these times, I remind myself that we live under local norms here, not modern ones, and are mostly content for it. It helps too to remember that people of this valley died of hunger in not-so-distant past. Thus these hulking grain sacks amounting to a portable Frigidaire were something of a comfort to Lolo (but not to his horse).

We started in the meadows and climbed to a forest of moss-covered boulders dubbed the houses of stone, up a river valley to huge southern beech and thick stands of lenga and 񩲲e. Lolo walked attentive to surprises in our path: a blue mushroom, a giant spotted moth, a rock in the shape of Easter Island moai.

Given the storybook setting, I would not have been surprised should we happen upon wood nymphs or trolls. Light streamed through the forest in glittering pillars. Big trees grew straight out of granite hunks. The river was transparent and ice cold. I'm telling you, it was that good.

And if there were no gingerbread house at the end of the trail? At least we packed the cherry preserves.

Posted By Carolyn McCarthy on April 24, 2007, 11:09 AM

'VIVA LAS VEGAS'

If you can't afford to visit Europe, this is the answer to your dreams.

My husband and I lived in Europe for two years, so we have experienced it all first hand.

We did not stay on one of the big hotels, but visited every one of them.

The Italy hotel takes you on a gondola ride to die for. The decor is so much like old Venice, the gondolier sings opera, the music is wonderful. Just like old Italy. Very romantic.

The Eiffel tower in the French Hotel is a work of art. You can ride to the top (on non-windy days). Shop in its large mall.

The Egyptian Hotel makes you feel like you just walked into an Egyptian Museum. The rooms make you feel like you are in a pyramid.

There is so much entertainment there you won't even need to gamble, and the food in each hotel is different and the entertainment superb. I recommend it to anyone for a taste of Europe without the overseas travel. No passports required.

Rhea Bergert, Florida, USA

Posted By Rhea Bergert on April 24, 2007, 11:58 AM

Monday, October 23, 2006 12:31 AM

The loooooong journey home

Tibet has been a remarkable experience, from the bumbling, funny yaks, to the odd & surprising terrain, to the almost feral, child-like nomadic Tibetan yak herders living in the most inhospitable conditions, yet remaining so very hospitable themselves. We have driven across all of Tibet this past week, hundreds and hundreds of miles, and it continues to be so stark, barren and bleak. The diversity? Well, there are mountains and plains, enormous mountains and plains, more mountains and plains, and then there are the brown craggy mountains, the ocher peat covered mountains, the sand dunes windblown to look like hundreds of whale carcasses turned upside-down and strewn all across the valley, there are the burnt sienna giants that look like dried mud heaved from the earth in the most alien formations, the hugely enormous gray wrinkled mounds that resemble dinosaurs at rest, and the black, sharp and shiny pikes too dangerous to climb, the snow powered peaks that arise majestically behind all of the others and steal the sunlight away from everything around and the piles of tan-ish earth that look as though a giant just created wet, dripping sand castles in odd fairy tales shapes spiking up to the sky..and then you realize that it is a castle or ancient fort topping that mountain, the ruins blending in so perfectly you might need to squint a while to believe you're actually seeing history dotting this vast wasteland. Still, it is an endless landscape of treeless, mostly uninhabited void. Villages often blend in so well that we don't realize they exist until we are right upon them. Again, no matter how remote we venture, there is always a dog, mule, cow, yak or person popping out of nowhere. They curiously stare for a while and once we smile and wave, they wave to us as though we are long-lost family. Even from far, far away, they wave wildly for as long as they can see our bus. We have a mini bus that is bigger than a van and holds about 18 people. We love it because we can all spread out or occasionally pick up hitch-hikers who also happen to be out in the middle of nowhere. The bus is driven by Migmar, the long lost Tibetan Earnhardt Brother. He is a wild man. We were told we had to have a jeep to cross Tibet due to the horrible and treacherous road conditions, but Migmar shook his head "NOOOOOOOO!" His bus could do it and amazingly, it can! The roads are a bit like the scenery, always another road, but never quite the same as the last road. We have driven through deep, slippery mud trails, rock and pit holed paths, sleek newly paved bi ways, scary hanging off the edge of the cliff to let a truck pass by roads and a zillions of other nail biting varieties of driving terrain. My favorite was the "road" that came right after the horrid lumpy dirt path that I'm sure goats had used before us. While bouncing and grinding on the "goat road" we were laughing about how there couldn't be a road much worse that this. After all, the bus was crashing up and down, everything was shaking and rattling so loudly we figured in a few more mile, all of the nuts and bolts would shake loose, so one by one, pieces would be jolted off until there'd be a path of bus parts behind us and there we'd be..stranded with the yaks...in the middle of the Himalayan Mountains. But, nooooo!! That wasn't the worst road. We went from that road, took a right turn at the imposing sand dune and careened straight out into the wilderness. Shortcut? Pit stop? Migmar turns around with that Cheshire cat smile as he guns the engine. Who knew there were miles and miles of desert right in the middle of Tibet?! Not just sand dunes, but sand mountains too. Sliding, unstable sand, dusty dry sand shooting out from the wheels, us breathing in the particles, gritty, grinding, get in the brakes, sand! Did you know when a bus bounces in the sand, one can actually be suspended in mid-air before the carriage slams back down to Earth? Suddenly, those yaks with the fancy ribbons and highly decorated saddles were looking mighty appealing. There are 8 of us in the bus. Our driver, Migmar (no English), Tenzen, our guide (some English) and two great couples from Spain, who speak about as much English as I speak Spanish, so it works quite well! Besides, a facial expression or body gesture, quite often proves much more communicative than words. We tend to find tons of humor in the strange situations we are always caught in and believe me, you can hear our laughter across the desert, especially when we miss plowing into a herd of animals by only a yak whisker, bus veering to one side, sand to the other, all of us flying around inside and holding on for dear life, but when we look at each other and someone makes "that face" we all fall over laughing realizing that we no longer even flinch when these moments occur. As we go deeper and deeper into the backside of Tibet, we rarely see any more Chinese, only the very tribal Tibetan who are living as they have always done. One day, we drove up to an incredible mountain pass, just under 18,000 feet (bring out the oxygen!). It had icy sharp air and was bitter cold. The wind was whipping us around like the hundreds of prayer flags strung everywhere. We were chilled to the bone, dry throated and gasping for breath. BUT, there out in the fields the children were playing, yak herders were working and women were cooking or making what we called "yak patties" (pancakes of yak poop, flattened by hand, smacked onto the outside wall of the house to dry and then later, use as fuel). They laughed at us shivering in the brisk air. We were in awe of them displaying no discomfort in such intolerable, unbearable conditions. Their faces, so beautifully ruddy and leathery, eyes twinkling and skin etched with the harshness of their living conditions. With a simple hand gesture, they guide our vision up to the majestic snow capped mountains towering above all of the rest and their chests puff up proudly as they say the Tibetan words for Himalayas. They watch our faces for expressions of rapt and wonder and they are pleased. With the sun glowing off of them, the Himalayas are truly beyond description. We are at the top of the world. I point to my camera and then back to the peaks. They nod and gesture. I scrambled along beside the yak herders to a spot they thought would be perfect for photos. I turn around quickly to see the wide expanse of landscape and when I lift my camera to take a photo, the mountains kept spinning, round and round. I was sure I was standing still, but being almost 18,000 feet up in the freezing cold air had totally thrown my equilibrium off...altitude sickness, dizziness...gonna pass out!! I stopped and drank water, breathed very deeply, slowed way down, walked very, very cautiously and tried to remember that the Himalayas has been there a long, long time and I didn't need to hurry to catch a picture! They had a good laugh while I regained my composure. I think laughing together is such a universal way to bond, that before I left, they were all willing to let me take photos of them too. In many ways, they are even more beautiful then the grandeur of the mountains.

Clif says there is an abundance of three things in Tibet; long, long endless stretches of mountains and plains; steep, never ending stairways and thick, continual rivers of mucus. When he's talking about the rainbow colors and the variations of greens that he's seeing, he ain't talking about the landscape! Again, the opposite of Bhutan, where every child seemed the picture of health, here, every nose is running. All of the kids love my animal backpack purse and hug it constantly. I love, them, so I let them hugs away...but I think I am burning my purse when I return home! The Tibetans are afraid and curious at first, their eyes full of question and doubt, but once they see it is not real, they fall in total love with it all wanting to hug, play or touch it. Between the purse, my hair and my skirts (they love the skirts!), I have never been so pawed and prodded in my life! They may be hesitant at first, but once given an opening, they all rush in for inquisitorial exploration.

Tibet has been a much more difficult journey. The travel and accommodations are rough i.e. one night, the temperature, both inside and out (no heaters and just one extra blanket each), was about 10 degrees and being at 16,000 feet, we could neither warm up nor breath very well. Sleep was out of the question. A good bathroom could be described as a lucky find of a rock big enough to hide behind in a landscape with no bushes, trees or obstructions! Tibet is a shadow if it's former self. The basic nature of a police state cannot be hidden behind all of the refurbishing in the world. In the cities, the "frantic Asian expansion mode" is just as evident here in tiny Tibet as it is in Japan or China. One day (to make a long, terrifying story short) we were detained by the authorities for almost an hour, being interrogated and harasses for not having the correct traveling papers. It was a rotten, frightening ordeal, but in the thick of it, Clif and I kept reminding each other that it was truly part of the reality if the Tibetan, Communist experience...although there were moments that the movie Midnight Express (minus the drug smuggling!) raced through my mind! Anyway, we did have the correct papers and in the end, I've never seen Clif get so angry in my life! Right in their faces and he does tower over the average Chinese Tibetan. Apologies abounded, but days later, when the Maoists, commandeered our vehicle on the road to Nepal to demand money for their Party and for safe passage, we were again reminded of how treacherous and sad the political situation is in both Tibet and Nepal. We are glad we traveled Bhutan first. It was a relaxing, enchanting transition. Now, as we sit in the airport in Seoul Korea, we long for our soft comfy bed, hot water, flush toilets, food that is not Tibetan or Bhutanese, a log deep breath without strain and a road that does not rearrange one's vital organs. Oh yeah, a milk shake would be nice too! Although we travel for two days to get home, due to the time difference, we will gain back one of those days. That, combined with a hardy case of culture-shock, jet lag and constant travel for three days straight (back through 5 counties) should totally disorient us.

Our last night in New Delhi was great. As we arrived at the airport, fireworks were going off everywhere. The city was lit up with a million lights and candles. India was celebrating a special holiday honoring light and we were lucky enough to have fireworks lighting the sky on both entry and departure (6 hours later) from India. A beautiful, exciting send off.

Someday, I will have to describe the unbelievable road trip from Zhang Mu, Tibet back to Kathmandu, but that would be a very long letter!

Namaste (represents the belief that there is a Divine spark within each of us that is located in the heart chakra), jo and Clif

Posted By Joanne Borovoy on April 24, 2007, 12:03 PM

Three things struck me about Cambodia: the mixing of Hindu and Buddhism, the current political state and the poverty.

Angor Wat and many, many of the other Wats were really amazing, in size, in scope, in history, in sheer quantity. It was amazing to me the integration of the Hindu stories (specifically Sita, Rama's wife, kidnapped by Ravana the demon king of Lanka and the savior of the story: Hanuman) in to so many Buddhist temples. I had no concept that India had so dominated this far east and for so long. It was very interesting to see the 2 religions wrapped up together in people's every day lives, and would be an interesting topic for more study.

Knowing that Pol Pot was one of the worst ever dictators, learning about the millions who died under his rule was not a surprise (1/4 of the total population at the time). He was deposed in 1979. I was unaware that Cambodia fell into a 10-year civil war (about '79-'90) and that the current government includes some of his comrades. It's surprising that the entire population lives with these horrible memories, missing family members and continued fear even today. The political / military situation seems stressful, strained, somewhat unstable. It's very sad because the people seem to want more and there's simply no opportunity.

Which brings me to the poverty. I had expected it to be poor, like border Mexico poor, like DR poor. It was not, it was an order of magnitude worse. They live on less than 1USD per day, on average. Every school and medical clinic we passed was funded by the Swiss, the Fins or the Americans. There are no medical services for the population, and I don't mean like in the US where if you have private coverage or $ you can purchase it. I mean there isn't any to be purchased. If you are sick, you die. And the government provides education through some elementary level but only to a small portion of the population. I've never seen so many dirty, starving, begging children in my life. Five and six year olds carrying naked 2 year olds, pushing them toward westerners asking for dollars. We hired a local driver through an eco-friendly company for the 3 days we were there. When we opened the door to get out, before the door was open enough to get a foot on the ground, there were little hands and arms reaching to touch you and beg for money. It was very sad, very depressing. It seems like 2 or 3 more generations will be lost to Pol Pot before a true society and government can be rebuilt.

Posted By Amy AHLERS on April 24, 2007, 4:02 PM

Okay so I just wanted to let you know my thoughts about online photo printing services. Yes, I'm a nerd.

If you're like me, you take a million digital photos. I mean, I took over 500 shots on a 3 day trip to Death Valley and Yosemite. And 331 photos over one day at the happiest place on earth. A little overboard? Yes, probably, but taking an obscene amount of photos is lighter on the wallet (and the luggage) than a bunch of store bought souvenirs.

And if you're like me, storing them online is not enough, you have to print them.

Here are my thoughts on the 3 largest online photo companies: Kodakgallery.com (formerly Ofoto), Imagestation.com (Sony), and Snapfish.com.

First, the universal. They all print on Kodak paper (although the quality of the paper varies greatly). They also have some other awesome features in common like the ability to upload photos from your mobile phone and timely processing and shipping(about 4-5 business days).

However, there are some distinguishing characteristics.

Kodak Gallery:
The most popular. The one that basically everyone uses. The 4x6 prints are 15 cents without any specials. 10 cents with their premier plan. For buying large quantities of photos, the shipping does not increase as dramatically as some of the other photo processors. The thickest paper of the 3 services examined.

Imagestation:
4x6 prints are 12 cents a print. The shipping cost is roughly the same as Kodak but the great thing is they frequently have free shipping if you order over 100 print or 99 cents if you order less. Recently they even had a no tax sale in addition to the free shipping. They too have member plans that give you bonuses like 10% off if you buy the member plan. Paper has a medium thickness.

Snapfish:
4x6 prints are 12 cents each. If you prepay for 1000 it is 99.99 and comes out to 10 cents each. Similar prepaid deals for 5x7. The shipping is fairly expensive, $1.49 for the first few and $.49 for every extra 10. The thinnest paper of the 3. Bonus - it keeps track of your previous orders so you can see tiny images of stuff you already bought so you don't duplicate.

The verdict:
I love Imagestation! I used to use Snapfish regularly on their prepaid plan but just felt like I was paying so much in shipping! 50 cents for every 10 photos really makes the price 15 cents each (10 cents plus 5 cents shipping). This is the same complaint about Kodak Gallery. The cost adds up with few chances for special deals. Although Snapfish could still be good for the prepaid 5x7 plan, for the more common 4x6 prints, go with Imagestation. The quality of Imagestation is great, the items arrived quickly, and it's the cheapest! It's a good deal. I'm a platinum member now, as I realized that the money I put in to become a member got me enough discounts to warrant it. And I usually just save up my photos until there is a free shipping sale, which there is right now until 4/30/07. I guess my biggest complaint is that it doesn't keep track of your previous orders so you can see tiny images of stuff you already bought so you don't duplicate. It just lets you know the amount you bought and the date with tracking number. Also there was a period of time that when I was trying to make large orders (over 500 photos at a time) and it would periodically drop everything in my shopping cart without saving them to the cart unlike some of the competitors and I would have to start over the selection process. But overall it's great and others agree (it won PC magazine's Best of 2006 photo-printing award). If time isn't an issue (which is usually isn't for me), the quality of online processing is better than at home and in store so go with Imagestation. And no, I don't work for them.

Posted By Gloria Lin on April 24, 2007, 5:56 PM

I kind of was excited to cross seas to Beirut fully aware there's this jubilee of a gym. It's not perversion, just appreciation. I went to this gym at the inception of my trip, and I went to it to, well, appreciate. Actually I attempted to go in the gym three times before I just did it. The first two times I just went back home because I was not fully satisfied with the walk I had to make to enter given the post-war situation in Lebanon. I guess I was not accustomed of having to work around any kind of situation at all. Anyway I was surprised to find myself in the gym with only two others. I guess post-war just makes things better. I was dropping a few lines here and there about fat people boasting of becoming thin overnight when I found who I was using as a spectacle to just view smile at me. Of course, being the utter idiot that I very well know I am, I don't read it as a signal and do not even smile back. There was not much of a crowd distraction either. It just makes me wonder what I am thinking traveling and then just ignoring the hell out of myself. The fact is, everything amplifies itself when you are abroad. That's why when you are abroad, you got to do everything you can to keep it positive.

Posted By Lena Shane on April 25, 2007, 3:44 AM

Originally published at http://www.babylune.com

NOTES ON MOTHERHOOD FROM ELSEWHERE

"Kate, how much does one diaper costs in Germany?" My sister-in-law asked me other day.

The reflex among linguists would be to correct her grammar. How much do diapers cost in Germany? But there is no mistake.

Here in Bulgaria, pharmacies sell diapers one at a time. This is not a throw-away society and in the interests of economy, most children here are raised mostly on a routine of cloth diapers coupled with elimination training. Plus, when spending hot, hot summers in the villages, where life is more relaxed, most babies are allowed to play in the shade completely naked. Pampers, as all disposable diapers are called here, are used mostly when traveling or visiting someone where a leak would be very unwelcome. Convenience is not a big priority here. People operate according to need rather than ease.

There are a lot of other differences in how children are cared for. I think the biggest single difference is the role of grandmothers in a child's life. In socialist times, most women retired at 55. They were needed to help care for their grandchildren while their daughters and daughters-in-law worked. Now, under the free economy, retirement at 55 is not an option for most grandmothers. That doesn't mean they aren't still the primary caregivers of young children. After leaving their "career position" many women take part-time jobs as shop assistants or start small businesses to supplement their meager pensions. A former electrical engineer I met at the playground with her grandson, now runs a book and stationary shop with one of her former colleagues.

The grandchildren, at least in the summertime, go to work with their babas. On market days, the children sit on little chairs beside their grandmothers, chatting to customers, reading, and demanding treats.

In the rural villages, while grandparents grow vegetables and raise animals that feed the entire family, children run a little more freely, greeting each other, stopping in to view events at other houses, in other gardens, playing in nature, taking afternoon naps and demanding treats from the village shops.

Not everything is different. At the Internet Cafe where I write every morning, the attendant is also a mother. Her son, who looks to be about 16 months-old, comes to visit with his grandmother during their walk every morning.

Mother and child are always just delighted to see each other.

Posted By Kate Baggott on April 25, 2007, 4:11 AM

Literary Toronto
There's no better city to hide from nasty weather with a book and a hot drink.

Stepping out of the St. Lawrence Market, I stumbled as Toronto's trademark wind gusts hurled around a freezing rain. The 200-year-old market tipped into the edge of a shabby former warehouse district obviously in the embryo period of gentrification. Through the drizzle, a modest sign on an old brick building proclaimed it to be the headquarters of the Toronto Opera Company.

There, I almost turned back. I was cold. My feet were wet. And in my backpack was a fat new Wayne Johnston novel, a Newfoundland author made for rainy afternoons. I wanted a cushy seat and something hot to drink. Besides, the area touted as the Old Distillery Historic District was probably just a bland collection of tired shops. Why bother? I grumbled. But I was on a mission.

Faced with driving sleet and biting wind that morning, I'd looked outside and thought, "Today is a day that requires coffee shops. Coffee shops with great mochas and no hurry." But for the coffee shop to be complete, it needed a book. Not the novel I'd brought with me. No. Coffee shops in places away from home cry for books that had been sniffed out from a city's very own bookstores, with their very regional selection of books.

And juicy book shops, luckily, abound in Toronto, enough to make travelers forget about their numb hands and wet shoes. The prospect of a new book followed by a hot, comforting beverage made being wet and cold almost bearable.

Sniffing around the Northern End

Elliot's is the kind of second-hand bookstore that makes readers greedy. Three stories of narrow aisles with tall bookshelves hold a minimum of dust among a maximum of tidiness. Mouthwatering leather-bound editions of classics fill floor-to-ceiling shelves by the door, giving way reassuringly to compressed rows of trade paperbacks. This is the place to find old travel guides, modern bestsellers, and a mix of Canadian classics.

Closer to downtown, This Ain't the Rosedale Library lives up to its name: eclectic. With awards lining its ceiling advertising "Toronto's Best Independent Bookstore," it really smelled of books. That fresh paper smell, a slight hint of glue and its promise of literary adventures.

Narrow, sagging shelves, books everywhere, books stacked on the floor in piles, on chairs, but in a strangely organized fashion. Not a store where you couldn't find anything. A store where you could find anything, including a great selection of lesser-known kids' books and a large transgender and gay section. A store where you could discover a collection of children's fables by Margaret Atwood and trot with it down to the nearest drinkable chocolate outlet, which I'd passed on the way.

Second Cup, a warm Starbucks-type chain all over the city, has some of the frothiest, most delectable mochas I've ever tasted outside of France. Insider information also informs me that Second Cup participates in the worldwide Cup of Excellence, a Fair-Trade-type organization that focuses on paying independent farmers a premium for growing the highest quality Arabica beans. The do-gooder participation just lent extra warmth as my jeans began to dry.

Lettieri, also dotting the city, is more chic, more hip than Second Cup. Its hot chocolates are just as good, and its espresso comes in tiny glass cups that just beg to be sipped out of. Sit down with a mug of this, a sparkling water, and a book, and you can stay happily snowed- or rained-in for hours.

Gorging in Old Town

Nicholas Hoare's bookshop is a feast. An independent seller of new books, the shop is wide and spacious, with appropriately resounding hardwood floors. It's described as a great place to get coffee table books, but that doesn't detract from its collections of others, especially nonfiction.

Nicholas Hoare sets up a literary smörgåsbord by facing books outward, shamelessly flashing readers with the cover of nearly every book they carry.

The practice brought a new meaning to browsing. I don't think I've ever browsed a bookstore more thoroughly in my life. Even books I'd already read looked different facing out among others on the polished wood shelves, orchestrated with a Vivaldi concerto. I roamed among the menu items until I finally picked up Wayne Johnston's The Custodian of Paradise, which hadn't yet been published in the States, and moved back into the rain, to find the much-touted Distillery Historic District.

Chocolate Salvation

Derelict buildings cornered the historic area's main intersection. Huge green shutters sagged closed under old brick archways. Deciding that the historic area was also in the embryo stage of tourist development, I almost turned away when I saw a shy iron gate and guardhouse across the road. The gray drizzle almost obscured the sign that pointed out the pedestrian entrance to the Distillery district.

There is something tremendously romantic about old brick warehouse areas. Cities that take their renovation in hand -- carefully highlighting the history as well as the warm beauty of the buildings while making them modernly accessible -- deserve an award.

Toronto is such a city. The stumpy buildings were renovated with a minimum of interference, the old brick maintained, the signs for galleries and cafes small and attractive. The brick streets, even in the rain, felt almost cozy. And it came up trumps. In my halfhearted search for a cup of tea, a polite arrow pointed the way to freezing drizzle salvation: Soma, chocolate maker.

This was not just hot chocolate, not just a mocha. The spicy cup of Mayan hot cocoa on a cold day was an exploration. The scent of chili and cinnamon pervaded Soma's open space with proudly exposed brick walls. Behind huge glass windows, in the "chocolate laboratory," two young women poured sauce, cut bars, and coated orange peels with the slow movements and laughing exchanges of people who love their job.

The chocolate drove away cold and a drudgerious walk with a relaxing warmth that was a nod to its Huxley namesake. It restored better spirits for exploring the walkways in the unending rain.

In sprawling Toronto, perseverance is well rewarded: among the galleries touting local artists and craftsmen, the Distillery's developers had added a slosh of whimsy. Lesser-known quotes from famous names ran along outer walls, brightening the chocolate-lightened day still further: "Nobody has ever walked into a store intending to buy bread and coming out with just that," Erma Bombeck. "People who live within their means lack imagination," Oscar Wilde. Temptingly true.

Toronto is for lingering, for warming, for getting you through wretched afternoons full of freezing drizzle and wind. Find your appetizer at a bookstore and hide on a cushy seat with a hot drink while the weather does its worst.

Posted By Antonia Malchik on April 25, 2007, 9:57 AM

The tirade of Lebanon and atrocity it has faced has been somewhat misplaced to say the least. To shake this invariably small country by pushing it to the brink with a whirlwind of agonies that the death of Hariri marked off would be due cause to what one would think should be a transparent stress. Actually the long unraveling behest of the region not merely accrued a death toll on display for all to see on poster board in downtown, but the mutilation of the lives of many. As a foreigner amidst such a struggle can only leave me growing despondent at the occurrences around me. However, with destruction at its climax, it doesn't seem to phase any of the residents, and through this big fall, believe that even independence has been gained. To the inhabitants, the party has just expanded despite the upturn. The demonstrations are yet another outing, more members of the community are visible, and well even if u r seen looking hot and flustered, someone is bound to come and cheer you up, "Don't worry. The Syrians are out." There is no hint of gloom.

Posted By Lena Shane on April 25, 2007, 10:45 AM

My London, England Experience
Gayle Boles
Pflugerville, Texas

London is one of my favorite cities in the world. I had visited it previously as part of a tour. This time I was able to experience this wonderful city all on my own for a week and was only waylaid, by pigeons of all things, once.

My first & second day I walked around the intercity and bought a 24 hour bus tour ticket. I used this to scope out different sections of town. While walking around Trafalgar square a woman asked me if I would take a picture of her & her husband. I said sure & while I was doing that I got dropped on by a pigeon. I took that very personally; I mean I was just trying to be nice!

The Comfort Inn on Hyde Park is where I stayed. It was in a lovely section of London, near so many outstanding sights. There was a tube station and a bus stop a little over a block away and the rooms were really nice and big! The only problem was that there were stairs going into the building, but the taxi driver helped me the first time and after that there was always someone around that would carry my walker up or down the stairs. This experience taught me a very good lesson. You see, when I had called to make the reservations I had asked if they had an elevator and they said yes. I didn't ask about steps going into the building; I had made the faulty assumption that it would be handicap accessible, I guess I continue to live and learn.

Seeing London on my own, I did not have to rush through places, merely glancing at things as I was hurried along. I believe that dramatic historical events leave a psychic impression on communities and buildings. This time I was able to experience the history, psychology and atmosphere of these significant places.

My real adventure began on my third day in London. It was really cold out so I decided to take The Romantic England Tour. It was a tour of Oxford and Stratford-upon-Avon.Oxford is really a world all its own. It is the oldest English speaking university in the world, there has been an educational institution in Oxford since 1096 and many of the present day buildings date back that far. Lewis Carroll, the author of Alice in Wonderland; C. S. Lewis, author of The Chronicles of Narnia and J. R. R. Tolkien, author of The Lord of the Rings all went to Oxford at the same time. They would meet at a pub called The Eagle and Child. I ate lunch there & had a wonderful time imagining the three of them sitting at a table and fantasizing about alternate realities and worlds.

Our next stop was Stratford-Upon-Avon, Shakespeare?s home. The town itself was awe inspiring because so much is still like it was in the 1500s. There were also little groups discussing his life and works going on in every gathering place.

I took a tour called The Living History Tour on the next day. Of course as a former history teacher this fascinated me. We first went to Leeds Castle in Kent, which is described as the loveliest castle in the world. It is in the middle of a lake! It really is pretty but I?ve taken so many walks through castles that I decided to spend most of my time at Fairfax Hall and courtyard across from the castle. It was really interesting and entertaining. There were people dressed like they must have been 5 and 6 hundred years ago performing little plays and carrying on jobs like they would have in the 1400-1500s. We also got to visit Canterbury. You would not believe the Canterbury Cathedral; it is so grand and beautiful! It overwhelms you to walk around inside and imagine Thomas Becket, the Archbishop of Canterbury being killed there. There is a wonderful Chaucer museum in Canterbury where there are little role-plays being put on based on Chaucer?s stories. It was mesmerizing to walk around this area and just soak up the history, energy and thoughts of the people that have lived and died in this wonderful city.

I next ventured out to Sommerset House, if you ever go to London be sure and visit this beautiful place. I hate to call it a house because it was spread out over an area the size of an American block. It was huge with an open area in the middle containing diverse gardens and dancing fountains. I spent most of my time in the section called the Courtland Gallery; it had a fantastic collection of Renaissance and Impressionist art.

On the last day of this adventure, I gave myself the privilege of checking out the Sherlock Holmes Museum at 221 B Baker Street. It was a cornucopia of scenes and characters from the many books about the Sherlock Holmes escapades.

From the Sherlock Holmes Museum I took a bus to Bloomsbury. This is one of my favorite sections of London. I walked by the home of Virginia Woolf on Fitzroy Square where she would often stand looking out the window while she worked on her books.

After a lot of walking around, I finally found the Charles Dickens Museum; in case you can not tell, I am fascinated by authors. It is in the Dickens? Bloomsbury home. The most exciting part of this excursion was when I went to the basement. In the study there was a professor conducting a round table discussion about the works of Charles Dickens. I sat and listened for a while and learned some interesting information about what was going on in London during Dickens lifetime.

This was by far my most exciting, fun and educational trip I have taken so far. I began saving for my next trip the minute I got home.

Posted By B. Gayle Boles on April 25, 2007, 12:51 PM

Westvleteren: A Beer Masterpiece

Quest to Western Belgium for the Beer of Beers

There are seven beers in the world brewed by Trappist Monks, six in Belgium (Achel, Chimay, Rochefort, Orval, Westmalle, and Westvleteren) and one in the Netherlands (La Trappe).

Chimay, Rochefort, Orval, Achel, Westmalle, and La Trappe (Schaapskooi) are commmercially available, and in Portland, Oregon, can be found very easily at either Wild Oats or our specialty beer shop Belmont Station. This is a tale of my quest for the elusive Trappist beer, one who's mystical legend has grown, and who's elusive flavors are considered to be the best in the world. This is the tale to obtain and quaff the beer of beers, Westvleteren.

Up until last year sometime, I had never heard of Westvleteren. Being a beer geek, I was very familiar of the other, more easily obtained trappist beers, but the "Westy" was only drawn to my attention because of the beer website BeerAdvocate, which put the Westvleteren 12 (the 12 being an abbreviated specific gravity reading, which makes the beer about 10.2%ABV) at its number one spot of best beers in the world. Trappist beers are very special, brewed by monks who put their heart and soul into these fine ales, and many are considered works of art. Certainly, of the beers widely available, they are all considered some of the best in the world. Most of the monasteries have signed distribution deals to get their beers to as wide a market as possible, but not the Westy. You can only obtain their beers (they brew the aforementioned 12, an 8, and a Blond Ale) at the monastery in western Belgium, and on the receipt they state very plainly that these beers are not for sale, and are for personal use only. Because of the beer websites and the rarity of these beers, a furor has been created. There are reports of mile long lines of cars at the monastery, people selling cases of the beers on Ebay for $200 (they cost $50 at the monastery), and many companies trying to distribute the beers. But the monks have stuck to their guns. They only brew enough beer to maintain the monastery and lead their peaceful existence withing it's walls. Their beers have no labels, and are very un-fancy in the packaging, the monks letting their craft speak for itself.

Because of the crazy demand for these beers, the monks have set up a phone reservation system. I was in the area last November, and I figured I would just be able to stop by the monastery and pick up some beers. No way. You have to call the monk hot line, which will tell you when to call back to reserve the beer. Then you call back on the day and time they said on the first message, and reserve the beer by giving your name or car plate number. They will tell you when you can pick up the beers. Then you show up, load up to 3 cases of the beer, and that's it! So its kind of a complicated system, and there is only one beer available at a time, based on the season (the strong 12 in the winter, the 8 in the fall and spring, and the blond during the summer).

My friend Tyson and I had planned a trip to Amsterdam April 1-6, 2007 and I was going to do my DAMNEST to get me some Westys when we are there, even though its a 4 hour drive from the canal-crazed city. So, two weeks prior to our departure, I called the hot line. The message is in dutch and french, but if you know the secret (thanks random internet site!) you can push "3" and the message is in broken english. The message said for reservations for the 12 (yes! that's the one I want! LUCKY.), call between 9am-12 noon on March 26. I was giddy with delight. I read on the net that the monks only have 1 phone line, and the amount of people calling can sometimes make the wait 2 hours to get through. So, on the 26th, 9am Belgium time was midnight our time and I hit the phone right at 12:00. After 1/2 hour of busy signals, I pulled out my cell phone and tried 2 phones at once! Felt like a gangsta mob bookie taking numbers. After another 30 minutes of two phone action, I got a ring!!!!!!! I was shaking, so nervous. Mr. Monk picked up...Me:"do you speak english?"..."yes"..."can I reserve 3 crates of the 12"..."ok, whats your car registration number?"..."well, I will be in a rental car. Can I give you my name? Nick Wusz....W-U-S-Z"...."ok, what day will you come?"..."oh, is April 4 ok?"..."yes. You will be here fourteen fifteen hours."..."so fourteen fifteen? Two fifteen on April 4?"...."yes"...."ok, thank you!"...."bye". That's it. THEY HAVE BEEN RESERVED. Oh, so happy. It was 1am and I was full on awake and felt so much closer to my dream of quaffing this elusive elixir.

Reality = (How the hell do we get these beers back home) + (How the hell do we get out there)? It's weird to think about planning for something 10 days away, 10,000 miles away, so that you can get to a certain destination at 2:15pm on a Wednesday afternoon.

April 4, Amsterdam. I am prepared for this driving adventure, and have been looking forward to this day since we arrived. Taking a break from our Amsterdamming, doin a European road trip, short but sweet. Back home, I had procured the appropriate google maps, reserved the car in Amsterdam, and plotted out a path so that we can visit two other monasteries (La Trappe, and Westmalle) in addition to Westvleteren. It is essential that we are not late (don't want to piss a monk off!), so we got to the car rental place in the Dam's suburbs right when they opened at 8. For some dumb ass reason I didn't bring my passport for the car rental, and we were millimeters from being rejected the rental car, but good ol Tyson came through with his passport and flight information, which the guy wanted for some reason. PHEW. Close one. We drove away with our little Volkswagen Fox.

Driving South from Amsterdam, towards Tilburg, we noticed right away some differences between US driving and European driving.... these people know how to drive! There is a sense of respect and politeness when drivers use the slow lane for driving and the other two lanes for passing only. Very cool. This allows some very fast driving, which is fine, because there will be no one lingering in the fast lane. Our lil Fox is smooth and very easy to drive. Handled well on the small, one lane roads. We loved how on the small roads there was no signage telling you to drive slow, or the road narrows, or you cannot pass here. Felt good to sort out the road with the other drivers. More rules = less freedom.

We arrived at La Trappe monastery in Koeningshoven (Schaapskooi) at 10:30am, just when the shop and cafe opened. As we would learn throughout the day, the monks put these monasteries in beautiful, tranquil areas in the countryside. The castle-like walls of the monastery beckoned to us, but the only areas of the grounds opened to visitors are the cafe and the little monastery shop, selling religious stuff and BEER! We had an early morning quadruple(11%ABV) in the cafe, hit the store for some glassware, beer, and cheese, and spoke to the monk about our quest for Westvleteren. He was impressed.

Travelling south west through the north of Belgium, we passed some amazing countryside and cities that yearned to be explored, but it was not to be this day...we had a mission to complete! We descended upon the area of Poperinge and Ieper, in eastern Belgium, around 1:30pm and quickly realized that our maps sucked hard. Leaving the freeway, and using the written part of the Google map, we managed to wind our way into the countryside, amongst un-planted hop fields, where we started to see signs for the abbey.

...and the village of Westvleteren!

Seriously, if you weren't looking for this place, you would never know you were here. It's so strange (yet appropriate) that the worlds best beer comes from someplace so out of the way, and so beautiful. After a few more turns on some curvy country roads, we arrived at the monastery. 1400 hours. 2pm. Amazing.

The next part happened very quickly. There were around 6 cars waiting in front of a gate that led to a circular driveway, which passed by a small warehouse, where the beer is loaded into your car. Soon after 2pm, the gate was opened by a monk and the cars started filing in. We were overcome with excitement as the monk loaded up each car with cases of the 12 and slowly we moved car by car until it was our turn. I started getting panicky and nervous that maybe my name wasn't on the list. I saw the monk look at our car registration number and not find it on his paper, but he quickly saw my name on there when I told him who I was. Tyson drove the Fox into position, three cases of 12 were loaded into our little car, and we paid (30 euro per case + 10 euro deposit for crate and bottles) and we drove out of the driveway.

Did that actually happen? Oh man, that was short, sweet, and efficient. No BS from the monks...all business. Hard to believe that we actually drove to the mecca of beers and obtained the nectar of the gods, straight from the source. The only bummer of this day was that the cafe was closed. At the cafe, you can buy up to six bottles of each of the beers (at a higher price), have some food, take in the scenery, and drink some Westy's. What the hell! Closed until April 6 for spring break, I guess. Have another reason to go back now!

We pulled the Fox into the parking lot of the cafe and basked in the glory of OUR crates of Westy. Felt like pirates with their loot. Some people who didn't know all the rules with obtaining the beer and just showed up, attempted to buy some of our beers from us. "Sorry" is all we can say. Suckers. haha Using our glasses obtained at La Trappe (I know, not the official Westvleteren glass, but it will do for now), we poured ourselves a Westvleteren 12, right outside the monastery. Can it get any better than this? Lets just say, after al the hype, this beer did not dissapoint. It's flavors reach to the cosmos, with hints of nutmeg, plum and a very subtle alcohol taste(hard to do with a 10.2% beer!). It has a taste of wood and smoke, and a perfect carbonation and the after taste is as good as the first milli second it hits the tongue. Truly an amazing beer, and definitely the best I have ever had. This journey was so worth it. THANK YOU BEER GODS!!!!

We left the monastery behind. You gotta respect these monks...the brew they produce is a piece of art and they let the flavor speak for itself. I sure appreciate their hard work. One last look at beer mecca as we drive away.

Tyson and I headed to Poperinge for some lunch and some of those other Trappist beers, toured some WWI cemeteries and headed back onto the highway as twilight ensued. The area around Ieper and Westvleteren is spectacular....hop fields, farms, estates, greenery--seemed like a great time of year to be out here. The grass was long and wavy and sun was shining. Hard to imagine that 500,000 soldiers from WWI are buried out here. There must have been beautiful days like this during those long battles. Crazy.

Our next destination was the monetary of Westmalle, located near the dutch border, just east of Antwerp. Another beautiful setting, especially amongst the light of twilight...the shadows of the trees and the birds chirping made for a glorious, romantic setting. Tried to hold hands with Tyson, but he wouldn't go for it. Ha! Again, the monastery is closed to the public, but we had some Belgian food (MEAT) and some Westmalle Tripels (also the Trip-Trap, Westmalle dubbel and tripel mixed) at the cafe across the street. Great beers and great food. Three monasteries in one day is quite an achievement, and we were tired. Only four more to visit someday.

We made it back to Amsterdam by 11pm with our precious cargo safely in the back. we couldn't drop the Fox off at the rental place outside of business hours, so we nervously approached Amsterdam central. Luckily, being so late, it was not a big deal at all, and we miraculously found a parking spot right outside our apartment. The task at hand soon became "how are we going to get these beers back to the US!!!?!?!?!" I had borrowed a large, hard Samsonite suitcase from my mom and bought a roll of bubble tape. I fit 48 beers into that suitcase! Tyson fit 24 beers into his roll case, packing all the precious nectar in his dirty underwear. My bag (and his) were super heavy. I could barely lift it, and rolling it was brutal on my back. THIS IS FOR THE BENEFIT OF ALL MANKIND. Before leaving The Dam, we both bought Westvleteren glasses at the local beer shop to make it all official. So my two check-in bags were crazy packed with beers, souvenirs, knick knacks, and beer glasses. Both very heavy and very fragile. I also had one of the wooden crates as my carry-on, which got some interesting looks. Tyson took a crate as well, and we left one behind. Lets just say I approached the check in counter at Schipol airport with trepidation and nervousness. To my disbelief, the lady at the desk didn't even glance at the digital scale read off, when it said 40kg (88lbs) for my big bag abd 25kg (56lbs) for my other bag. PHEW. Big relief. LUCKY. I had them put Fragile stickers on both of the bags. Let's just hope my bubble wrap holds...would be quite a tragedy if I get back with 2 beers instead of 2 cases.

I put alot of faith in luck with these bags, and hope the Baggage Handling God was on my side. Flew Amsterdam to London to San Francisco. In SF I had to go through customs and I couldn't find anything on their little form that I needed to declare, so I didn't declare anything. I picked up my bags (no leaking!) and headed through the green customs line swiftly and surely...no problem! As soon as I got through, I opened the little case--no moisture. Nice. I opened the big case...oops something has broken or leaked, but not bad. Maybe one bottle, I thought. Forget it...I latched the bags back up and checked them in for my final flight from SF to Portland.

Portland, Oregon. My large bag approached me along the luggage conveyor. Just beyond it, along with a strange, dank, beer-y smell, a puddle. Oh I didn't want to look! Once home, I surveyed the damage. Looks like two bottles broke completely, and around eight leaked about half of their contents. Must have been some heavy pressure(or un-proper bottle cappage) to cause leakage like this. But that leaves 38 bottles of pure liquid heaven safe and secure. Not bad! The only casualty is my moms suitcase, which even after a good scrubbing and air-out, still smells like the best beer in the world.

Now it's four days later, and the beers are storing cool and dry in my basement. This beer gets better with time, so I hope I can be patient enough and disciplined enough to let a few bottles age for at least 2 years. Damn, what an adventure. My Westy tastes so much better knowing what we had to do to obtain and bring back a bunch of bottles. I guess I am officially a beer geek now.

Posted By Nick Wusz on April 25, 2007, 1:12 PM

My travel blogs emphasize culinary experiences. Here is an excerpt from a week long adventure in the Riviera Maya.

On the morning of our fourth day in Playa del Carmen, we were sitting down and having sweet breads, coffee, and juice in the lush back garden of our hotel for breakfast when a couple from Vermont sat across the table from us and started munching on empanadas they had brought with them on paper plates. Even though I was enjoying the freshly baked sweet breads, I was enviously eyeing those empanadas, especially since I just had those wonderful chicken empanadas the day before at Rancho San Felipe. The couple kindly explained to me that they found a street vendor outside the Banorte at 10 Avenida and Calle 6 with an enormous line and decided to try out the empanadas themselves. The Vermonters couldn't stop praising the empanadas so I knew I'd have to visit the stand myself (I know, I couldn't believe I was taking advice about Mexican food from northerners either). A short two block walk later, I had found my target.

For 50 cents I got a ground beef empanada (they were out of the potato ones). And boy it was delicious. It was a bit greasier than the ones from the Mayan village but they were also more flavorful (some sort of spice in the ground beef mixture? Tasted like bay leaf but I'm not certain). My first official encounter with street food in Mexico (Senor Tacombi doesn't count since it has a permanent address and seating) caused some concern on the part of my companion, who offered me the pink stuff as a preemptive strike. I was feeling brave (and satisfied from greasy, delicious, deep fried goodness) and refused.

We headed south for Tulum. Many travel guide books say that the Tulum ruins aren't worth visiting because they aren't as grand in size, large in area, or have as much historical significance as some of the other ruins. After visiting three Mayan ruins on this trip, I would disagree. The Tulum ruins are unique because they are built right on the coast. The ruins offer some fantastic scenery contrasting the gorgeous colors of the ocean, sky, tropical lush, with the texture of the stone pyramids and structures. The small size and proximity to Playa del Carmen makes it a manageable day trip without feeling overwhelmed (though we did stay in Tulum on this trip).

Dying of thirst on the way out of the Tulum ruins, I stopped for a coco frio (cold fresh coconut) from a man waving a sign in front of his cooler. $2.50 bought me quite the show and refreshment. The man pulled a fresh coconut out of his cooler, wacked away with his machete, and presented me with a heavy coconut with two straws. I've never been a fan of canned coconut milk (too sweet and too rich) so I was skeptical, but fresh coconut was surprisingly refreshing.

We continued to drive into town and decided to have lunch at Don Cafetos right on the main highway through Tulum. Don Cafetos is another Frommer's recommendation and offers sidewalk seating (though I have to say the street scenery along the highway in Tulum is not quite as appealing as Quinta Avenida in Playa).

We started off with two licuados to cool down on a hot day. I had a watermelon licuado (with water) and my companion a papaya licuado (with milk). Both came in very large cups, and that was handy. Don Cafeto's salsa, with large chunks of habanero pepper, was some of the spiciest I've ever had, so I drank all of my licuado in no time to calm my burning tongue.

We were feeling lazy so we just asked what the waiter to bring one appetizer and one entree platter that he recommended. The appetizer was queso fundido, served with flour tortillas. The queso was really greasy. I didn't enjoy this appetizer much except for the few chunks of chorizo in the queso.

The main entree was called the Mexican platter. It was basically a combination plate of various Mexican specialties: enchiladas with ground beef in red sauce, enchiladas verdes with chicken, chicken flautas, and cheese quesadillas, with a scoop of guacamole. In my opinion, nothing on this plate stood out, it all seemed very average.

Perhaps our waiter just made safe recommendations because he saw that we were tourists so we were not able to enjoy the Don Cafetos the way everyone else seems to rave about, but other than the extra spicy salsa and the large refreshing licuados, I didn't find this meal particularly memorable. And at $22 for the entree, appetizer, two licuados, and tip, it was very average in price as well.

After lunch, we drove down Boca Paila to find our oceanfront cabana. The beaches in this part of Tulum were my favorite on this trip (and perhaps favorite of all trips). The beach is kept natural with the exception of small beachfront hotels. The area provides the feel of a private beach since there are so few people. The sand is the softest here. It was shell-free, jellyfish-free, and seaweed-free. It felt like you were running your toes through 6 inches of baking flour, amazing.

Strolling along the breathtaking beach, we noticed a sign advertising happy hour at Posada Dos Ceibas. We couldn't resist. Oh, to have an extra limey margarita on the beaches of Tulum every day, that would be the life.

Since Boca Paila is such a narrow, dark road with so many speed bumps, we decided against venturing back into town for dinner. The restaurant at our hotel only serves breakfast and lunch, so we drove half a mile to Zamas for some ocean front dining under a giant palapa roof.

The atmosphere at Zamas was lovely, a live reggae band jamming with the crash of the ocean waves in the background. You can run your feet through the sand while enjoying your dinner at the candle-lit table. But Zamas is overpriced, and the food is only average. We started out ordering a pineapple licuado and a chaya water (tasted like grass) and they were tiny, about one third the size of the ones from Don Cafetos. As there's no concept of refills, these tiny 8 oz cups didn't last through the meal well. The salsa at Zamas was bland and flavorless. I think it was just diced tomatoes with a few chopped up onion pieces thrown in. The entrees were better. I had the Chaya crepes, filled with shrimp, spinach, and seaweed. It had a buttery garlicky flavor that I enjoyed. My companion had the grilled tequila fish, which we thought was passable but not spectacular. I think our $45 could've been spent better elsewhere.

Tulum, the most scenic part of our trip, didn't offer us much luck in dining. Maybe we followed bad leads, maybe there just isn't as much good food in Tulum since it is not as developed as Playa or Cancun. Even with the average food experience, I wouldn't trade sitting on the porch of that ocean front cabana watching the stars in a perfectly clear sky (practically no pollution or lighting near us) and falling asleep to the sounds of the ocean on the hammock. I don't think I've ever felt more relaxed.

Oh, and I never got any digestive discomfort from those empanadas from the street vendor. This "survival" opened new doors for dining options in the next couple of days.

Posted By Donna on April 25, 2007, 2:46 PM

The Golden Gate Bridge-A View

A monument to American engineering savvy. In 1945, a symbol of home for soldiers and sailors of the Greatest generation returning from the Pacific War. Arguably the most recognizable man-made structure in America. A work of art disguised as a bridge. Golden Gate.

From several miles away you feel you can touch it. Up close the sheer size and complexity boggles the mind. Statistics stagger. Towering over the bay, the international orange painted structure dominates the San Francisco skyline. Though thousands of people flow over its deck each day, the bridge remains a romantic icon, thought only as a busy thoroughfare by toll collectors and those long removed from the excitement of childhood, in spirit, not age.

The pier at Aquatic Park is functional, its cold, scarred, concrete formed and set scores of years ago. It points like a dagger to the heart of Alcatraz, but offers early morning risers what they most cherish-solitude. Some mornings you may greet an old, weatherworn fisherman, and there is always the chance of happening upon the refuge of one of the city's homeless, a complex cocoon of sleeping bag, shopping cart, clothing, and garbage bags full of crushed soda cans. Both say San Francisco as much as the tiny, tinny cable cars, as much as the squawking of the diving, flitting sea birds. Many mornings it is you alone, the elements(dress in layers is not just a cliche), and a view so stunning, to call it beautiful is insulting.

Across the bay is Sausalito, the gangsterish name not at all noting its perpendicular streets, and the wondrous vista residents receive of the city at night. Turn a little, and there is truly one of the marvels of our time, of any time. The Golden Gate Bridge.

The sharp claws of the cold wind cut deep, but at that moment it is a smallish price to pay for an acid less trip more powerful than any produced by the famous drug LSD. As many mornings, the bridge is enveloped in fog, a 40's film noir fog. One moment only the uppermost spires of a single bridge tower can be seen. The next, maybe half of the bridge. A breath later, only the fog, no bridge at all. Suddenly the bow of a huge ocean going container ship emerges from the fog, eerily, conjuring unearthly images of pirate's ghosts, and the ships they man. In just the few minutes you have watched the bridge, the bay has become quite active, though the pier remains a safe haven for your soul. Darting across the bay is a ferry, maybe heading for Tiburon, converging on the container ship, then missing it easily, though crossing in its wake. Sail boats now dot the harbor, and even one man kayaks plow through the dark waters, where only minutes before a massive ship sailed, thousands and thousands of tons of bay displaced. The small, the powerful, the homely, the elegant, all able to co-exist under maritime laws. Maybe a suggestion that man need get closer to the ocean he once crawled from. Turn back to the span like no other.

Most of the north tower of the Golden Gate can be seen. Even a patch of the Marin headlands. Now the south tower can be seen as well. And cars streaming from the north. The fog is lifting, a day of business is at hand. But for a half hour, maybe 45 minutes, my soul was rejuvenated. Not in the hinterlands of Nebraska, close to my home. Rather, at the edge of a major city. Now for a hearty breakfast. Let's stop at Lori's Diner and pile on the cholesterol.

Posted By Ron Meyer on April 25, 2007, 4:13 PM

Shortly after being diagnosed with ovarian cancer, and only three weeks after my first surgery, I decided to head south to the high peaks of the Andes to contemplate how this illness had changed my life. I wanted to put things into perspective I guess and thought the contrast of being so little in such a huge landscape would be a good start. So there I was for two weeks in the beautiful Ecuadorian capital of Quito. What follows are a few of the more memorable and dramatic moments from my South American journey.

After reading about the powerful healers located in a small town about six miles to the south-east of Quito. I quickly decided that there would be no harm in giving it a shot to cure the cancer. After a long and dusty bus ride I found the tiny village and through the kindness of English speaking locals was able to pinpoint the home of the most (and I quote,) famous healer this side of the Andes. Excited, I entered the cottage and sat on the dirt floor of her main room. That is when the adventure really began. For about an hour she rotated around me counter clockwise and spit all over me and then urinated on the ground. According to the translator, I was told I would be cancer free by the next full moon. You never can tell what just might work. Needless to say, no one wanted to sit next to me on the bus back home but all the natives seemed quite interested in my altered appearance and were muttering something to the effect of "please bless our chickens and pigs, we can see the phlegm in your hair and know that you have been to see a great healer." I blessed about forty chickens and twenty piglets by holding them in my lap and lightly stroking their velvety ears.

The next day I went to a bull fight but was unable to take photos inside the ring. This was probably for the best as it would have been pretty bad for Ecuador tourism. It was bizarre and very bloody. I was able to top off this fantastic performance by having the best falafel of my life at the El Arabe restaurant…which might just be the finest dish this side of Egypt.

On my way up to see the Equator monument north of Quito I sat next to an older native gentleman on the bus who rambled on and on even after I told him that I did not speak Spanish. After about forty five minutes of this, the people around me began to give me sympathetic looks. I thought it was because of this guy not shutting up. Nope. I finally realized that they were giving him the sorrowful looks because the gringa sitting next to him was obviously a halfwit and unable to express sympathy at his plight. Upon returning to the hotel and checking my Lonely Planet phrase book I discovered that he was lamenting the death of his lamas and chickens due to a local disease. I discovered I was a horrid person as by old customs, I should have broken down in tears as he spoke of this to me. This newly acquired knowledge cleared up my questions as to why over half the bus was crying for about thirty minutes of the trip.

On a social aspect note, you should be aware that when Ecuadorian men want to flirt with you they hiss. This was disconcerting as I am used to hissing being a sort of pagan curse. The first time I hissed back the guy responded with this look like I was a goddess incarnate. He dropped to his knees hissing and blowing kisses at my dusty combat boots. I shook him off and went about my way wondering at my own goddess nature in this strange culture.

I met a really funny Scot at the local British pub. He also had the Lonely Planet phrase book so we proceeded to get tanked on pilsner and practice our Spanish with each other. Let me tell you, Lonely Planet leaves nothing to chance. This book gives you pick up lines, tells you how to decline and accept illegal bribes, etc. So here we are, two primarily English speaking individuals sitting at this pub, (surrounded by the Ecuadorian population that likes British brew.) I figure maybe fifty people were there as it was during happy hour. At this point I am so tanked that I proceed to demonstrate my prolific Lonely Planet Spanish by shouting "Me llamo Sage!!!!!!" (My name is Sage.) The pub proceeds to get so quiet that you can hear a pin drop, not unlike in the old West movies when the bad guy walks thorough the door and the piano player stops playing with a few mournful plinks. What breaks the silence is my lovely Scottish friend who belts out a drunken, "bbbbaaaaa hahahahahaha" and proceeds to fall off the stool. I swear to the very Gods that he almost died of the laughter. The bar responded with a unison of "Hola Sage!" as if this sort of display happened every evening.

Second only to this example from Lonely Planet was when we were practicing the bar section of the book. We repeated the phrase, I’m pissed! from the text wondering why this was in the bar section. Unknown to us the bar tender called us a cab. We were unaware that I am pissed means something to the effect of, I am pretty drunk so call me a cab as I’m going to throw up. *sigh* Such language barriers.

Late in the second week I hopped a plane for Machu Picchu for two days. It was so spiritual that I took hardly any photos and simply dropped down to my knees amidst the fog and ruins and cried for about two hours. I guess it was the religious significance of where I was coupled with what has happened to me over the last half a year.

I will never forget this trip for a variety of reasons, not the least of which are listed above. More than anything it was a break for me. A break where no one knew I was so sick, where no one judged me for my decisions on my treatment. Where I could just go back to being myself, wandering around a beautiful country.

And just for the record, I saw that healer two years ago. Today I am here to write this entry. Blessings upon that woman.

Posted By Sage Evans on April 25, 2007, 7:40 PM

Day tripping on a budget.

My motto is, "if its free, its for me", but, my mission on this particular Saturday is to find out how well this motto fit in the upscale world of day spas.

The background: I had a particularly stressful week at work, punctuated by a certain amount of whining on my part to my soulmate (ok, alot of whining on my part), who was supportive, compassionate and caring for at least 30 seconds before launching into how stressed out he was. By the end of the week, my shoulders were near my ears. After receiving the news that my relaxing weekend was starting with him working part of Saturday and leaving me in this advanced state of stress with the children alone, I wondered whether my shoulders would soon require surgery, and whether it would hurt and if they would actually let me stay in the hospital for recovery....

Fortunately, dear husband was in fear of losing his tranquility and finished the "have to work" sentence with an offer for me to have a "mini-spa-day" for the rest of Saturday, and imparted me with a modest budget and instruction to make an appointment.

Wow.

I wasn't sure how to start. I was aware that in the civilized world, there are such places as spas, and that they generally come with inviting pictures of peaceful settings and luxury amenities. When I've cautiously clicked on the "services and rates" button in the past, I've suffered sticker shock that sent me reeling and recalled that the price was somewhere around what my current day care bill was -- for a month.
Although skeptical and a bit unused to frivolous spending, my wise husband had obviously recognized that sometimes even moms need a vacation, if only for a few hours and further, sometimes the budget should be bent a bit to take care of the rock of the family. Or, perhaps, he has a purchase of yet more stereo equipment in mind.

Whatever.

To work:

I only had a few hours to plan a trip to a spa, and a budget of $ 100.00. I took to this task like my life depended on it. I ended up booking a wonderful, hour-long massage and got a very trendy haircut to boot, and tipped nicely of course. This did take some negotiating, but I did learn some valuable tips along the way that would have saved me about two-thirds of that in advance. Oh well, at least my shoulders are safe from the knife for the moment...

1. Plan ahead. When you wait until the day you want to go, you have limited choices. Especially if that day is Saturday, the busiest day of the spa week. Many of the spas are booked ahead of time with regular clients, or have not booked enough staff to accommodate walk-ins. On the day I called, I was not able to get the pedicure I really craved as they were completely booked, and most of the other spas that had space for the pedicure did not have a slot for a massage as well. Many did not call me back at all.

2. Opt for a weekday. Most spas will be closed on Mondays as well as Sundays, but booking on Tuesday, Wednesday or Thursday (or Friday nights in some places) will give you an advantage as it is typically a much slower day.

3. Ask about packages. Some spas offer deep discounts with multiple visits or services. If there are no advertised packages, for example, ask if the spa will give a discount if multiple services are purchased in advance. Nearly all will give a good discount, sometimes approaching 50%.

4. Bring a friend...or several. Since we're planning in advance, ask some friends or relatives for some one-on-one time, or spring for a babysitter (see swap sitting below for a real bargain) and take your soulmate. Nearly all of the spas advertise a special for spouses or friends. Many offer free services for you if you bring three friends or more.

5. Swap sitting. While you're bargaining for the bulk discount, see if the spa will issue the discount in connection with gift certificates, and go in with your friends who have children, and offer to swap babysitting services during appointments.

6. Check the net. At the very least, you will find out what services in your area generally cost - critical for bargaining. I ran across a number of unbelievable specials. Some even on a Sunday! Mark your calendars! For example, one specialized New York City spa offered $ 30 for one of several treatments on one day a year. As spas become more plentiful, competition is driving the prices down, and making the packages more attractive. Several trendy boutiques offered a half day of services for less than the money that I paid for my unplanned Saturday treat, and allowed you to take advantage of those services on multiple visits! Which leads me to the next important tip:

7. Be Flexible! As I stated, I believed that life as I know it was about to end because I wasn't able to meet my vision of my perfect day which included a pedicure with my massage. Actually, I did a perfectly fine job on my own toes but not such a good job butchering my hair over the kitchen sink with perhaps the dullest kitchen scissors this side of the Mississippi. Thus, a massage and a trendy haircut didn't just work fine for me, but my benefactor at least appeared to be enthralled with my appearance (although it was probably the glow of picking out that new subwoofer) - a real ego boost and an added bonus that I hadn't even factored in! Shop wisely and you will likely find close to what you want and may find what you settle for is better than what you had envisioned. And lets face it, a day (or half day) at the spa, beats a good day at work any time! That being said, I would not have settled for eyebrow waxing...

8. Do your homework! Don't be afraid to plug all your valuable research into a homemade chart so that you can perform step number 9.

9. Don't be afraid to ask. The asking should sound something like this: "I would really love to come to your spa, and have heard wonderful things about you, and its really much more convenient to where I live, however, I am now booked into ABC spa for next Tuesday, who is offering me a mini-facial, hour long massage, mini-manicure, and pedicure for less than you are charging for the massage and facial. If you think you can match that, I'd prefer to come to you." If you haven't done your research, this approach will not work well. It also helps to say it with a great deal of charm. If you have the time, it helps more to say it in person (away from other customers). Dress well for this appearance. Remember, this is a business, one that wants customers who are potentially repeat customers who will potentially recruit their friends and family to come in. Alot. Which brings me to...

10. Enlist co-conspirators. The staff who is providing the services are working for a fee. Part of that fee comes from what you are paying for the service, as a commission, typically, and part is from your gratuity. Should you show interest in other services, especially from the same provider, you are likely to be able to develop perhaps your best source of discount, the employee, who will know what is possible in terms of discounts at that spa. Display your dilemna prior to treatment, perhaps by inquiring about a parrafin wax treatment prior to a manicure. They will be anxious to please you to increase the amount of tip they are likely to get and may be able to offer the service as a compliment. Develop a rapport and be sure to get -- and keep -- their card. Call and ask to speak with them personally and invite them to direct you to slower days, where they can spend more time with you. This will free up time for additional services - either greatly reduced or free. Remember, they also want you to come back.

11. And finally, for the true bargain hunter. Let me say that I was appalled to spend a cool c-note on myself in one fell swoop, with no regard to the babies-needing-shoes (they always do) or the ever growing grocery list (a killer and far more than the c-note) and on and on.. But I did learn that, had I been able to put the research into it that I now have performed, I could have had close to the same experience for....$31, or less. That's right, less than a third for several hours of good time. First, check in your area for schools of massage therapy. There were two here in Sunny, medium-sized Mobile, Alabama. Two! I found, without much difficulty, that at least one offers student massages at the rate of $ 25.00 per hour. And offers gift certificates for multiple visits! Second, check your local cosmetology schools. Only those close to graduation are staffing the clinics, and these people are learning the latest techniques and styles. And they are supervised. You might want to get there early and watch for a while, if you have that choice. Still, its better than my dull kitchen shears, for sure! Costs will be very low and in some areas, they may offer free styling to give the students the experience. For those who want more done to their hair, this is really a great bargain. I once had to get the red out of my hair, not an easy prospect nor particularly good for your wallet at your average salon. At the school, it took quite a while and involved supervisors, but 4 hours and $ 40.00 later, I had the red out, and a stylish cut, dry and style. It truly can pay to be a bargain shopper!

Well, I'm going to cut cucumbers for the babies and, while I'm at it, sneak a few pieces for my eyes and dream of my next 'mini-spa-day"...but, first, must investigate why stereo sounds much louder. Hmm.

Posted By Kyla Kelim on April 26, 2007, 1:34 AM

Home in Agnone-

My grandparents, Enrico and Bambina Di Pasquo, came to the U.S. in 1921 from a small town called Agnone. Agnone is in the mountains just north of Campobasso in Italy. I was very close to my grandmother and loved to hear stories of her life there. She'd say in her broken English "Some day, Giovanna, I will a takea you to Agnone."

My grandmother was a hoot. She became an American citizen in her 50's and when asked at the test, "if the President of the United States were to die, who would get the job?" Bambina's response was "the undertaker." This is a true story and gives you an idea what a colorful character she was.

About 5 years ago, I decided to get online to look for a site that might lead to Agnone or anybody with the surname of Di Pasquo. So about a year and a half later, I received an email from Enzo Di Pasquo, a doctor who lived in Agnone. Enzo gathered some information from me and went to the church where the records of all the births of its residents were kept. Long story short, Enzo and I shared a great-grandfather on the Di Pasquo side of the family.

OK, I realize this is suppose to be a blog on travel, and so our journey begins here...

My sister, Phyllis, my cousin Chris and I, decided we would spend Easter in Agnone. This was the holiday we best remembered as children at our grandparent's home.

Upon checking in at LAX, I recognized a woman behind the ticket counter at British Airways. I'd only met this woman once and was happily surprised when she took our tickets and said, "I think we can do better than this!" and upgraded us to Business Class.

My sister and cousin haven't traveled much and were like children at a carnival when they realized we had BEDS, individual televisions, endless attention from our personal flight attendant, and nifty little bags containing all sorts of goodies. My sister promptly put her sleeping mask on inside out while my cousin, headphones on yelled "TURN ON CHANNEL 3..THERE'S A GOOD MOVIE ON!! AND THE DRINKS ARE FREE HERE!" All this on a red eye flight across the country and over the Atlantic Ocean. "Oh yeah, I thought to myself (as did I suspect, a majority of the other passengers in Business Class) The Beverly Hillbillies have entered the aircraft." I must admit, I too, was impressed with the accommodations.

We arrived in Rome the next morning at 2 a.m., dragging our suitcases behind us; awakened back to our peon ranks. But we were in the country of our ancestors! THIS is where we came from.

I'm going to skim over our 2 days in Rome because much is known and written about this city. What I will warn you about are the Gladiators outside of the Coliseum. Oh yes, they will happily wave you over for a photo opportunity. You will hand your camera to one of these guys to take a photo and before you part, a hand will go out for money for the privilege of having them in your photo. My sister asked "We have to pay you to be in our photo?? I don't think so." The Gladiators became agitated and yelled at us to "go back to New York!!" Hey! We're not even from New York!!! But Americans were very UN-welcomed there as the war had just broken out a few weeks earlier. AND come to find out, these Gladiators weren't even Italian. Apparently they are gypsies from other countries or so we were told.

Our next destination was Sorrento so we lugged our suitcases to the train station and somehow, in our broken Italian, managed to buy tickets on the correct train.

Sorrento was beautiful Try the limoncello or limoncello cream liqueur made in this area. Wonderful . Walk the streets of many shops and restaurants many on cliffs that look over the water to Naples. We stopped for lunch at O Sole Mio, a small pizzeria at the edge of town. We ordered a pizza (or so we thought) from the owner, Maria, a woman about the same age as we were, who we felt we had known for ever. There seemed not to be a language barrier, most likely because we were speaking the Italian language of hand and arm waving, something everyone in our family speaks fluently. Within a few minutes, not a pizza arrives, but 3 pizzas arrive at our table. OK, so maybe something in the arm waving was miscommunicated. Not to worry. There are doggy bags in Italy. WRONG. We, of course, only each finished about 2 slices each, Maria came to clear the table and the pizza was never to be seen again. We came to realize you eat what is on your plate or you say "ciao" to it forever.

A couple of days later we again boarded a train toward Naples, but not first before stopping at Pompeii. MUST SEE. Absolutely amazing but a bit disturbing. People frozen in time from the ash and heat from Mt. Vesuvius in 79 A.D. Bring comfortable walking shoes; you will not want to miss any nook or corner. And check out the many painting on some of the walls of men, uh, well, how can I put this"..just trust me"..two words. Google it. Let me put it this way, this place must have been a hot place even before the eruption. Enough said.

And now the REAL adventure was about to begin....

Our cousin, Enzo, in his best English, was trying to communicate via phone to my sister, in her best Italian, that once we got to the train station in Naples (watch for gypsies and escalators that don't work..wonderful exercise when carting heavy luggage UP these things) we were to locate a certain bus that was to take us to Agnone. This is where it got confusing. Some �friend� was suppose to meet us at the bus is what we understood. This friend spoke no English and why should he? He lives in Italy!! Anyway, we found nobody matching the description of this friend, Tony. We did ask questions on how to get to Agnone from Naples. What a surprise!. You can only get to Agnone, which is very far and the road is treacherous, by Mercedes�of which I happen to own and which I would be happy to drive you in, for $200.� These are the guys who will offer to watch your baggage while you use the bathroom. Uh huh. We finally find Tony, who puts us on a bus, then tells us, in Italian (Italian sign language again) that before the bus leaves, he will take us across the street for coffee and a sandwich. We say "NO!NO! We cannot leave this bus for fear it will leave without us and it's taken us so long to find the bus." He kept insisting we go with him. We finally, not wanting to appear rude or ungrateful, find another passenger on the bus who speaks some English and ask her to translate the fact we are afraid to leave the bus because we are worried it will leave without us. Not many buses go to Agnone you understand. Much talking takes place between Tony and our translator. Finally, our translator turns to us and says "HE is the bus driver." OHHHHHH, HE'S THE BUS DRIVER!! So off we go, with the bus driver for coffee and a sandwich, leaving the rest of the passengers waiting. It helps to know people in high places.

The two hour ride through the mountains and small towns along the way, streets barely wide enough for a bus to pass through was magnificent. The word breathtaking means something. With each turn, we were wondering if the next magical town we saw built into the mountains would be THE town we�d been waiting to �meet� all of our lives. I don�t know if I can accurately explain or capture the feeling here, of seeing something you�d only imagined forever. The anticipation of seeing streets you�d seen in your grandparent�s wedding photos, the house in the photo my grandmother had written �mia casa� on, or looking into the faces of people who had a bit of the same blood flowing through their veins as your own. And there he was�..Enzo, a bear of a man all dressed up in a suit, waiting for us in the town piazza. To look into his eyes and see they were a similar color to my sister�s and mine was familiar. I cannot do justice the emotions and the feeling you were home in a way. I�ll condense our visit�..Good Friday procession the day we arrived, running into Giacomo, our cousin (Enzo�s older brother) who looked very much like our Grandfather. Giacomo became our tour guide and was possibly more fun than anyone I�ve met. Eating Easter dinner with Enzo, Giacomo, their sister Lucia,their children and spouses and Enzo�s mother, Maria made us feel right at home And while it was a bit difficult to communicate with the spoken language, the physical language �spoken� within our new-found family felt very familiar. The constant touching, ribbing, hugging and clowning around made us feel right at home. We knew where we came from and it was here in Agnone.
The streets of Agnone are narrow with an occasional BMW parked on the sidewalk, the citizens were well-dressed for the most part and almost everyone carried a cell phone. A lot of the people who lived there had moved away to attend universities, became doctors, pharmacists and engineers and then chose to return to live here. Every night we walked from one end of the town to the other following Enzo while everyone came out to meet the American relatives. We walked back and forth A LOT, aka �passeggata� on this visit. It was like a movie, people in town yelling �Enzo!� and Enzo doing that backward wave like something out of the Godfather II. THE hotel in Agnone (yes, there is one) was at the top of the world. The view from this cliff-side dwelling overlooked terracotta rooftops and a view of green mountains that were magnificent. We�d be awaken each morning by the ringing of the many church bells (the town is known for making the bells for the Vatican) and sounds of many goats and sheep grazing below. We walked on the same street as the one in the wedding photograph of my grandparents. We stood outside of the church, since closed, where they were wed. I heard tales of my grandmother from some of the older residents who remembered her kindness long after she moved to America when she would send care packages back to her hillside home in Italy.

From Agnone we traveled to Florence and then Siena, both of which were beautiful cities.

On the Piazza del Campo in Siena, we sipped wine, had a leisurely lunch (take your time and let go of the �American� way of dining, you�ll have no other choice) and watched the people and the world go by us. Afterwards, we joined the many other people here in lying on the street to take a nap, after all, there are no cars here on IL Campo. Be careful to avoid lying on the occasional cigarette butt�..

Finally we headed back to Rome by bus for a final night before boarding our flight back home. Oh yes, this time we sat at the BACK of the plane, wedged next to each other, trying to sleep only to occasionally wake to sneak a peek at the monitor on the back of the seat in front of us, tracking our progress home across the Atlantic, over Greenland and then over the U.S. toward California.

And so, even though we didn�t get to make this trip together Bambina, believe me, you were right there next to us the whole time.

Posted By Janis Reid on April 26, 2007, 2:19 AM

"...And once you send it in to us, it becomes our property--intellectual and otherwise."

Are you nuts?

Posted By jaron summers on April 26, 2007, 10:40 AM

After an hour-long flight, you spy a ring of secluded, white-sand beaches, pristine coral reefs and protected mangroves around an extensive central lagoon. The sun is low on the horizon and smoldering orange-red, soon to be extinguished in the blue-green sea. You've arrived in Los Roques, an archipelago made up of more than 200 islands, reefs and sandbanks, 90 miles north of Caracas, Venezuela in the Caribbean Sea. Classified a National Marine Park in 1972, it offers the opportunity to explore unique marine ecosystems, participate in conservation efforts, or simply relax in an idyllic island hideaway that also happens to be quite civilized.
Upon arrival, check directly into one of Gran Roque's sixty or so posadas (small inns.) Posadas range from simple and unpretentious to downright posh, but a standard two-day, one night package averages $150 per person, including meals and tours to nearby islands by boat. Your things-to-do list is as extensive or sparse as you choose. Views from the top of the "mountain," are spectacular, with open ocean and low, rolling waves to the north, and the full expanse of the main island below and outlying islands to the south. The town center consists of two, unpaved main streets lined with posadas, a souvenir shop or two and an occasional grocery. Further are residences, the cemetery and desalinization plant. Along the way, look out for the basketball-shaped cactus mel�n de monte. A gentle tug on the tiny fuchsia tip poking out from the top reveals a flower-like fruit with a sweet and sour fleshy white meat and tiny black seeds.
Diving in Los Roques is a paradise of protected and secluded reefs, alive with an amazing array of sea life. Beginners can complete a Discovery Scuba course in the morning to later descend under the watchful eye of the divemaster to explore a shallow reef with its rainbow of tropical fish such as ocean surgeonfish, angelfish, spotfin butterflyfish. For the more advanced, deep-water, cave, or night dives provide access to a completely different world. Less adventurous can snorkel the protected waters of Francisqu�, actually two islands joined by a narrow strip of sand, forming a giant lagoon called La Piscina (the swimming pool). More distant jaunts include Crasqu�, popular with windsurfers and Hobie-cat sailors, and Dos Mosquises Sur which hosts la Fundaci�n Cient�fica Los Roques, a biological research station dedicated to preserving local populations of green turtles. Los Roques is also said to have the best bone-fishing in the world.
Virtually every weekend is associated with one festival or another with the main party held in the Plaza at the center of town. A local band plays well into the night as a mixed crowd of locals and tourists dance til they run out of steam, and step away to refuel with an icy Polar, the local brew. Don't worry about sleep; you can catch up on z�s on the beach tomorrow. Explore Los Roques and make them yours. Most of the islands haven't even been named.

Posted By Heather Tamara Munoz on April 26, 2007, 11:35 AM

Mt. Lemmon
Sometimes there's a good reason for the road less traveled being less traveled. With a week off in Tucson, AZ, we'd had about enough of the desert heat. We decided to take a drive to the Coronado National Forest (1.7 million acres of public land), and up to the top of Mt. Lemmon, 9157 feet. Many people make this pilgrimage to hike, picnic or explore the lake in summer, or even to enjoy winter activities in this southernmost ski area in the US. But who wants to do things like the masses. We had heard of a rugged back way up the mountain, much less traveled and much more natural. Wasn't that our style?
The pavement ended almost immediately, and one of the few signs we saw was at the beginning: Mt. Lemmon 50 miles. The unpaved road quickly deteriorated into more of a wide path of dirt, rocks and sand. As we got higher, the road narrowed even more, and each hairpin curve was tighter than the last. Need I mention our truck is an F-350 extended bed with a poor turning radius? About three hours later we had passed a dozen cows, four horses and two guys on ATVs. The Sonoran desert landscape slowly transformed into forest, as aspens and pine replaced cacti and scrub brush. If the signs about recent fire activity and flash flood hazards weren't unnerving enough, we had also reached bear country. The last 14 miles took just over an hour. Just before we finally saw a few campsites and reached pavement at last, we caught up to the ATV-ers pulled over to the side surveying the landscape. "You made it!?" one of them called out as we passed, as if they had placed bets on whether we were ever to be heard from again. Once on the peak, the only thing keeping us from descending was that we couldn't get the truck back out of 4-wheel drive (solved fairly quickly by consulting the manual) and that the speedometer had apparently bounced itself loose and stopped working (that inexplicably fixed itself).

The front of Mt. Lemmon was beautiful! It looked more like Colorado than Arizona, with windswept, craggy rock formations with slashes where water cuts through each year as the snow melts. Saguaro cacti began to appear as the wildflowers of the forest above were left behind. As we made our way back down winding the Catalina Highway, we must have stopped at a dozen pull-offs before the 60 degree temperature we enjoyed on the mountaintop crept back up to 90 as the sun went down.

Posted By Heather Tamara Munoz on April 26, 2007, 12:10 PM

Working in Greece for the summer?? Huh!

Did I take some sort of crazy pills and not know it???.I found myself working in a kitchen in the town of Sidari, which is on the island of Corfu (located just off the coast of northwest Greece). As I was getting shown by Thanasis, who was a 250 pound?(or should I say 113 kilo?) Greek man, who chain smoked hand rolled cigarettes as he cooked, the proper way to put together a Greek salad I was thinking, "How did I get here?". Well, I knew the answer to that question?.

About a month before I found myself in a Greek kitchen, wearing a hair net, I had my heart broken and decided to plan the trip of a lifetime. But, I had no money saved and knew I would have to work along the way: I decided to work in Greece for the summer!! I looked on many websites for jobs overseas; the two best being www.expatriates.com and www.craigslist.com. I emailed back and forth with Thanasis (the restaurant ownder) about working as a waitress in his restaurant for the season, it sounded good and so I booked my ticket, I was super stoked. What could be a better way to move on embracing the some fine European culture. Really, it was not a bad set-up; I earned 15 Euro a day, for 10 hours of work a day-6 days a week, free food, and a free place to stay.

When I flew into Corfu, I made my way to Sidari via the local bus. The drive was beautiful, a 30 minute drive through green mountains, cute towns, and ocean views, but where were the white and blue houses I see in all pictures of Greece? Oh, whoops, I picked the chain of islands that did not follow that culture. Huh, well, I'll try it anyways?

I arrived at the restaurant where I finally met Thanasis and the other waitress who had been there for a week and who would also be my roommate. She was a 21 year old girl from Estonia, very nice, and seemed very comfortable with the working situation.

I arrived on Corfu in the beginning of May; I was ready for hot sunny days and long party-filled nights. But to my surprise, however, it was cold during the day, even colder at night and there was no one in the bars. Apparently, I arrived before season started; hence, the cold empty streets. Over the next three weeks, I explored the island and planned my next move?which was to leave Corfu!!

However, during the planning, I had a pretty good time. At night, I would go out with the locals, drink ouzo and tequila, dance on tables, and laugh when they would call me Florida (where I am from). When I was working, I enjoyed listening the dishwasher, who was lacking many teeth, talk to me in Greek, even though I had no idea what he was saying. I would give him "thumbs up" and we would both laugh. During my off time, I would lay on the beach at the famous Canal d' amour-- which was an area of eroding sandstone cliffs that have formed several tiny sand and shingle coves reached by paths and ladders, it was beautiful? But, what I really wanted was hot weather and blue and white houses.

After searching on the internet and making phone calls, I found a job on Mykonos, the epitome of blue and white houses and nightlife. My next job in Greece was going to be as a hotel receptionist making 10 Euros a day with a free place to stay. So, the pay was a bit lower and I would not be eating for free?but I would be in the center of it all. I prepared to tell Thanasis that I was leaving; I found out very quickly that large angry Greek men can be very intimidating. Thanasis did not like my decision to leave?the season was getting ready to start and he was worried about finding someone who can make the Greek salad and peel potatoes as well as I could. All I had to do was collect my money he owed me for the past three weeks and be on way. But, it was not that easy. He told me that if I left before he found a replacement for me, which could take weeks he said, he would not pay me. What a bind I was in, all I wanted to do was leave Corfu and go to Mykonos. If I stayed I would lose my job I secured on Mykonos, but, after Thansis tried to blackmail me into staying, I left right then, and was out 350 Euro! I made it just in time to start my 12 hour journey to Mykonos by bus and boat via Athens?which I booked right there at the port. I was so happy to be done peeling potatoes and wearing a hairnet.

I felt like I was reborn as I pulled into the Mykonos port. I starred at all the blue and white houses in amazement. At this point, I didn?t care about the money I didn?t collect?okay, well, I cared a little bit. But, I was in a city that was hot, but with a breeze, and was exactly where I pictured my summer in Greece. And then I met Jonathan, the owner of the Zorzis Hotel (www.zorzishotel.com), where I would be working, and who I would be living with. Jonathan was overweight, about fifty years old, sweaty, and smoked so many cigarettes he had a hard time keeping the ashes off of him and not coughing. He led me through the windy, character filled, blue and white roads of Mykonos Town to the Hotel, which I knew I would never be able to find again by myself. The Hotel was cute, had some character, and overall it seemed like an easy job. I happily was introduced to another employee that would be working at the hotel and living with me and Jonathan. Jonathan put me straight to work once I got there. It was pretty simple work: making reservations and greeting the guests. The hard part was dealing with Jonathan; He was unorganized, messy, forgetful, and he pretty much ran around like a chicken with his head cut off. But, I thought that if this other girl, who was 22 from Australia, had been working there, I'm sure it was fine.

I got back to the house after work, to overhear the conversation of my new-to-be friends quitting. This made me have second thoughts about the job. Over then next week, I did what I had to do at work and at night I went out to all the clubs that truly live up their expectations of the Mykonos nightlife. Going out at night also meant not being home with Jonathan in his apartment. Before work I would check out beaches all over the island, including Paradise beach, which is pretty much how it seems. I loved buying my bus ticket, ?I would like a one way ticket to Paradise, please.? I was having thoughts about moving right along to another island. I thought that I could have an awesome summer living on lots of different island in Greece, rather then staying put.

Staying put gave me too much time to think?and the point of this whole trip was too move forward and not think about the ex?who drove my broken heart half way around the world. I thought I would try to stick it out for a few more weeks, but then I had an episode with Jonathan. I went out the previous night, as everyone does in Mykonos, with a group of girls?who apparently were in the ?in? crowd; every bar we went to, we got directed to the VIP area and were given free shots all night into the early morning. Given the situation, I was not feeling up to par when I went to work the next day, understandably. I asked Jonathan if I could leave a little early because I was not feeling well from lack of sleep. He went on a rampage that I was going crazy because the liquor on Mykonos is bootlegged and it makes people go crazy. With him saying that, I did feel a bit crazy (the whole mid over matter thing) and went to lay in by bed for the rest of the day and decided to leave Mykonos, Jonathan would just be too much to deal with fro the summer---but I was not leaving without my money this time. The next day I collected my money, without telling Jonathan I was leaving, packed up my bags, bought my ferry ticket, and then told him I was leaving. Jonathan was not surprised; I think that he had a high turnover rate.

Next stop: Santorini! I set up a job in Santorni by looking up hotels from my travel book and calling them to see if they needed help for the season, luckily the second one I called said come on over, we need a bartender. Sweet, I always wanted to be a bartender-I like to drink, how hard could it be? I sailed on up to the island?with no expectations this time and met the owners of the hotel. They were super nice, gave me my own room in the hotel and showed me where everything was. I planned to stay put on the island for a bit. The hotel was in the town called Parissa, it was a beach town surrounded by volcanic mountains, black beaches, and fun bars. At this job, I was making 10 Euros a day, free room, free food when I was working and free drinks when I was not working?could it get any better? I was the bartender at the hotel pool, the person the guests talk to about where they should go and what they should see?I was their drinking buddy. My job consisted of laying by the pool for hours on end during the day, getting people beers when they liked, and reading one book after another for my pleasure. Life was grand?but I was still not satisfied (imagine that, ha). Talking to all the guests about the places they were coming from or going to just made me want to go there too. I stayed at this job for a couple months, and then left to go travel for the rest of my trip. I left with a killer tan, lots of new friends, and a great understanding of what it is like to work in Greece for summer. Five months, three jobs, and 12 countries later?.I headed back to the states in debt, fulfilled, and ready to move forward with my life.

Posted By KATIE NISSENFELD on April 26, 2007, 12:21 PM

We recently went on a trip to Belgum and Holland using EasyCruise. It was one of the most enjoyable, relaxing and fun trips we have taken. We have traveled Europe several times, but this was a great time. We originally went to Brussels and boarded the barge for the night. We then left at 5 am for Antrwep. The city was beautiful, but confusing. When leaving the ship, you must go around the river crossing several bridges. But once in the city center, WOW! The next morning we headed to Rotterdam. This was once of the easiest cities to get around. The water taxis are fun, but fast, the trams and subways are easy to travel on and everything is flat. This is one the safest cities I have ever visited. Then offer to Amsterdam for two days. What a busy and large city. Taking the canal buses was worth every penny. The ship sells this for a discount. Going to the Anne Frank house is the highlight of the trip. The ship is so clean, workers are cleaning every minute of the day. The workers are friendly and helpful. They gave us great tips on every city we visited. The food was great and having a choice to eat or not eat on the ship made a great difference in our wallet. If you are on a budget this is the way to go. You don't arrive in to the next city till after noon, giving you plenty of time to relax and look at the beautiful scenery. Great times were had by all. If you would like to see some of my photos, go to flickr.com. Happy trials to all!

Posted By Susan Driscoll on April 26, 2007, 12:41 PM

Clare, Ilse and I are three 'mature' (70's) widows who enjoy traveling overseas together. As dedicated budget travelers, we shop fares and hotels, etc., arrive in cities without hotel reservations, buy souvenirs in thrift shops, and above all, use public transit in foreign cities. Great for really seeing cities, and meeting locals; somehow the gray hair and a smile gives you instant access to friendly, helpful people all over the world. On our last night in Rome, we bussed past all the sights we had seen during the daytime, now dressed up with illumination that somehow changed the face of everything. What a glorious city. After 9:30, while cruising the narrow streets near the Coliseum on the small electric bus, we were famished, and looking for a restaurant. We stopped at Hostaria Isidoro, on Via S. Giovanni in Laterano, a cozy little hole in the wall. Truly a local spot, no one spoke more than a few words of English, and we had no Italian. They made us feel welcome and treasured, everyone's grandma for a night. With much help in ordering, we had a "Chef's Choice" round of pasta dishes, with a possiblity of 10 or more different dishes. Vegetarian followed by seafood, followed by pork, veal, beef, etc., beautifully sauced, over many different pastas. Absolutely wonderful! We also ordered a liter of wine, which came in a huge (more than a liter) jug, and was delicious. We gave up after about 6 courses, our hunger long surpassed by our satiety. We paid the bill, everyone was biding us friendly farewells, and as we went out the door,the waitress presented us each with a parting gift. We scurried to catch the last bus back to our hotel at midnight, and once on the bus, looked at our 'gifts'. The calendars had each day of each month illustrated with different sexual positions, showing amazing gymnastic skills. I'm sure everyone on that last bus wondered why these old ladies were in spasms of laughter throughout the ride. I still treasure my gift, it still gives me a giggle, and has a place of honor in my photo album as a wonderful memory of my last night in Rome. Viva Rome!

Margaret Tajc

Posted By Margaret Tajc on April 26, 2007, 12:43 PM

Happy Endings

Sometimes things just have happy endings.

Sometimes that's good.

Sometimes you're in a brothel in Beijing, and you just don't want a "happy ending" with your back massage. Welcome to my morning.

Massages in the US cost about US$100 each, but here in China they run about US$12 for an hour. But here's the rub (pun intended): most massage parlors in China double as brothels, so you have to be careful lest your request for a" deep tissue lower-back massage" be interpreted as "sex, please."

Taylor hates physical human contact pretty much more than anything else, so I bravely ventured forth alone to find the massage parlor her roommate Jennifer recommended to me. Judging from the neon red lights and thumping music inside my "massage parlor", I could have asked them to "work on" more than just my back.

I was led to a little room with a bed, where I sat down and fidgeted until a young man came in and started giving me directions in Chinese. Before I could point to my ear, shake my head and smile dumbly as to indicate a lack of comprehension, he left.

This left me with an interesting dilemma. I had a pretty good guess that he just asked me to take off my clothes, so I poked around the room, looking for a robe. When I didn't find one, I sat back down and looked around the dimly lit room for red flags like condom wrappers or handcuffs. I actually did find something that looked suspiciously like a condom wrapper, but I couldn't read it because the writing was in Chinese. I mentally clocked it's location, as well as the location of the nearest exit, so I could run if I had to.

The Chinese man came back, looked exasperated, and mimed taking off his clothes. Then he pointed at me and left again.

Ok.

Ok.

Interesting.

So I thought about it for another minute, then gave in and took off my shirt. Then I wrapped my arms around myself, sat there in my bra, and adopted a glare-like facial expression that would break through any and all language barriers and convey my wishes to the next person to enter the room.

A few seconds later, the man came back in with a robe.

Nice job, guys. Get the foreign girl to take of her shirt *before* you give her the robe.

Then this guy spent the next hour very earnestly asking me questions while he massaged me. No, my Chinese did not improve to the point where I understood him over this hour. No, that minor road block did not stop him from talking to me anyway.

Eventually, he left and came back with a big tub of hot brown water. Then he left again, leaving me alone with the tub. I crinkled up my nose in disgust, and then stuck my feet into it anyway. I sat there alone, swishing my feet around the tub, until I noticed a little dark square floating around in the water. I wanted it know what it was, so my first impulse was it bat it around with my feet until it exploded.

Ah. It was a teabag. I was soaking my feet in tea.

I felt a little better about the color of the water.

Then the guy came back with one of those little blue condom wrappers. I readied my killer instinct.

But it was just powdered soap. It seemed he was going to give me a foot massage, too. Eep!

Those of you who know me well know that I have this overwhelming life-long fear of someone pulling off my toes. This is why I can't wear sandals, and why I have to sleep with socks on, and why I have spent the last 20 years walking around with my feet clenched into fists. So my feet have been hurting for about 20 years.

I decided to face my fear and let him do his thing. It was great! Suddenly my feet didn't hurt, which was a very weird new phenomenon for me. Now I'm not saying it was easy -- it wasn't. I was freaking out so much that he eventually gave me a pillow to hug, and when he told me to "fang song" (relax) for the millionth time, my first Chinese sentence suddenly came together in my head and I blurted out "wo bu keyi!" (I can't!) I was completely baffled; I had no idea how I knew how to say that. He just laughed.

Finally the massage was over, and I came out to the front lobby to pay. Insead of approaching me with a bill, the guy happily came up to me with a huge red box with a little hole in the top. Then he pointed to me and mimed sticking his hand inside.

I really didn't want to stick my hand into that box, but I did anyway. To my relief, it was just full of paper. I got a paper with little Chinese characters that I couldn't understand on it. Oh good. Just what I've always wanted.

Then he took the paper away and gave me a pig keychain. For real. Actually, the thing is kind of cute.

So maybe my massage didn't come with a "happy ending," but my trip to China certainly did! I've had an amazing time here, and, even better, it's filled me with excitement and confidence to move to Oman and really learn Arabic. Tomorrow I leave Beijing, but I will take a lot of wonderful things with me: great memories, a green wig, and a pig keychain.

But even better are the things I won't be taking with me:

Crabs.

Posted By Jillian Keenan on April 26, 2007, 2:31 PM

Timing is important when your moving around someone else's country. Their timing. If your asked to get a off a plane, its probably a good idea to do so or else some collective punishment might be doled out. As we tried to leave Utila and fly to Belize City, Bob, Nick, and I learned that. When the pilot doesn't want to fly with a full plane, you don't either.

We gladly got off and waited for the following flight, those who didn't give up their seats for safety made sure that no one flew that day. Everything works out as it should and though Wednesday our departure wasn't meant to be, the following Friday we found ourselves in Belize City and by the next afternoon we had sunk into our beds in Flores.

Tikal lies an hours journey north of Flores in the dense tropical forest that covers much of the region. It had been sunk beneath the green canopy for centuries, only to be stumbled upon during on an expedition to procure chewing gum or some other mundane raw material. It is the site of the greatest ancient Mayan city, one which administered an impressive empire for a fair number of generations.

It is well before dawn and in the pitch black our headlights are picking the way through the darkness as we work towards Temple IV and a vantage point from which to view the sunrise. Through the mist the jungle wakes up around us, but the sun is muted and we slide down the ladders to tour the rest of the complex, in search of whatever is powerful enough to rouse the sleep deprived from their beds at 330am.

We return to the central acropolis and it is almost empty at this hour so near dawn, the towers which were hidden in the night's mist standout in the morning sun and there is nothing to do except sit and wonder at how people could have imagined human existence on such a immensely vast timescale. How they could have built for the millennia when we cannot see beyond the next few decades.

The clouds blow from behind one temple towards another across the acropolis, appearing incomprehensibly surreal, all of the sky converging where the temple rises from the forest floor. Strange birds flit from tree to tree, their calls ringing across the open spaces and echoing on the stone. The hours pass by and we watch the tours come and go, photos are taken, and the groups move on. It's easier to keep moving across the bubbling, busy surface of experience that the guides administer, the impossible expanse of time that these human works have endured humbles all of us who remain still enough to perceive is slow passage and immense presence.

Posted By Franklin Dement on April 26, 2007, 10:04 PM

My last minute idea to work in Greece for the summer

Did I take some sort of crazy pills and not know it?? I found myself working in a kitchen on the Greek island of Corfu. As I was getting shown by Thanasis, a 250 pound Greek man, who chain smoked hand rolled cigarettes as he cooked, the proper way to put together a Greek salad I was thinking, "How did I get here?" Well, I knew the answer to that question.

To get over a relationship, I decided to go travel, I don't think that there could have been a better cure. But, I had no money saved and knew I would have to work along the way!!

My summer job on Corfu was quite an experience. At night, I would go out with the locals, drink ouzo and tequila, dance on tables, and laugh when they would call me Florida (where I am from). When I was working, I enjoyed listening the 4�11�� dishwasher, who was lacking many teeth, talk to me in Greek, even though I had no idea what he was saying. I would give him "thumbs up" and we would both laugh. During my off time, I would lay on the beach at the famous Canal d' amour-- which was an area of eroding sandstone cliffs that have formed several tiny sand and shingle coves reached by paths and ladders, it was beautiful. But, what I really wanted was hot weather and blue and white houses.

I found a job on Mykonos and made my way there for what I planned to be the rest of the summer. Mykonos was the epitome of Greece: character filled, blue and white windy roads which I knew would take time to learn how to navigate. My job as a hotel receptionist was easy, but the hard part was dealing with the boss; He was unorganized, messy, forgetful, and chain smoked cigarettes to the point that he could not keep the ashes off himself in between coughing.

Over then next few weeks, I did what I had to do at work and at night I went out to all the clubs that truly live up to their expectations of the Mykonos nightlife. Before work I would check out beaches all over the island, including Paradise beach; I loved buying my bus ticket, "I would like a one way ticket to Paradise, please."

Talking to all the guests about the places they were coming from or going to just made me want to go there too. I stayed at this job for a couple of weeks and then left to go travel for the rest of my trip. I left with a killer tan, lots of new friends, and a great understanding of what it is like to work in Greece for summer. Five months, three jobs (I also worked on Santorini when I passed through), and 12 countries later.I headed back to the states in debt, fulfilled, and ready to move forward with my life.

Posted By KATIE NISSENFELD on April 27, 2007, 12:47 PM

When I look out my front door here on the outskirts of Istanbul I am looking straight into a sheep pasture. It is peaceful, yes, but I can't say those Turkish sheep made my list of desired foreign neighbors when I put this [moving abroad thing] in to motion last year. Thus, I have made a concerted effort to leave campus every single weekend ever since I arrived, and it was on that first such weekend that I encountered the Basilica Cistern, today's point of reverent interest and contemplation.

It was a Saturday in August and we had been intending to go to the Hagia Sofia, the old city's massive and stunning pink structure, and a contender in the new Seven Wonders of the World competition (http://www.new7wonders.com, in case you're interested). But it was hot, the line was long, carpet dealers and would-be tour guides wouldn't leave us alone, and we were so very tired of looking like lost foreigners far far away from home. The basilica cistern was right across the street, admission was reasonable, and there were no lines to speak of (most likely because the entrance looks like a municipal structure, not a tourist haven). The inside was cool and quiet, and there wasn't a carpet salesman in sight. We went in, cooled off, and bought a couple colorful somethings that are probably around here someplace, and that was about it. Strangely, it has since become one of my favorite places in the city.
I think it begins with the somewhat amusing reality that one society's basic infrastructure is another's treasure: The basilica cistern was created as a holding tank for the water supply to various Byzantine palaces in the 6th century. (Cut to images of people from the 30th-something century vacationing next to heaps of rusty water towers or skyscraper ruins.) The builders probably weren't even trying to be innovative and impressive, seeing as they couldn't even be bothered to make new columns (each one was transported from a ruin somewhere in a once holy and roman empire). Nor did they break fresh ground; historians think it was built right on top of a similar Greek structure. What they did do is bring water from a reservoir near the Black Sea so that the great leaders of the ancient world could have a long bath or bangin? pool party at a moment's notice.
Of course, empires expanded, weakened, fought, fell, conquered/were conquered, and, amidst all of this, important people forgot about the colossal underground water tank. Apparently, the lesser people did not, and they could often be observed pulling water and sometimes even catching fish through mysterious holes in the ground. History books don't seem to have a clue whether or not these non-important people had any idea what created their good fortune (Did they have an inkling of the literal layers of civilization in their lives or did they just chalk it up to luck, the fruits of piety, and/or the supernatural?), but they do know that a scholar named Petrus Gyllius finally started researching Byzantine society and interviewed some of these said locals. He listened to their crazy aquatic accounts and finally broke through someone's basement to complete the discovery. This was 1545. Yet, it appears that the then very-important-people failed to be impressed and eventually used the reservoir as a conveniently close dumping ground for trash and cadavers. Oh those Ottomans. Lucky for me and blue-haired tourists everywhere, the bones, trash, and sludge were hauled out in the 20th century, and by 1985 the city was able to charge curious foreigners a nice chunk of change for an extended glimpse at a 6th century water tank. I think I like this story so much because I can cast my lovely family as the various characters: Mom is the prudent citizen who made the workers use recycled marble in the construction; Mike, a scientist, is the skeptical homeowner insisting that there is a practical explanation to his crazy neighbors' loaves and fishes stories; Kath, a marketing and sales director, is dumping the city's corpses by the truckload and making a killing; and Jim, the artist, is painting the whole story from the perspective of a fish...
Today's fish (carp) have a depth of one or two feet to enjoy, and tourists walk around on raised wooden platforms. One column is engraved up and down with tears; and in the northwest corner two columns sit atop carved Medusa heads that sources say came from a pagan structure somewhere in the ancient world. There is a cafe or people needing a longer reprieve from the streets and a stage ready to host musical performances (apparently the old tank houses some of the best acoustics in the city).
I have since elbowed through the crowds and paid the exorbitant entrance fee into the Hagia Sofia, and yes, it is both beautiful and awe-inspiring with that floating dome suspended ever so precariously above the church-turned-mosque-turned-museum. But my heart belongs further underground in my cool, damp cistern; after all, first loves never really die (and heat makes me melt).

Posted By Elizabeth Fenzel on April 27, 2007, 1:24 PM

The Real Culprit: Plantain Balls and How I Ended Up on the Floor of a Bus

Slashed purses, lifted wallets and stolen cell phones. These are some of the stories told from Quito's Trolebus, the city's public transportation notorious for pickpockets.

Guidebooks caution tourists from entering this red zone, but I wasn't a "Quito-in-two-days" kind of traveler. I would be living in the city for six months. So I took a chance.

Twelve years ago the Municipal Government of Quito established a new form of public transportation. The hope was to cut down on the amount of smog produced by city buses and to help transport the quickly growing population. The Trolebus was their answer. This line of buses runs on an electrical track going North and South through the city. In the historical part of town, the Trole runs along Guyaquil Street, passing colorful colonial architecture, busy plazas and cobblestone streets. Further North, in the new section of Quito, the line goes along the avenue 10 de Agosto alongside hotels, restaurants, car lots and clothing stores. The cost of a ride is equal to that of a city bus, so the main draw is that the Trole is faster. It only stops at specific points whereas busses stop and go constantly at the whim of the passengers. Because of its relative speed, the Trolebus is generally packed with people�leaving no places to sit (and barely room to stand) during the busy commute to work. It is for this reason that the Trole has been deemed a pickpocket�s heaven. In such cramped quarters it�s nearly impossible to know which shove, push, or budge is unintentional and which is the hand of the person next to you reaching for your wallet. Cautious and alert as you may be, these people are professionals. Many guidebooks and websites, therefore, tell travelers to save themselves the trouble and call a cab.

I heeded this advice during my first week in Quito, but soon realized that a $5 taxi trip could have been a $0.25 Trole ride. That�s $4.75 that could buy three almuerzos (lunches), five Pilsner cervezas, or: two pineapples, four avocados, 25 bananas, 10 mandarin oranges and a guanabana at the market. So I stepped onto the Trole. And I continued to take the Trole for five months without any trouble. That was before the bolon.

Bolones de verde. Those smashed-up plantains, filled with cheese, and rolled into balls of fried goodness. Mmm. I had eaten many bolones and become quite fond of their taste, especially when drizzled with Ecuador's spicy aj� sauce.

One night a friend and I went to share a cup of coffee and bolones. And it was good. The next morning I woke up at my regular hour to teach English classes. My Ecuadorian host-mom had prepared a breakfast of fruit, bread, cheese, and hot tea as always. Typically I ate every bite, but for some reason that morning I was not hungry. When I told Margot, she looked at me strangely and asked if I felt ok. I said I was fine, which I was, but I just didn't have an appetite. After my first class, though, I started to feel a little weird. My stomach began to ache and I had less energy than normal. I blamed the symptoms on my empty stomach and thought about eating, but I still wasn't hungry. It was during my next class that I knew something was wrong. Sitting there in front of my student (explaining the difference between "to", "too", and "two"), my palms became clammy and I felt that I needed to lie down. As soon as the class was over, I hurried to the closest Trole stop to head for home.

The day was Tuesday and the time was 11:30 am. Generally not a busy time for the Trole, but today the whole city of Quito seemed to be crammed into �my� Trolebus. I worked my way into a space large enough for a broom and grabbed the bar over my head. The windows were all closed and the sun was shining bright, creating a Trole oven. After the first stop I knew I should sit down, after the second stop I knew I should lay down. At the third stop the whole world went black.

I came-to nearly 60 seconds later sprawled on the floor of the Trole. I was in a frightened daze as hands from above lifted me to a seat. Then I realized the horrible reality. My purse was not on my shoulder. My head flew around in all directions, grabbing at my side where the bag had been.

I knew it! The reports were right. It would happen on the Trole that some coward thief would take advantage to rob an unconscious foreign girl. I never should have taken the Trole. Ever. If only I had listened!

And then, in the midst of my cries, �mi bolso, mi bolso!� an older gentleman kindly handed me my purse and told me that it had fallen off my shoulder when I fainted. I stared in awe. How was it possible that no one on the "infamous" Trole had taken the opportunity to steal my purse? How was it possible that someone on the Trole had helped a traveler in distress? Was it possible that not only pickpockets, but good Samaritans as well, rode the Trolebus? At my stop I exited the Trole and decided to take a taxi to my front door rather than risk another faint. I had the next 36 hours of lying in bed (between visits to the bathroom) to realize, unequivocally, that the culprit was my "tasty" bolon de verde form the previous night.

I have since not eaten a single bolon (and not sure if I ever will), but in contrast, I have taken many lovely trips on the "dreaded" Trolebus. According to me, guidebooks should amend their warnings: stay clear of bolones de verde and enjoy your faint-free ride on Quito's Trole!�

Posted By Miranda Runcie on April 27, 2007, 1:48 PM

Ciao all,

We are back. Got back on December 5th.
I had hoped to send e-mails out once a week but not having access to the internet ended that idea. This e-mail therefore is going to be long. Sorry about that. So many things to say and I don't know where to start.

We got off to a good start other than the ipod incident. 3 weeks before we left I starting copying all of our music to mp3 files so that I could put it on my ipod. Right before we left I tried to copy the music onto the ipod but the batteries were dead and I could not do it. Fortunately I already had 4,000 songs on the ipod that I copied from Marc. Marc, what were you thinking, Seasons in the Sun?!?! Some of you are too young to remember that song. Lucky you. Anyway, Dana got us to the airport in more than enough time we got checked in fine. They did not try to charge us more for the bikes. Everything went through security and we were allowed to upgrade to envoy class with our frequent flyer miles.

Now comes the tricky part. We land in Rome. We have 2 crates with bicycles in them two large suitcases, two backpacks and a laptop. We have to get all of this stuff into an elevator so we can get to the walkway from the airport to the train station. For those of you that don't know, the elevators in Europe hold 4 people if you are lucky. We managed to squeeze all of our stuff into one and drag it all across the sky walk to the train station. We then had to get it all onto the train. mostly Shane had to. Most of it was to heavy for me to lift up those steep narrow steps of the train. This was the first train. We are now at the train station in downtown Rome. It is much bigger than grand central in NY. The trains coming from the airport are sort of separate from the rest of the trains. Meaning we have to carry all of this stuff to the complete opposite side of the station to get our next train. I had to get tickets from the ticket window. This was the first time I experienced my mind going blank of all Italian words. I managed to utter a few things and got the proper tickets. Now I have to figure out what track our train is on so that we can move all of this stuff again. Problem is that they do not post the track number on the board until 15 minutes before the train leaves. We managed to get on the next train in time but we took up about 8 seats worth of space with all of our stuff. Now we are on our way. To my surprise, the local trains do not announce the stops. you have to keep looking out of the window in hopes of seeing a sign before you actually get to the stop. I was able to ask someone about the Fondi stop and understand when they told me it would be the next stop. Got all of our stuff off the train. Now, we have to buy bus tickets to get to our town. There are two buses that run from Fondi to Sperlonga. It is about an 8 mile trip. There is a private bus company and the government run buses or the blue buses. We tried no less than 10 times to get on one of these blue buses and never managed to make it. I never actually saw anyone riding on the blue bus. We came close to getting on one at the end of the trip with Deanna and Bob. The driver actually let me on, usually you ask if they are going to the town that is posted on the front of the bus and they say no, next bus, 5 minutes. This time I asked and he said yes and I walked up the steps and tried to pay him and he said no you need a ticket but of course it was 2:00 in the afternoon and all the shops that sell the tickets were closed. Sorry, I got off the subject there. The blue bus is a touchy subject. Anyway I bought tickets for us and our bikes to get the private bus. One problem here. This is also the school bus for all of the high school kids. The bus pulls up and all of these kids are looking at the crazy Americans with the big crates. We got lots of odd looks the whole time. I kept saying le biciclette which means bicycles in Italian. And I would get these approving nods saying ah biciclette. By the time we made it to the bus I gave up. I figured I would just let them think what ever they wanted to think was inside. The bus driver learned quick that he had to speak slow for me to have a chance of understanding. I somehow managed to tell him which stop we wanted. He left us off in the old town at the top of the hill which is where the landlady said her husband would meet us. You have to understand that none of these forms of transportation left on time. Posted schedules are just a guideline and should not be taken too seriously. And so you see the theme Italy more or less develop. Of course Rocco was not there when we got off the bus. I managed to not panic even though I really really wanted to. We left our house more than 24 hours earlier, had no idea where we were, could not really speak the language and were not exactly mobile with all of this stuff. In time Rocco showed up and helped us put all of our stuff in his car and drove to the piazza nearest our apartment. Now we had to take all of the stuff from the car down several flights of cobblestone steps and then up two flights of steps to the apartment. Shane has labeled this part of the trip The Big Schlep. Things could only get better from here.

The apartment was great. The views incredible. The photos that Serena, the landlady, sent were very accurate.

Biking - We found a great route by the second day. We had to carry our bikes up the cobblestone steps to the piazza. From there we rode past some shops and restaurants and made a turn on the mountain road. It was 3.5 miles up from there. Lots of switchbacks and a decent grade. At the top of that climb you started down hill for about a mile with olive groves all around. then it was back up hill for about 2 miles through a residential area then you came around a bend and saw a new set of mountains spread out in front of you. It was downhill for about 1.5 miles into a town called Itri. The last part of this downhill was a 10 percent grade. Then turn around and do the ride back. It was not a long ride 15 - 20 miles depending on how far you went into town but I would say that the amount of exertion was the same as a 40 or 50 mile ride on the trail. Shane may disagree with that but that is how it felt to me. The views on this ride were spectacular. I don't think our photos do it justice. Their were markings painted on the road, left over from the Giro di Italia. Which is Italy's version of the tour de France. We had some issues with wildlife on this route. One day we got stopped because of a herd of goats crossing the street and then there was the cow holding up traffic another day. I was worried when we left home that we would have trouble finding a place to ride our bikes that would be safe since I know what crazy drivers Italians are. (more to come about that topic) I found that I had absolutely nothing to worry about on this route as far as being hit from a car behind me. There are weeds and grass growing on the white line on the side of the road. This is because drivers are never on their own side of the road! Now getting hit from an oncoming car could have been another story. Not only are they on my side of the road but Italian men do live up to the stereotype. They were always hanging out of the window turning around to check out the girl on the bike. At first I thought it was because they were not use to seeing girls doing athletic things but came to realize that it was any girl anywhere out alone. I must admit that it is somehow different than when guys here do the same thing. I don't know how to explain it but it does not leave you with a gross and disgusting feeling like it does here. It does sort of feel like a complement. Maybe I'm just getting old and appreciate the attention. I don't know.

There are not enough yummy words to describe the food and wine. It is what I miss the most since we are back. I won't even try to go into all of the wonderful things that we ate. Everything is so fresh. I cooked a lot of the time. I really wanted to experiment with their foods. I learned how to make some new dishes and the ones that I already knew how to make tasted better with the ingredients there. The chocolate is out of this world. Even the cheap candy bars from the supermercato were scrumptious. The chocolate from Torino with the hazelnut flavor or the dark chocolate are indescribable. Some of you may be lucky enough to get some for Christmas. If I don't eat it all before Christmas. There were at least 4 places to get gelato (ice cream) near our apartment. I tired them all of course. The one I liked the best also had the best cafe latte too. I learned that you are not suppose to get coffee with milk in it after 10:30 in the morning. The milk is for breakfast and is too heavy to have other times of the day. I of course threw caution to the wind and ordered cafe latte at 2 in the afternoon. When we were in Torino visiting Lindsay we drove to a town called Alba to do some wine tasting. We had lunch in the really quaint restaurant and all of the courses had truffles since it was apparently truffle season. We spent about 2.5 to 3 hours having lunch. It was great food, great company and great wine. Over lunch we made light of some of the cultural differences. Lindsay moved to Italy in September for a two year assignment. Her friend Francesco has given us some insight to the Italian way of thinking. The first thing you notice when arriving in Italy are the hours that people keep. We come from the land of 24/7 accessibility. I am not saying that this is a good thing but it is what we are use to. It took us at least 2 weeks to figure out the shop and restaurant hours in our town. Now, you have to keep in mind that our apartment sit 3/4 of the way up this giant hill. So if you walk into town to go to the store and it is not open you have to climb all of those steep steps back knowing that you are going to have to come back later. It seems that in Italy, even in the big cities, shops are open from 9 till 12ish. they close and re-open around 4 or 5 until 7. Restaurants on the other hand open around noon and close around 2 and then re-open around 7. The dinner hour in Italy is between 7 and 9. Each town has it's own day when things are closed. In Sperlonga it was Mondays. Most things were closed on Mondays. a few stores were open on Monday and closed on Thursday. Things were randomly open or closed on Sundays. The shops all have signs in the window saying what day they are closed and that they are closed so that they can rest up for the rest of the week. I so wanted to take one of those signs and put it up in my office. Anyway, the shops do post their times and what day they are closed but if you go to the shop when they are closed they have this garage door thing pulled down and you can not see the window with the sign in it to know when they will open back up. If it is your first time in town you do not even know what shop or restaurant is behind the door. Not exactly commercialized. My favorite are the banking hours. 9 to 12 and 4 to 5. I think this is where the term bankers hours came from. It is really difficult to get into a bank. you have to go through a door and once that door closes the teller decides if he wants to let you into the bank or not. if he does he buzzes the next door and lets you in, if not you end up standing in-between the two doors for ever. Looking Italian might be a criteria for getting in cause Chuck and Bob never did get in but they buzzed me right in. Everything in this country is at a much slower pace than we are use to except for driving and talking. I will go into those in greater detail later. Nothing is ever on time. or what we would think of as logical. The one bar near us had 32 flavors of hot chocolate. They were on a sign and each flavor was given a picture and a number. but of course they were not listed in numerical order on the sign. no that would be too easy. The other big thing that you notice right away is that people just crowd in and stand in your personal space. It is a bit difficult to get use to. There is no such thing as waiting in line. every one just jumps right in. According to Francesco standing in line is illogical. you waste so much space staying in line. Trust me this applies to driving too! I guess we were able to adjust to these things with time but the one thing that I don't think I will ever be able to get use to is the fact that Europeans do not have clothes dryers. We learned this long ago so we knew what we were in for. I guess we really are spoiled but I really hated not having a dryer. Not to mention that the washing machines only hold about 5 things and it takes two hours to run through a cycle. I had to dry a pair of jeans with a hair dryer one day.

I have taken a few Italian language classes in my life and I figure I am at about the level of a 4 year old child. Of course the best way to learn a language is to be thrown in to it. Our town has about 1000 residents. As far as I can tell the only person that spoke any English at all is Serena the woman that owned our apartment. Now, she had a baby the week before we got there so she was not exactly mobile. This meant we had to fend for ourselves. The first few days I panicked. I knew what I needed to say I rehearsed the words over and over in my head before I would walk into a store and soon as they would say something I would go blank and just point to what I wanted. I finally came to grips with this and started talking. I think I was afraid of saying things wrong but decided it was better that I try or else we would end up with things that we did not want. Leslie you would be proud of me. I didn't always use the right conjugation when I had to think fast but I got the right nouns and verbs and by the end of the trip I was able to carry on a conversation with the cab driver. I still can not do past or future tense so I would say things like yesterday we go to Rome. but I could be understood and the people were great at talking slow and very patient with my speaking. I do think that they were happy that I tried. I usually got exactly what I wanted. I noticed that in the bigger cities they would correct me more but in our town they were just happy that we could communicate. I finally got bold enough to call for a taxi. Talking to Italians in person is hard enough but over the phone is 10 times more difficult because you can not see their hands. I was forced into this because of the stupid blue bus. Once again I panicked. I called and asked for the taxi properly and told him that I was at the Fondi station. Now you have to understand that in Italian questions are often statements with an up beat sound at the end that makes them a question. so when the taxi driver said I am at the Fondi station with the accent at the end of the sentence I thought he was saying you are at the Fondi station? Also in my defense the word sono can be are or am. Io sono means I am and ci sono means there are. but I really should have understood what he was saying. Any way we went back and forth with me saying si Io sono alla Fondi statzione and him saying Io sono....louder each time. finally I realized that I was hearing him with both ears not just through the phone. I looked around and there he was across the street waving at me. So it all worked out fine in the end. One other quirky Italian thing that we learned is that a waiter will not bring you a bill unless you ask for it. They do not want to rush you out of the restaurant. they want you to take your time and enjoy yourself. This is a good thing except that you have to actually know how to ask for the bill. It is conto but Americans do not always say their O's right and it sounds like an A instead. The word canto means I sing. I think there are a lot of waiters in Italy wondering why Americans are always asking to sing. I got my hair cut while I was in Italy. Leslie, Joanna, you were right it is a real experience. It took at least 1.5 hours. 3 different people worked on my hair. I did not always understand what they were saying cause some of the words were more technical than my vocabulary. but I am pretty good with it sounds like this word has the same root word as this so it must mean this. Usually this works but some times it can get you into trouble. This time it worked cause I believe that he was asking me if I wanted layers in my hair and it really sounded a lot like the word for steps so I figured it out. I tried to make sure I learned at least one new word a day. I know I learned a lot of words but I think most importantly I learned how to use the words that I knew properly. I know that I must have learned something for a few reasons. I was able to understand the announcements at the train station about trains being late. This happened frequently. I was able to understand an announcement when my brother and I were on the train to Calabria, that our connecting train would not be there and we were to take a bus that would be in front of the train station. I was able to get into the bank and get Bob's ATM card back after the machine ate it. And I was complaining one day about a sign at the train station wondering why they said the exact same thing twice until Shane pointed out that one was in Italian and one was in English. I would never say that I am fluent but my skills have greatly improved. Shane did not do much speaking at least not full sentences but he did understand a lot of things that people were saying. Good job Leslie.

I have to comment on Italian fashion. Things have greatly changed in the past few years. A couple of years ago no self respecting Italian would be caught dead in jeans and heaven forbid sneakers. Now I am seeing even grandmothers in jeans. Sneakers are very common although they are mostly Adidas and puma. Italians are still very fashionable when it comes to formal work clothes. Everything is just so. but something has happened to casual dress. I don't exactly know how to describe it. Hot pink Dr. Martin boots that lace up to the knee and short skirts with wild print hose. And that is not just from the teens. If you are familiar with the movie Spinal Tap they describe this fashion as an Australians nightmare. I of course think it is great. Glasses are super funky I was tempted to buy a pair of frames while I was there. Watches are very very large. These little tiny Italian women are wearing watches that would look big on Shane's wrist. The other odd thing was lots of silver jewelry. It use to be only gold. The good thing about this turn in fashion is that you do not stand out as Americans until you try to speak. I guess I look Italian cause people would come up to me and just start speaking Italian. or they would ask me for directions. People kept asking Shane if he was Dutch. not sure why.

We had some visitors while we were in Italy. We got there on Thursday the 3rd. Lindsay and Francesco came to visit for the weekend. Francesco taught us lots of stuff that helped through out the trip. Most notably, the metric system. I don't know why we don't just bite the bullet and convert like the rest of the world. Once I started being brave and using Italian I could ask for things that I wanted in the deli or butcher shop but when they would ask me how much I could not tell them a pound. Quick lesson, 5 etti, 500 grami, mezzo kilogram are all about a pound. I think one day, before I talked to Francesco, I ordered half a Kilometer of cheese. The woman looked at me like I had two heads. I had to hold up my fingers to show her what size I meant. Apparently 7 kilos of Gelato is too much too. The following Wednesday Chuck came to visit for a week. He got to experience a lot of the headaches with the blue bus. And was with us as we learned lots of things. Chuck got the best weather but not the benefit of our experience later in the trip. We visited Pompeii while Chuck was there. An amazing culture. You just can not believe how advanced people over 2000 years ago were. Jennifer and her cousin Courtney came to visit one day while Chuck was there. We learned lots about Italian culture from Courtney too. She has been living in Florence for 6 years. We had a fun lunch on the roof top deck. The Thursday after Chuck left we went to Torino to visit Lindsay and Francesco. Had a great time in wine country. watched Steelers football and tried to explain the terrible towel and ranch dressing to Francesco. We got back to Rome on Sunday and picked my brother up at the airport. My brother and I went to Reggio Di Calabria for two days to see the region where our grandparents are from. It was beautiful. I had heard mixed things about Calabria and was a little bit afraid to go but the stories were outdated and I am so glad that we went. My brother was in town for Thanksgiving which is a story in it's self.

I went to the butcher shop a week before Thanksgiving to order a turkey. They do not have turkeys in the shop normally. Armando the butcher told me that he did not have one that day but he could get me one. I told him that I wanted it for the 24th of November. He realized that this was Thanksgiving and got all excited about it and started waving his hands all around. He told me to come back on Tuesday and he would have one for me. It turned out that on Tuesday my brother and I were going to be in Calabria so I had to write a note for Shane to take to the butcher shop. I wrote telling Armando that the turkey was indeed for Thanksgiving and that Shane was there to pick it up and could he please give us the turkey with out the head, feet and insides. I saw the chickens in the shop and they all came with those things. He got so excited that he made everyone in the store read the note. Of course he could have just been making fun of my Italian but I don't think so. I am not too bad when I have time to think about what I want to say and look words up in the dictionary for spelling. Anyway he said he did not have it yet and Shane was to come back tomorrow (Wednesday). Shane went back and he said come back tomorrow. So on Thursday I went to the shop and he had the turkey. He was so proud of it. I really think that he may have gone out and shot the thing himself. There is no ordering a turkey by size, you get what you get. This turkey was about 16 pounds. for 3 of us. another 1/2 pound and it would not have fit in the oven. The legs were touching the sides of the oven. Having made Thanksgiving dinner in London before I was ready to have to do the Celsius conversion but as it turns out the oven went from 1 to 10. no degrees just 1 to 10. We ended up having dinner at 10:30 at night.

I took my brother back to Rome on Friday and we essentially did Rome in a day. Saturday I dropped him off at the airport and picked Deanna and Bob up. We did Rome in a day again and I think I could be a tour guide now. So if you are ever going to Rome and want to take along a guide let me know. We headed back to Sperlonga on Sunday. Again screwed by the blue bus we took a cab. My favorite taxi driver Cataldo. We became friends. Deanna and I did some experimental cooking. We made gnocchi which Shane now calls gnyuky. But really they were good. just complicated. We went to Rome with Deanna and Bob on Thursday to rent a car. Deanna and Bob were headed to L'Auquila and we wanted a car so that we did not have to deal with the blue bus or the big schlep on the way home. This brings me to driving in Italy.

New York city, San Francisco, Boston, like a drive on a country lane compared to driving in Rome. Seeing as my navigating skills are fair at best (Shane said this is even an exaggeration) I was elected to drive. What a free for all. The vespas (mopeds) weave in and out of traffic like the centipede in that old video game. There are no lanes. Speed limit, no passing, one way, left turn only these signs are all just suggestions. I don't think I ever saw someone make a left turn from the left turn only lane. They always went straight. For some reason Italians just simply refuse to wait in line. It is illogical remember. Passing is a real treat. You are on a road with two lanes. one lane going each direction. a car behind you decides it wants to pass so it moves over and sort of makes you get partially in the bream of the road and the cars in the oncoming lane get over to the side too and the car just passes down the middle. Absolutely insane to jump out into oncoming traffic like that and assume they will move over and let you through. I was doing it before we got back to our apartment. As the saying goes when in Rome do as the Romans do. Now here comes the real crazy part. Heaven forbid you should try to make a right turn on red. They think that is just insane.

We had a wonderful time and made lots of new friends. This was an experience we will never forget. Lindsay invited us back to visit since she will be there for two years. Little does she know that we have been known to up and leave the country at the drop of an air fair. So for those of you that have asked if we will go back to Italy the answer is yes. That is not to say that we won't be going some where else too. So many places to see and so little time.

Posted By Karen Uriah on April 27, 2007, 2:14 PM

As a person who reads budgettravelonline.com frequently for great deals and insider information, I'll admit that once home from a (thoroughly planned) trip, I have a habit of declaring myself an expert on wherever I've just returned from. And so I present to you...

FIRST TIMER INSIDER (goes on a cruise)

Last November, I went on my first cruise with my long-term boyfriend and trusty travel partner Rory. It was a 5 day, 4 night Carnival cruise to Key West, Florida and Cozumel, Mexico. As first-time cruisers, we had no idea what to expect, and definitely didn't realize that we would be seated at a 10 person dinner table filled entirely with newlyweds. It was at that point that I realized I was about to learn the art of small talk about floral arrangements, first songs, and so much more, including:

FIRST TIMER INSIDER cruise tip #1: Find out what your chef's specialty is. This information is usually referenced at the Captain's banquet, or you can ask your maitre d' or server. On this particular trip, our chef was from India. During the dinner that featured a special Indian menu, I made sure to try the curried vegetable entree. The vegetables were seasoned to perfection and served in a small, cored pumpkin. The meal was delicious. (For those picky eaters out there, remember this bonus tip: you can order two entrees!)

FIRST TIMER INSIDER cruise tip #2: Before booking an offshore excursion, do a bit of research. It's certainly nice to have the cruise line take care of a high concept excursion such as a snorkeling trip to a secluded coral reef, but do you really need them to get you to a local beach and order your food? With a bit of internet research, I was able to find the location of a free local beach, its distance from the port, and the common taxi rate for traveling there. Once we docked, it was as easy as grabbing a cab. The independence I enjoyed included being able to relax on the beach for as long as I liked, ordering what I wanted when I wanted it, and leaving when I was ready. This consequently allowed for enough time to do some shopping and exploring in town before returning to the ship. Now that's my kind of vacation.

FIRST TIMER INSIDER cruise tip #3: Be sure to take the cruise line-approved map for the port you are docked in. Make a special effort to walk 3 blocks further into town than the map shows. It's amazing what you can find on these 3 blocks; anything from lower priced internet cafes to one-of-a-kind souvenirs. Along the stretch of extra area I walked in Cozumel, Mexico, I found a local artist who paints cameos onto shells that were found along the local shore!

FIRST TIMER INSIDER cruise tip #4: A bit of prep goes a long way for those "at sea" days. Remember--during the course of this day, you will not set foot on land. Make sure to plan accordingly so that you have your comforts available. For me, this meant splitting up the day with time "outdoors" lounging at the pool, "indoors" checking out the art gallery, and "at home" catching a movie in my room on the ship. Take advantage of cruise line planned activities and duty-free shopping on these land-impaired days.

And if you're the slightest bit concerned about spending 5 days, 4 nights worth of meals making small talk about party favors, or worse--the habits of your dining partners' cats?

FIRST TIMER INSIDER cruise tip #5: Make friends with the maitre d'. Those tables for 4 (and coveted tables for 2) are just a conversation away!

Posted By Cara on April 27, 2007, 2:34 PM

"Driving from Florida to Alaska - Eight weeks, two burnt-out grad students, and a 96 Honda.."

Day 5. Bozeman, MT - Missoula, MT

Our day started with the breakfast of all breakfasts at Soby's, a small dive place just off the main street. I think it was Scott's first ever case of serious food envy. While he had biscuits and gravy with scrambled eggs, I had their breakfast burrito - two eggs, potatoes, black beans, and salsa. Yummm.

From there, we headed to the Gallatin National Forest in search of a short but steep hike. Just a few miles from Bozeman felt a world away. The narrow winding road was lined with tall pines and the steep cliffs frequently came within feet of the asphalt. While we didn't find the hike, we found our first moose (!) as well as a short riverside trail.

We then jetted off to reservations with Montana Whitewater for a half-day whitewater ride down the Gallatin River. With it being June, the river is running at full capacity (that is, lots of water over a small amount of space) and whitewater means just that. Plus the water is only 40+ degrees, so we are talking full wetsuits. We don our wetsuits - the odor of which I will not discuss in mixed company - and head for the put in point. At this point, a small war erupts amongst the river guides over who gets the boat of 3 couples. Every other group has kids, which apparently impacts the rafting. As we progress along our trip, I see why. Our guide, Matt, was incredible. An experienced class V rapids guide, he wants to see if we are up to the challenge. Now, neither myself nor Scott have ever gone whitewater rafting but we are pleased when we reach the pull-out point and we have the choice to continue down the river.

Continuing meant moving from Class III to V and, as the guide said, "Don't do it if you aren't ready to swim for your life". One young guy actually got out at this point, but we were ready to continue. The idea of getting tossed around in Class V rapids and seriously bruised by major rock formations is not something I take lightly. But our guide was someone you would follow into battle. And so, we hit the Mad Mile of the Gallatin. It was incredible. Somehow we survive without getting thrown in the drink - 99% was due to our incredible guide and 1% to luck. And what a blast! For a whitewater newbie, I can't imagine more fun. Everytime the river was calm, I wanted more. I would recommend it to anyone.

All wet and stoked with enthusiasm, we drove onto Missoula that evening. We arrived at the Edgewater Doubletree around 8pm. Frommers in hand, I called my dad to check out Missoula restaurants. He pointed out that a girl from Florida, vacationing in Montana, calling New Jersey for wine reviews was a bit odd. While I agree, the process lead to an excellent meal at Red Bird where Scott and I shared a half bottle of L'Ecole 41 Semillion and a half bottle of Kent Rasmussen Pinot Noir. Good stuff.

Posted By Kristine on April 28, 2007, 3:15 PM

This entry is from my Summer 2006 travel blog, movingeurope.blogspot.com -- which contains pictures and observations on all modes of transportation in Europe from bicycling to walking to taking public transit.

When we think of "travel" it tends to be the flight to our destination, but having an understanding of how we will get around once there not only is important for logistics, but provides greater insight into the culture and community of where we are visiting.

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Living Car-Free....

Given my unavoidable interest in transportation, I wanted to analyze the travel behavior of my dear friends here in Copenhagen, Denmark a bit. The family I am staying with here moved from Tacoma, Washington last summer for a job opportunity with the World Health Organization. It has been fun staying in this nice neighborhood filled with embassy employees and ambassadors, and just five train stops away from the city centre.

I am always curious about how people's travel choices change when their environment is altered, so I thought it would be fun to document some of my observations and quotes from the family. I think the Merchants are a fine example of how an American family can completely change how they get around when placed in a new community with great transportation options. Characteristic of any average Americans, they are a family of five who had a busy life in Washington -- juggling sports and activities among the three kids, traveling on the weekends, seeing the need to have two cars and a motorcycle to get around Tacoma, and having more Starbucks mugs than anyone I know (even one with the original mermaid logo). And now this family is living in Copenhagen with no private car and a garage filled with bicycles!

Perhaps it is Denmark's 180% tax on car purchases that deterred them from getting a car here; or maybe it wasn't worth the hassle to ship their cars oversees; but it seems to be that they simply didn't see the need to have a private automobile.

I found this fascinating and asked each member of the family their thoughts on living car-free:

Robb (parent) : Hated being so dependent on their cars in Tacoma but felt that it was too difficult to do things like grocery shopping without one. Says if they move back to America that living somewhere where they don't need a car would be a priority.

Julie (parent) : Loves the fact that all the walking she does as part of her daily routine keeps her in great shape! Walking Julian to school and walking to the grocery store are just two things that she does car-free now.

Garrett (15 years old) : Despite the freedom of mobility that the trains give him, he wishes they did have a car so that he could haul around large objects instead of walking with them. Though his mother says he never complains about it, and since you can't get your license until age 18, all of his peers also ride the train everywhere.

Nicole (13 years old) : Really enjoys not owning a family car. Not having a bike in Tacoma, she loves toting around Cupid (her pug) in the front basket of her new, metallic-pink bicycle.

Julian (7 years old) : While sitting on the S-Tog train tonight with Julian I asked him if he missed having a car to which he replied, "I like riding the train." I am going as a supervisor on his class field trip to Dyrehavn tomorrow, and all the kids will be boarding the train to get there.

I think the Merchants are a great success story for transportation and land use planners. They also demonstrate how our communities really affect how the average American family can get around. Living car-free myself in Sacramento, I admit it was much easier to travel around in Europe this past summer on a day-to-day basis.

I encourage you all to think about two things:

1) How do your transportation choices here in America affect the quality of your daily life?

2) When traveling abroad next time, try not renting a car and think about how the city you are visisting is shaped by how people are getting around.

Posted By lolo travels on April 28, 2007, 6:13 PM

Bienvenido en Espana

Phyllis Follett

We entered Spain on Sunday, en route to San Sebastian. Dick had spent the entire night sick in Saint Jean de Luz the night before we were to cross the Pyrenees into Spain. Jambon de Bayonne, the famous ham from the Basque country, was going to be Dick�s nemesis for the next month. We knew that he couldn't eat bacon, but we didn't equate that to jambon de Bayonne. So during our picnic on that beautiful beach on France's Atlantic coast, after our long ride into town, or our relaxing lunch in the cafe at the Place Louis XIV while watching two weddings file into the mairie on that glorious Saturday afternoon in August, we didn�t realize that the sandwichs de jambon de Bayonne we were enjoying were going to haunt him for the rest of the camino.

We had been so happy to get these sandwiches. Sandwiches are all we ever wanted for lunch, not the three-course affairs that tempt you to drink wine and then settle like concrete into your legs as you get back on your bicycle to finish the day's camino riding. It's hard to find a place where you have the right to sit down at a table and order just a sandwich. The little snack-bar on the beach at Saint Jean de Luz was like an oasis that offered cold drinks, sea breezes, an ocean view, and sandwichs de jambon de Bayonne.

This was exactly mid-point of our journey, the Chemin de Saint-Jacques, the Camino de Santiago de Compostela, the adventure that was launching our retirement. We had left Paris on our bikes on August 14, and had planned to reach Santiago in Galicia sometime in mid-September. All through France, we wound our way crossing fields on tiny country roads like ribbons from village to village. The gentle terrain and isolated roads made for idyllic conditions and a soft entry into this pilgrimage. We felt very much at home in France. During my long career as a French teacher, we had made France our Mecca whenever we were able to travel. We understood the rhythm and social code there, the geography of the villages, the patterns of the cities. It wasn't until we got to Spain that we appreciated how familiar and comfortable France was to us.

But there we were at the last outpost in France, Saint Jean de Luz, with Dick sick, and me facing the day ahead of us. It was the day that I had been dreading since we first started to plan our bicycle pilgrimage. We had been doing long-distance bicycle touring for thirty years, yet had never encountered a challenge like the one that lay ahead of us: the Pyrenees.

I am a planner. Thirty-five years of impeccable lesson plans as a French teacher. Nothing left to chance. In case lesson plan A didn't work, there were contingency plans to prevent any risk of chaos. I approached the planning of the camino in the same way, reserving rooms in chambres d�h�te, pensions, hostales over the internet a year and a half early and a continent away. Nothing left to chance. Complete control.

There was, however, one small problem I could not resolve: how to go From France to Spain and avoid the Pyrenees. I studied maps, trying to be assured that as long as we hugged the coast, we would not have to deal with Tour de France-like climbs. There must be, I assumed, a road along the coast where we would be safe and ride with water vistas to our right, through customs in Spain, while we were warmly greeted a welcome by the Spanish authorities who would be, in my opinion, thrilled to have two Americans on bicycles doing the Camino of Santiago de Compostela via the ruta del norte.

On our last day in Saint Jean, threatened by the purple outline of the Pyrenees to the west, I decided to seek reassurance from the experts. In the Office de Tourisme I explained what we were doing and where we were going, and there must be small roads along the coast that we could safely cycle to go from village to village, n'est-ce pas? I remember now the feeling in the pit of my stomach as the employee in the tourist office explained to me, "Mais non, madame, that is a very dangerous route. There is only one road that must be shared by everyone and there is no room to ride. And what's more, it is very mountainous. That is why no one does the ruta del norte on bicycle. They choose the easier more southerly camino frances." And to give me physical evidence of this, he led me to a relief map of Spain on the wall, that had raised ridges of plastic elevations where the mountain ranges were. He took my finger and had me physically trace the route that we had chosen to ride in the north of Spain: all bumps, plastic points up and down the route that we had meticulously planned for a year and a half.

Too late, we thought. The northern route is what we had planned, and that's what we would do. How bad could it be? And what does that mean, that it's difficult? We had done difficult routes before, and were prepared, or so we thought, for any physical and mental challenges. I was ready to confront my fears.

We set out that Sunday morning from Saint-Jean after Dick's sleepless night of jambon-induced misery. The French portion of the ride started out beautifully, as we rode along the steep cliffs of the Corniche Basque along the water. At the French border town of Hendaye, we stopped for coffee at a small cafe facing the water, and watched as French Sunday bicyclists came whizzing by. Next stop, Spain.

Posted By Phyllis Follett on April 28, 2007, 6:26 PM

When you're raised in Minnesota, you grow up in a land of niceness. That's why foreigners to the state tend to define our agreeably natured Nordic culture as "Minnesota Nice."
Before I started to travel, I assumed that everyone treated others in the same courteous manner as my fellow Minnesotans. However, throughout my adventures, I've found that niceness is far from ubiquitous. Only a few special places have given me the same warm, fuzzy feeling that I experience when in my homeland.
Being a native to this state, I like to think of myself, not only as a nice person, but also as somewhat of an expert when it comes to identifying others who have this innate quality. This is why I've taken it upon myself to inform my fellow travelers of the destination, outside of the "Land of Lakes," that ranks highest on my Richter scale of niceness. The magnitude of this destination's "niceness intensity" is based on something very scientific. Okay, maybe it's just how warm and fuzzy I felt during my stay, but overall, if you ever get the chance to visit, I think you'll find that this town has a way of making you feel at home.

And the winner is - Fairlie, New Zealand

Tucked in the middle of New Zealand's South Island, Fairlie is the perfect pit stop while en route to Lake Takepo, Wanaka, or Queenstown. It hosts some of the most breathtaking scenes throughout the year, with cascading mountains, wildflower fields, and sparkling rivers and lakes. Considering the surroundings, it's not hard to see why the town-folk are lively and sociable.
My travel partner and I visited three lodges while deciding where to stay in Fairlie, and all of the owners welcomed us as if we were long lost relatives. We finally agreed on the low-cost Top Ten Holiday Park. Claire, the owner, not only made sure that we were comfortable, but she also wanted us to be well fed. She called her friend at the local pub, The Library Cafe, and made sure they had an option to suit our vegetarian diet. Of course, the restaurant was more than happy to accommodate. When we arrived, men and women with boisterous belly laughs greeted us, and told endless stories about their bucolic town. This unrestrained friendliness was the theme for all of our encounters with locals in Fairlie, making it my number one recommendation for those in search of niceness.

Where have you found a home away from home?

Posted By Missy Slovick on April 28, 2007, 9:17 PM

August 5, 2006
La Bomba

There was another bomb attack here, in Cali, in southern Colombia. Four cops died. People in Bogota are very nervous because this weekend is ``hot`` -- it`s a dangerous weekend to be out because of Monday`s upcoming ceremony in which President Uribe will be inaugurated into his second term. As a result he`s prohibited the selling of liquor starting Sunday into Monday. This is what they call ``ley seca`` here, or translated into "dry law.`` It`s usually used on election day to help control the population in case anything goes wrong or to make sure people don`t trade votes for liquor or ensure people go to the polls sober and grave or... I can`t get a single plausible reason for ley seca. Every person I talk to gives me a different reason for why we have ley seca. We had ley seca a few weeks ago, during a national holiday, and it pissed all of us off because we had to cancel a party at a club and basically stay inside because all the bars closed. In the end you can always find a liquor store to sell you beer or rum under the table, for a much inflated price of course.

So I admit I am a little nervous. I am only nervous because I know Colombians who are nervous. If they went about their usual day, I`d do the same. Yes, I did go shopping today, but the Zona Rosa commercial zone was noticeably more quiet than it should be for a weekend day. A few years ago, a grenade went off at the Bogota Beer Company, a hugely popular restaurant in Zona Rosa, at 10:30 p.m. on a Saturday night. It was packed. With ley seca in full effect, this probably won`t happen this weekend. But what does ley seca prevent in the long run? Nothing really. Because next week, when ley seca is over and people are back to filling up places like the Bogota Beer Company, another grenade could go off.

And I live only two blocks or so away from Plaza Bolivar, the place where all the important ceremonies take place, including this upcoming inauguration. In 2002, during Uribe`s initial swearing-in in a private ceremony because of the threat of attacks, the FARC guerrilla group fired fricking MORTARS into the presidential palace nearby while all of this was going on and then they launched more into another neighborhood. Security means nothing when you`re dealing with the minds of rebel groups. Some other motars landed near the palace and killed people. All of this makes the states` constant orange or red alert status look like a game of Red Light, Green Light. We`ve already cancelled a Monday hike in La Calera in the surrounding hills of Bogota because FARC guerillas could likely be up there on that day, scheming. All of this seems surreal. I can`t imagine FARC staying quiet during the inauguration or the rest of that day. And the more I write this down I start to feel the scare.

Posted By Phuong-Cac Nguyen on April 28, 2007, 11:46 PM

Forcalquier
by Phyllis Follett

Forcalquier and its spectacular Monday market. No need to wonder where everyone from Lurs or Saint-Etienne or Fontienne is on any given Monday morning. They're in Forcalquier, the Monday epicenter of this region in Provence called Les Alpes de Haute Provence. Not the jet-setting Cote d'Azur, or the Luberon, that tourist mecca of pastel perfect villages like Gordes or Lourmarin. Forcalquier is flawed, utilitarian, earthy and real.

The Place du Bourguet overflows with vendors taunting the crowds with their freshly molded goat's milk cheese, their olive oil soaps from Marseilles, soothing, healing herbs from the fragrant hills, perfectly round melons from Cavaillon, delicate apricots, figs, luscious Mediterranean fruit which satisfies the sweet tooth on the Provencals table. The market winds itself up the steep slope of the street leading up to the Place Saint Michel. Its medieval fountain with intricate carvings of all types of lusty human activities has been delighting all those who give it more than a cursory glance since 1511. In the lower city near the ancient convent of les Cordeliers, the fishmongers with their terracotta colored rougets from Marseilles, translucent white-fleshed squid, scowling monkfish. Nearby, the santons, those hand-crafted figurines representing Provencal villagers. I recognize the same artisan from the last time I was here, when I bought the Lavender Cutter, a smiling clay gentleman, with his neatly trimmed white mustache and goatee, brown corduroy trousers and brightly colored vest, holding in his arms a sheath of lavender. This year, I chose his mate, a sweet elderly woman, dressed in the lace bonnet, flowered apron and shawl seeming to step out of Daudet's Arlsienne. Of course, the artisan wouldn't recognize me, wouldn't know that I'm launching a veritable family of santons from his creations. He has been at this same stand, at the same corner ever since I've started fifteen years ago to come to this lesser-known corner of Provence, this region that I have longed to be anchored to. This new addition to my santon clan has helped me feel as if I have family ties here.

Posted By Phyllis Follett on April 29, 2007, 11:44 AM

Paris
Here's a 10-item list (sort of Letterman-esque) of my favorites, and other thoughts, from our June �06 visit to Paris.

1) Boat Ride on the Seine at night. We used Bateaux Mouches but Bateaux Parisien also looks good. Be prepared; it stays light out until 10:00 pm, or later.

2) Gerard Mulot pastry - I believe he has more than one shop but the one we went to was at 76 rue de Seine in the Saint Germain area. The pastries were the best we had, and we put a lot of research in on the ground. You order at the counter; the guy gives you a slip, you pay at another counter and they stamp the slip, and then you bring the slip to the guy who has your order all nicely packaged. Then you enter the street, unceremoniously tear open the pretty package, and slobber all over its contents.

3) Coffee etc. at Deux Magots. We had brunch there on the sidewalk and the view of passersby was quite entertaining. The food was very good, especially the Poilane bread which I had with baked goat cheese. In my opinion you really can't eat enough goat cheese.

4) Berthillon and Amaroni ice cream.

5) Fountaine du Mars, 129 Rue St. Dominique - make a reservation for a street side table. The food is great and so is the atmosphere. I had isle flottant for dessert and it was v. good. Tel. 01 47 05 46 44

6) Le Petit Nicois- Lovely Mediterranean restaurant. 10 Rue Amelie, Tel. 01 45 51 83 65. I had a fab. artichoke heart.

7) Tastevin - a truly exceptional restaurant on Ile St. Louis. Amazing service. We had the best table by an open window on the street. Don�t pass up the cherry clafouti. 46 rue St. Louis-en-l'Ile, Tel. 01 43 54 17 31

8) Walking through the Tuileries Gardens to the Orangerie Museum and then over to the Champs Elysee and the Arc de Triomphe. Must have good shoes! And a Museum Pass!

9) The Pompidou Center was a waste, except for the view and the wonderful crepe I had from a street vendor before we went in. I had mine with creme marron which was so tasty.

10) And, FYI, from my observation, caffeine is a key component to French weight control but the #1 reason French women don't get fat is that they smoke their a_____ off day and night!

Posted By Suzanne Hard on April 29, 2007, 2:54 PM

November 21, 2006

"Halls menthe-lyptus -- with vapor action" - In LAOS . . .
The next day we began somewhat of moto bike odyssey. The trip north on Rte. 13, then turning east onto Rte. 7 and then to Phonsavan (POHN-SA-VAH) and the infamous "Plain of Jars." The problem is that the routes go through a lot of mountainous terrain and have somewhat of a troubled history with Hmong Guerrillas, an insurgent group that launched rare and sporadic attacks on locals and tourists alike up until April 2006. All the advisories at the time we checked with before going, the State Department sites for the U.S. and Australia (including conversations with locals) all indicated that everything was ok, but we still wanted to check. We also wanted to drive ourselves because we had heard there were no moto rentals in Phonsavan, and we were tired of being shackled to the typical, well-trodden tourist buses and routes.

It wasn't a good omen, when 30km into the trip we started hearing small rattling/grinding noises from the engine when accelerating on turns but at the time chalked it up to previous bad speedometers, headlights and gas gauges we had gotten on other bikes. We were stopped at our first checkpoint on the way up the first mountain pass. The Lao police at first seemed genuinely confused by our presence at first, where we were going, coming from, how we got the moto bike, where's your international drivers' license etc. (which we had accidentally left in our packs at the guest house.) Luckily, they seemed satisfied with our rental card and Andy's NY State driving license and sent us through after asking when we'd be back. At this point we were in a hot zone, but still saw a few Western bikers going the opposite way. One couple was on a bicycle built for two.

Then came the 130+ km jaunt through mountainous Rte. 7 and the other trouble spot for the first 50km. Everything seemed to be going ok as we climbed higher and higher, then we pass through this village and see a truckload of armed men in camouflage sitting on the road. We buzz quietly by, not attracting too much attention and that was it. We still couldn't figure out if they were the guerrillas, or from the Lao government, but we didn't care we just kept going. Our hearts sunk a little even more as a few miles more we saw two more lone patrolling gunmen walking on the highway. An hour later though we crossed into the next province, Xieng Khuang and were relieved immensely as we knew this was safer territory. The only thing we had to battle now was the cold. We hadn't really eaten that much and were kind of going on adrenaline for a while, So Sarah pulls out two Halls 'menthalyptus' lozenges, and at that moment, the sugar and soothingness of the 'vapor action' did wonders to lift our spirits. We even started to head out of the mountains and into the plains now which the landscape which, we commented, bore an uncanny resemblance to both Calgary and Memphis. The dried, brown grass and bare trees over rolling plains looked exactly like Shelby Farms.

At 3:45pm, 7 hours after leaving, we arrived in Phonsavan, got a hotel and food, thankful to be there and excited about the next day. "The Plain of Jars" is a somewhat enigmatic site as no one knows for sure the purpose of them. Local legend has it that a king friendly to the people won a battle for them and had them made, cast in a kiln, to ferment rice wine in to celebrate his victory for them. The only problem is they are completely dug out of boulders, the largest weighing six tons, too heavy to take back and forth to a kiln. Much more likely is that they were dug out of existing boulders (other boulder field finds with half-made jars have borne this theory out) and that they were perhaps used more for funerary rites and storing of ashes, bones, etc. Either way it was quite surreal to wander through all three sites, each with about 100 jars, some broken, some on their side, and some still in tact with their giant accompanying stone lids.

The next morning didn't bode well for our return trip. Thick fog was all around and the bike wouldn't start. Only because genius Andy didn't try the choke. We decided to give the sun a shot to burn off the fog, but it seemed like as we were leaving, it was only getting worse. At the same time, there was a guy with a rifle (that didn't look like it was used to hunt animals) on his back in the beginning. And this was supposed to be the safe province! After a half hour or so, though, everything started to clear up and we even got blue sky. The weather even started to be beautiful and we were thinking about "the only thing to fear is fear itself" quote. That's when our chain slipped off (thus the noise in the engine growing worse). We put it back on and kept going, now through the hot zone, but the weather was so good we were really starting to enjoy it. Then, we turned the corner. TWO trucks of armed men blocking the road with a small space in the middle, looking at something on the side. We both said, "I don't know if it's government or not, just keep going." Without so much as a blink, Andy guns it right through the middle. Out of the corner of her eye, Sarah could just see muted to empty stares on their faces. Once, around the next corner, Andy buzzed it through village after village, trying to get to the junction town of Rte. 13, Muang Phu Khoun as quickly as possible, just to be on the safe side. Then the stupid chain goes out again! We stop, get off and start fixing it and hear a car coming around the corner literally twenty seconds later. Our hearts sank as it was none other than the armed guard truck rounding the bend. We hoped they wouldn't stop to 'help' us. But they actually just kept going and were actually kind of rowdy and good-natured, saying what Sarah thought was "Beer Lao" to us and laughing. Maybe they were just the government troops. But we didn't care to stick around. Just as we got the chain on, the SECOND armed guard truck comes behind us around the corner. The timing was especially eerie because at the speed we were going, they would have had to have immediately jumped into their trucks after seeing us and sped off. We decided to slow down at the next village and discreetly let them pass us, which they did. Then, giving them time to get ahead, we keep going slowly. Up the next hill, our chain goes out again. Okay, now we're starting to get mad! We fix it and the rest of the way, just nurse the gears and cruise through village after village and make it to the junction town, take a breath, have a couple of coffees and soup, and start up our last mountain pass heading south on Rte. 13. Just when we thought this portion would be as uneventful as it was coming the other way, we see a true guerrilla in camouflage with an AK-47 standing on the side of the road! We don't even look as we motor by him, but our hearts did skip a beat when, as we passed, he whistled two times to someone on the ridge. Andy pulled the clutch to avoid the chain problem and roared down the mountain, luckily a steep grade for the next 5 km. We made it to the bottom and out of the hot zone. The chain went out a couple of times more but it was okay. We almost made it to Kasi before our tire blew out (the result of a patch we had put on in Phonsavan when our tire blew there); luckily there was a repair place a couple of km away. Even more lucky that it wasn't a half hour earlier when we were on top of the mountain next to nothing!

Over the next 2 hours, though, we were rewarded with a perfect setting. Great weather, unrivaled scenery of tropical landscapes against limestone peaks and magnificent fading sunlight. Sure our chain went out again a couple of times, but we were home free. This time, we didn't even need a Halls.

Posted By Andy Srygley on April 29, 2007, 3:16 PM

My husband & I celebrated my birthday in Italy. We spent 3 glorious weeks in Rome, Florence, Venice, Bellagio (Lake Como), & Milan. I planned well in advance to adhere to our budget & still receive maximum enjoyment from our vacation.

Rome was everything I imagined & more. We stayed at the luxurious Hilton Rome Cavalieri Hotel overlooking the city. I booked the hotel a year in advance using Hilton Reward Points. As Gold Reward members, the Hilton graciously upgraded us to a magnificent room with a view of the city, free breakfast, & a drink nightly. Everything including the service was impeccable at the Cavalieri. Our balcony view was so nice, we canceled our dinner reservations for the last 2 nights & brought a bottle of wine, pasta, & cannoli (my favorite ?) back to our room & ate it on our balcony while admiring the moon among the twinkling lights of the city with the band playing below � utterly romantic!
Favorite Sights: Galleria Borghese, Sistine Chapel, Pantheon, & Roman Forum
Great Restaurants: Spirito DiVino. Ask for a tour of their wine cellar that dates back to before the Colosseum was built. We were their first patrons the evening we went and received personal time and a basement tour by the owner himself.
Skip: Il Valentino dell Hotel Valadier. Overpriced, bad DJ dinner music that overpowers the evening, & so-so service; only the view was nice
Tips: (1) Buy a "Roma PASS" for free or reduce prices at 9 sights with free bus & metro transportation
(2) Take a guided tour of the Vatican Museums to skip the long lines & get some great info. Also, be sure to book a tour of the Vatican Gardens in advance or you'll miss out on a wonderful treat.

Florence had a smaller city charm we enjoyed after Roma. Our room at Residenza Il Villino (135 euro for their double superior room with a view of the Duomo & breakfast) was charming & conveniently located within the city. Sergio did everything to make us comfortable & answer all our questions. He even made advanced reservations for us at Galleria dell Academia, Cappelle Medicee, Capella Brancacci, Palazzo Pitti Galleria Palatina, & Galleria degli Uffizi on the days & times requested via email.
Favorite Sights: Galleria dell Academia & Galleria degli Uffizi
Great Restaurants: Cantina Barbagiani & Buca Lapi

What can you say about Venice?! It's an experience like no other. We loved the location of our hotel, Pensione la Calcina (164 euro for a room overlooking the Giudecca Canal including breakfast). La Calcina was away from the busy tourist throng in Piazza San Marco, yet, close enough to everything. We loved our small, but lovely room with a beautiful view of the Canal and their restaurant located right ON the canal. We frequently indulged in pre-dinner drinks while talking to other international guests & watching the boats go by on the canal.
Favorite Sights: Basilica di San Marco & the Secret Itineraries Tour at the Doge's Palace (make reservations)
Great Restaurants: Ristorante Cantinone Storico & the lovely little bar/patissieria on Calle de Toncello that had the name "Hausbrandt" on the door
Tip: Get tickets to see Interpreti Veneziani, 9-piece string ensemble, in the historic Church of San Vidal in Dosoduro. They were fantastic!!

Bellagio on Lake Como was breathtakingly beautiful. We only spent 2 nights, but could easily have spent more. We stayed at Hotel Metropole Bellagio (174 euro with half board and lake front view). Although not quaint or luxurious, our room was simple, clean, and spacious with a great balcony view of the lake. Service at the hotel was always friendly and reliable. I especially enjoyed the dinners at the restaurant on the lakeside patio.
Favorite Sights: Villa Carlotta, Como, & Brunate (take the funicular from Como for an incredible birds-eye view of Lake Como and the surrounding areas)

Our last 2 nights in Italy were spent in Milan at the Milan Marriott Hotel. I booked the room a year in advance using Marriott Reward Points. The room & service were both lovely, though it was our only stay where breakfast was not included. This Marriott is not in the heart of the city, but within about a 10 to 15 min. walk of a metro stop. Milan is more of a fashion/business city with a very different "feel" than Rome. We felt 2 nights were just about right.
Favorite Sights/Activities: The Last Supper at Chiesa di Santa Maria delle Grazie (booked on-line 3 mos. in advance), Castello Sfzorzesco, the Duomo, afternoon tea at Caf' Doney at the Hotel Principe di Savoia Milan
Great Restaurants: Ristorante Al Porto & Di Gennaro
Tip: Look into who's playing at the Blue Note Milan. We had a great time listening to the Stanley Clarke Quartet & conversing in broken English & Italian with two Italian lawyers at our table!

NEXT STOP:THE SOUTH ISLAND OF NEW ZEALAND (Tips welcomed)!!

Posted By Denise McDonald on April 29, 2007, 6:58 PM

Friday, March 30, 2007
Venice in the Rain

We did it again. No wake up call, NO WAKE UP. The maid knocked on our door and said it was our last chance to have our room cleaned. We thought that was rude, since we thought it was about 8 a.m. But it was 1 p.m.... The sleepy twins strike again.

Despite our late start, we made the most of a very rainy day in Venice.

Since we had missed breakfast at our hotel, we stopped at a cute little cafe near our hotel and had cappucino and tramezzini - little sandwiches. David had tuna and egg, and tuna and tomato, he said they were very salty ('in a different way, but good' - whatever that means). I had prosciutto and Gorgonzola. Yum.

David had honed in on a bookstore near the Piazza San Marco, so we headed over there first. On the way, we passed a McDonald's (sacrilege!) But DW was still hungry, so he stopped and ordered a 'Big Tasty.' Oh ya, it was $6. And it wasn't that good. AND the $3 small coke was flat. I think the Gods of Venice were giving him a message - what the heck are you doing eating at McDonald's???

After that little 'snack-cident,' we headed on to the bookstore. David was in there for a LONGGGGGGGG time.

(David's comment: It would behoove one to know at least one other language than one's one, because I found books on architecture and art in Italian that I had never been aware of because they are not printed in English. I entered the "architectura" section, and I was overcome at the selection. Annie kept coming back to see if I was ready to go. She was nice about it, though.)

While waiting for David, I went in all the stores in a two-block area; I bought some jewelry. I had a sandwich and a cappuchino. I went in to check on him - he was still browsing.

I found the Basilica of Venice and spent some time in there (praying that David would come out of the bookstore. I lit a candle.)

I patted a wet doggie who was keeping company with his person, an artist, in the plaza.

I looked in all the restaurant windows at the interesting fish.

I watched a very cute little boy play with his father.

Still, no David.

Finally, I decided to go find him and suggest that since it was 3:30, and the bookstore was open til 8 but the churches closed at 5 or 6, that perhaps we should go see something and come back to the store. But David was just coming out as I was going back in. He did buy me a really nice book on labyrinths for my birthday, and a book on the Finnish architect Alvar Aalto for himself. He's a sweet boy.

And by the way, he's really coming along with his Italian - he says he uses sight, sound, and context to figure it out.

Off we went to find a vaparetto (canal crossing boat) because we wanted to go to a neighboring island to see Palladio's church, Il Redentore. Mind you, it was raining 'gatti e cani' (cats and dogs), and the canal was a bit rough. The boat was crowded and we had to stand up - we couldn't figure out how the Venetians keep from falling down - even while holding their little dogs - since we were like a couple of drunken sailors.

The church was beautiful. David says it was 'Palladial.' Can't argue there.

Planned by Palladio, this church was built between 1570 and 1580. In 1576, a deadly plague spread among the population of Venice. The doge then dedicated this church to the Redeemer, in return for mercy on his people. A statue of 'Faith' rising above the fa�ade can only be seen from the canals.

We thought we'd head toward the place I most wanted to see - the Frari. We took the boat back across, and kind of wandered a bit to find it, but finally did, at about 6:00, and I was sure it would be closed. But NO, the doors were open; again, God looking out for us.

The church was built by the Franciscan Friars in the 1300s - hence the Frari - and it was incredible in there. Titian was buried there, and his monument was, well, monumental.

David remarked, 'Titian's grave is separated from the rest of the church by a wrought iron par-Titian.' That boy is a laugh a minute.

There was a Titian painting, the Assumption of Mary, over the main altar that was breathtaking. It was painted in 1516 and is the piece that made Titian's reputation in Venice.

There is also a statue of John the Baptist by Donatello, carved in 1438, that I found really beautiful.

In the sacristy, there is a triptych by Bellini painted in 1488, and the light was exquisite. And the artist has my favorite drink named after him!!!!

The magnificent choir stalls were built in the 1400s.

We decided to head in the direction of our hotel and look for a place to eat dinner. We found a cute little place right next to a canal - it only had about 9 tables. David ordered his 'usual,' spaghetti pomodoro, and a steak. (He says it was "beddy, beddy goooooood." So much for getting better with his Italian....) I ordered gnocci with 4 cheeses, and it was really good. I didn't want an entree because the pasta was so good, so I defied Italian convention and ordered another dish of pasta - this one handmade papardelle with mushrooms. Yum.

We walked back via the Rialto Bridge, and met a family from New York's upper west side at a music store (David and the other man - both of whom were musicians - had a good talk about music.)

At the top of the bridge, a man was playing Hungarian renaissance folk tunes on the lute - right up our alley. We listened for a while - it was haunting on the dark bridge in the rain. David bought two CDs from the guy.

Home to the hotel after a few wrong turns in the little alleys. Tired, and happy. Again.

Posted By Annie Emanuelli on April 29, 2007, 10:49 PM

My image of South Africa before I arrived here was the township. When I pictured South Africa, I recalled images I'd seen of the Soweto uprising, the Sharpeville massacre, and the celebrations on the streets of Jo'burg's townships on the day Nelson Mandela became president. That's what I thought I'd see when I got to Cape Town. Instead, Cape Town turned out to be a resort town. Central Cape Town is beautiful, clean, and accessible. It is a lovely city, but it felt almost too perfect, too easy. It had no edge. I knew we weren't seeing the "real" Cape Town. We saw only the tiny section of the city squished between the mountains and the ocean. This was the pretty part of town, the white part of town.

The majority of Cape Town's residents live in the massive Cape Flats valley, far away from the stunning ocean and mountain views. That's where you'll find the townships. That's the real Cape Town for most people who live here.

Townships are urban residential areas that, under apartheid, were reserved for non-whites. Legislation from the 1950's to 1980's prohibited blacks from living in the cities. Hundreds of thousands of black South Africans moved to neighborhoods outside of the large urban centers, creating squatter communities that eventually turned into highly organized mini-cities. Today, townships remain the primary neighborhoods for South Africa's urban blacks. Though apartheid is now gone, its legacy remains, and is most acute in the townships.

We wanted to learn more about the lives of most of the city's residents. The dilemma was how best to do this. We had been warned not to visit the townships on our own. Although we dismissed most of the warnings we'd received about crime in South Africa, we were reluctant to dismiss this oft-repeated one. There are numerous tours offered to Cape Town's 4 major townships. But there's something too voyeuristic, too demeaning, about getting on an air-conditioned bus and driving to gape at the poor people. On the other hand, avoiding the townships altogether meant closing our eyes to the real South Africa. It's the classic traveler's dilemma: How do you respectfully engage with people without making their lives into a tourist attraction? It's always tough to find a balance between the two extremes of ignoring local culture altogether and exploiting locals as an exhibition.

After agonizing over it a bit, we decided that an appreciation of modern South Africa required a visit to the townships. We settled on a middle ground. Roger, the security guard at our hostel (the excellent Big Blue Backpackers: www.bigblue.za.net), offered to take us to one of the townships, where he used to live. He assured us that he was going not as a tour guide but as our friend.

We visited Khayelitsha, Cape Town's largest township, home to almost 1 million people. Khayelitsha is 90% black, with Xhosa (said with a click for the Xh) being the primary language (though most people also speak English). We took the local train there. As the only white people on the train, we caused a bit of a stir. At one point, a shy teenage girl approached Brad and asked "how are you doing?," then quickly darted away while her friends giggled uncontrollably. She had clearly just won a dare to talk to the freckly white boy with the funny hair. When we stood to get off the train at Khayelitsha, everyone chuckled. Apparently it's not too common for tourists to take local trains to the townships.

As we got off the train onto the raised platform, the full expanse of Khayelitsha spread out in front of us. The township is enormous. We couldn't see an end to it in any direction. Most of the homes are shacks made from shipping containers, the kind used to ship cargo overseas. Yesterday's fruit container is today someone's home. Cardboard, wood, plastic, and various other materials are also used to build homes. Interspersed between the shacks are clotheslines weighed down with drying garments. There is a main road running through the township, with lots of thin dirt tracks going off in every direction. Amazing bursts of color, from the pastel paints used on many of the homes, stand out against the dull background. From up above, Khayelitsha looks like an MC Escher painting.

We immediately went to get lunch at one of Khayelitsha's main eating establishments -- Sassa's Kitchen. After a filling lunch of mutton and rice, we took off to see the township. The first thing Roger pointed out was the minibus taxi stop. Minibus taxis run all throughout Africa. They're big vans that run appointed routes and pick up passengers on the side of the road. According to Roger, the minibus taxi drivers control the township. The taxi drivers enforce the Unbado Code, a form of vigilante justice that is supposed to keep peace and order in the township. Because the taxi drivers keep a close watch over the safety of their passengers -- their bread and butter -- the taxi station is the safest place to be in the township.

Roger warned us sternly, "If anything should happen to me while we're here, run immediately to the taxi area. There you will be safe." This did not make us feel very safe.

We spent the entire day walking around Khayelitsha. There was no organized route, we just wandered in and out of the little alleyways between the homes, observing what we could and talking to people when they seemed willing. The part of Khayelitsha that we saw was entirely made up of shacks. There are nicer parts of the township, where people live in brick and wood homes, further away from the center, but we didn't get a chance to go there. The average size of the shacks we saw was about 12 x 12 feet, but some were as small as 8 x 8 feet. An entire family generally shares one shack, which is usually made up of one large room. The shacks do not have running water, electricity, heat or air conditioning. Taps and outhouses are shared between several homes. The townships are growing steadily and new homes are put up each day. You never know when you might have new neighbors.

The streets of Khayelitsha are lined with food sellers. Portly women in colorful dresses sell chicken and mutton by the side of the road. Small open-sided shacks on both sides of the street sell drinks and produce. Meat is cut up and sold on wooden tables lining the road. It sits out in the sun until a willing buyer comes along. A friendly woman chatted with us as she sliced open lamb intestines. A group of three women gossiped among themselves as they de-feathered chickens. Women washed clothes in big basins under the shared tap, then hung the clothes to dry on the clotheslines running between the homes (unsurprisingly, women seem to do the majority of work). Kids and stray dogs roamed the streets.

The children were extremely friendly. We were careful about not making this a photo tour and kept our small camera hidden most of the time. But kids would inevitably see it and, like children everywhere, would clamor to have their picture taken and giggle with delight to see their images in the camera's LCD screen. The adults were a mixed bag. Some were extremely friendly, some were more reserved. Nobody was hostile.

Several people invited us to look into their homes. In one home, the walls were covered from floor to ceiling in stickers. Two teenage boys smoked cigarettes on colorful plastic chairs. There were nice green mattresses on the ground. The residents had obviously taken some time to decorate their home.

Another home we saw was entirely bare except for one extremely thin brown mat on the ground, on which two children slept. The owner explained that his shack had recently burned to the ground. Fires are extremely common in the townships, destroying hundreds of homes each year. With the homes so close together, a simmering cigarette can easily destroy an entire neighborhood. This man had lost everything. He was starting over from scratch, with nothing but the brown mat for his children to sleep on.

We walked into the shop of a sangoma, a traditional healer. He had numerous ointments and herbs in glass vodka bottles spread out around the shop. He was a garrulous man and spent almost an hour talking to us, explaining how his ancestors had appeared to him in dreams and had compelled him to become a healer. Sangomas are important throughout southern Africa, though there are increasing concerns that many sangomas discourage people with HIV from seeking out western medicine.

Overall, the township tour was an intense and fascinating experience, and I am grateful to Roger for giving us this opportunity. It was definitely the highlight of our time in Cape Town. I don't pretend to have any profound insight into the lives of poor South Africans as a result of a one-day tour. It was obviously still a form of tourism for us; we didn't have to live there, we were just going there to look. But we benefited tremendously from seeing a truer picture of life in this city than we could ever get hanging out in the V&A Waterfront. The tour both de-mystified our perception of township life and affirmed our belief that there is much more to South Africa than pretty beaches and good wine. Apartheid may be over, but the legacy of South Africa's troubled past remains.

Posted By Marianna on April 30, 2007, 12:54 AM

Lesson Learned: Learn the Language

If you enter the travel section of any bookstore you'll be inundated with titles such as "Learn Italian in 10 Minutes a Day" or "German for Travelers." However, these books are full of too many words. If you are a procrastinator, like myself, no matter how hard you try you simply can't memorize all of the words for Italian food on the plane ride over.

One of the key tips I could give is to learn at least a few phrases in the language of the country you are going to visit and, even more importantly, how to pronounce them. You will never want to crack open a guide book at dinner, and have to try to pronounce "Meeee scussssi, IL cannnnnnttto pur favor-e." Trust me, you'll chicken out or if you are brave, you'll look like an idiot. If you have no problem with looking like an idiot, then go ahead stop reading the rest of this. But if you are here reading this in the first place, then you are not one of those people and will appreciate this advice.

There are several reasons why learning a few key phrases in the language of your visiting country will help you. First, it will give you an instant boost of confidence and can cast aside some of the fear associated with being in a foreign place. You now know how to greet someone, ask how much something costs, and the always useful phrase "Do you speak my language?" Trust me, no matter your level of fluency, there will be times when you just can't or won't feel like trying to fight your way through a difficult conversation in a foreign language. A second benefit is that the locals will treat you with the utmost respect and kindness for making an attempt. I first learned this lesson while in Munich with my sister, after arriving too late and discovering that the hotel had given away. We frantically tried the hotel next door and discovered that the night clerk was Italian. Having just arrived from Italy, we were in the mode of saying "ciao and grazie." He loved it, as he missed his home and took quite a liking to us, speaking to us in broken English and Italian. We thought he was just a generally nice guy, and as we returned to the hotel the next night he saw that I had a cold and invited us to visit with him and shared some hot tea and stolen nutella from the breakfast bar. We sat in the lobby and chatted with him about why he left Italy and he quickly became enamored with my sister deciding she looked like a "contessa." Midway through our conversation, a pair of typical American girls came down from their room complaining that the phone wasn't working and they needed to call the airlines to fix their flights. They were rude and demanding. Our Italian friend suddenly forgot the English language and smiled and replied "phone works." They kept at it, asking him if he could call the airline, he just threw up his hands and said, "Sorry, phone works." They huffed off frustrated and scared, while he quickly returned to our conversation in perfect English. Classic.

So don't ever feel like you need to learn the entire phrasebook, but do take the time to learn the appropriate phrases such as "Hello," "Excuse Me," "Do you speak English?," and the ever important "The check, please." (Especially if you are in Italy!) One phrase you might not think to memorize is the one telling a native that you don't speak their language. This is particularly useful if you look like you could be from the country you are visiting. For instance, while in Germany I had countless Germans ask me for god knows what. I didn't know how to say, "I don't speak German." So I would just look at them sheepishly, shake my head, and say in English, "Sorry, I speak English." It worked, but I wish I knew how to get the point across a little more elegantly. When it comes to travel, there is nothing more frustrating and scary than not knowing the protocol for a situation. With a small arsenal of phrases under your belt, you can walk the streets of any country with just a little more confidence.

Posted By Kelly Goodman on April 30, 2007, 1:05 AM

I am not sure what was more exciting, going to Budapest for the first time, going to a SPA for 3 weeks for the first time, or paying a price that was just too good to be true. Always wanted to go to a SPA, but we really couldn't afford it. Then I saw this deal, and deal it was. Three weeks at the Thermal Hotel Margitsziget, on Margaret Island, on the Danube River, between Buda and Pest - what there isn't a Budapest, there is a Buda and Pest. Another exciting thing, did you all know that its Buda and Pest, well we didn't and you would be surprised to find out how many did not know that. Back to the the 3 weeks, roundtrip from New York, roundtrip from the airport, half board (buffet breakfast, lunch or dinner) and 15 SPA treatments per week, the price, between $2,000 and $3000 per person depending when you want to go. We went in July and our price was $2828. Amazing. We went and it was terrific, the treatments all were 20 minutes each, the meals were fantastic, the hotel was wonderful, the room was excellent, the staff was outstanding. And besides all that, you got the full use of the fitness center, sauna, steam room, thermal bath and swimming pool. We made arrangements that we would not have treatments on Wednesday and Saturday and those were our tour days. We bought a bus/train/trans/trolley pass, and two days a week we would catch the bus, which was about 10 yards from the hotel and in about 15 minutes we were in the heart of Pest. Museums, shopping, markets, restaurants, just everything you want to see. Margaret Island is great, there is a track that goes around the island and its a beautiful walk, along the Danube River. The Island is filled with flowers and trees and its a great place to relax. It was a fantastic 3 weeks, and we look forward to going again, in fact we leave this July. How can you not - such a deal. John

Posted By John Rybczyk on April 30, 2007, 12:36 PM

PARADISE IS ALIVE AND WELL! It is in Costa Rica, a tiny town in the Osa Peninsula named Puerto Jimenez. This is one of the last pure, protected Rainforests left on earth. The forest is so amazing, on my first tour we went just a short way into the forest spotting 3 kinds of monkeys-oh! so adorable. As we heard loud howling traveling through the treetops, Randall, our guide from Osa Discoveries,an Eco tour company, told us the increasingly louder howling were "Howler Monkeys" (aptly named) they came to the trail and were on doing gymnastics in the trees. They chased each other, flew in the air, it was awe inspiring. I turned around feeling like I was being watched, there above was a giant sloth, his big brown eyes and triangle shaped head, the most darling creature I had ever seen. He would turn his head back and forth, munching on leaves, just watching me watch him as the grand Scarlet Macaws flew overhead.
The boat trip one day to snorkel and swim with the many, many dolphins that inhabit the clean, clear waters of Drake Bay and out towards the Pacific Ocean, gave another awe inspiring experience. Many, many kinds of whales travel there every year. Suddenly a 16 meter humpback whale breached the water. The sight of this stunned all, it was a private show that no one expected or could have believed, the whale was as curious as we were. The show unbelievable, then a huge Whale shark (much larger than the boat) came to see what WE were, closer and closer until he was leaning up against the boat while we petted, rubbed and even gave him a kiss as we, the Whale Shark and us shared a moment in time that I will never, ever forget. These experiences were just two days in a trip that will stay in my heart and mind forever. Paradise is not gone...its is Puerto Jiminez, Costa Rica.

Posted By Sarah Patton on April 30, 2007, 2:26 PM

In 2005, Budget Travel ran a "My Hometown" story on Chattanooga. But by definition, hometown means somewhere you were born or where you live now, and, um, I really hate to nit-pick, but the writer once lived in Chattanooga for a couple of years. Her hometown is Cleveland, TN, a half-hour up the highway. Now don't get me wrong, her article wasn't bad, just superficial.

There's so much more to Chattanooga than funky shops and the Choo Choo. And that's where the hometown part comes in. So here's Chattanooga, as told by a real native daughter.

Nestled along the Tennessee River, enclosed by mountains, Chattanooga is set in one of the world's most beautiful places. It has been a crossroads since the days when spear-throwing was a life skill. The Moccasin Bend National Park, slated to open to visitors in a couple of years, will explore this history with exhibits, archeology finds, and nature trails. (www.moccasinbendpark.org)

Chattanooga's early incarnation, Ross's Landing, was part of the Cherokee Nation. Pivotal events of the Trail of Tears happened here. As the river front has been redeveloped in recent years, an outdoor art space. "The Passage," has been created to commemorate this Cherokee heritage. The Passage is located next to the Tennessee Aquarium (excellent fresh water exhibits!), along the Riverwalk, a 10-mile pedestrian/cycling trail that leads upriver from the boat landing. Tony's Pasta, just a couple of blocks off the Riverwalk, in the Bluff View Art district, is my absolute, hands-down favorite restaurant.

When the Civil War raged, Chattanooga was at its center, with cannon fire, sieges, and stark battles up the side of Lookout Mountain, along Missionary Ridge, and in nearby Chickamauga, GA. (www.nps.gov/chch)

If music interests you, Chattanooga offers everything from the Riverbend Festival each June with a myriad of musical groups (www.Riverbendfestival.com), to a great symphony orchestra which performs in the beautifully-preserved Beaux Arts 1921 Tivoli Theater. (www.chattanoogasymphony.org) If you're lucky, you can catch a showing of a classic movie at the Tivoli. It feels like stepping back in time.

The Hunter Art Museum, a school field trip every few years when I was a kid, has grown to have a wonderful collection of American art, from Colonial to modern times. It's located in the Bluff View Art district. (www.huntermuseum.org)

And outdoor activities abound. Lake Chickamauga offers several state parks. Boating, fishing, camping, water-skiing, and lazing in the cool water are perfect summer pastimes. (www.stateparks.com/tn.html)

Rock climbers can test their skills at places like The Walnut Wall (under a pedestrian bridge) and Sunset Rock. And just south of town, hang-gliders step off Lookout Mountain, imitating the hawks that circle in the unpolluted sky. (www.outdoorchattanooga.com)

So when you go to Chattanooga, lift your eyes to the mountains, swim in the lake, glide in the sky, walk by the river, eat fresh pasta, and think of me. After all, it's my hometown.

Posted By Lisa Lowe Stauffer on April 30, 2007, 3:15 PM

Taking a Trip of a Lifetime Off the Beaten Path in Fiji Islands

Have you ever dreamed of winning a fabulous getaway beach vacation? Imagine our surprise as winners of Frommer's.com Sweepstakes trip for two to Fiji! We won an almost-everything-expenses-paid trip. It proved to be one of the most relaxing and pleasant vacations we've experienced, and it's also off the beaten path.

The resort and our trip was splendid--quiet, peaceful, beautiful, clean and uncrowded, with a friendly staff. We saw a mix of young and middle aged visitors, mostly couples. The trip is good to kick back and unwind. If you're into more strenuous activities you'll find them, but be sure your body is up to it. Savusavu and the Koro Sun Resort will help you escape and find yourself. Or lose yourself. Either way, go visit and enjoy!

Bring What You Need

You'll need to really like it when you get here, because it's the quiet island life. But hey, what's not to love. For those of you who thrive on a night life, not much is going on here after dark. Tourist life and amenities are limited, and you should bring what you need., including DEET to control outdoor insects. Convert money to Fiji dollars -- the only kind accepted. Resorts accept credit cards, but in town and for taxis you'll need local currency.

What We Actually Won

What we actually won were two round-trip economy tickets from LAX to Nadi, Fiji, seven nights accommodations at the Koro Sun Resort in Savusavu, roundtrip airfare from Nadi to Savusavu, ground transportation to and from the resort and airport, and a 2005 Fiji Travel Guide. We did have to pay taxes of about $300 on airfare, and our own way to LAX. But you can find good package deals through your local travel agent.

Timing Our Travel

After reading up on the weather, May and November offered the best weather for us -- past rainy season and not too hot. No restrictions were made on when we could travel, and it took about 30 days to get all the paperwork in order once we decided.

Getting our package took a bit of follow-up, but everything was delivered to our front door, literally and the trip went off without a hitch. Air Pacific and Fiji Air service and check-in were expedient. TSA security clearance out of LAX was horrendous and grossly inefficient. It reminded me of the TSA jokes made by the media. "Thousands Standing Around." And no one seemed to care much except the passengers, about how long it took. Our flight was full and even on a Boeing 747, this was a tough trip in coach. These were the only down sides to our trip.

There's More to See Than the Main Island

After passing through the Nadi airport, we ventured on to the island of Savusavu. The ride was loud but smooth and presented us with sensational scenery. The last leg of our trip presented uncluttered views below, of scenic mountains, misty fluffs of clouds, and green portrait landscape with waterways threading through. Homes were dotted sparsely across the terrain, and soft green vegetation capped every mountain below us. Everyone's nose was stuck to the windows.

Although Savusavu is Fiji's second largest island, you'd never know it from the tiny airport facility with a ramshackle building. When we landed, weather in the early morning was balmy and breezy with a perfect temperature, for shorts, t-shirts and sandals. Later, it got a bit more humid, but we handled it just fine.

The Koro Sun Resort

The Koro Sun Resort sent a driver to pick us up upon arrival. Driving to the resort took us through dense vegetation that could easily overtake the island if not tended. Local homes were built on stilts and windows often louvered to take in the island breezes.

At arrival to the Koro Sun, the grounds were lovely and well-taken care of. Mongeese roamed at will. We were greeted with a tropical whipped local drink, checked in, and given details about the resort. All meals were included during our stay, and we were offered each a complimentary massage. We paid only for special beverages, tours and incidentals.

We had a front yet very private cottage that faced the resort grounds and the ocean, with a small sitting porch and two chairs. TV or phones were excluded from the decore--but who needed them anyway? Rooms were air-conditioned and netted to keep insects outdoors. Rooms were equipped with stocked mini-fridges and coffee and tea.

Resort Services

The resort offered complimentary snorkeling and kayaking. Scuba diving, including certification was available for a fee, along with onsite golf or lessons from a resident Pro. The resort is known for scuba diving and their dive shop is just across the way. Activities were scheduled every day that helped round out our perspective of the island and culture. Movies were offered at night on the main deck.

Breakfast by order daily consisted of coffee, tea, juice, fresh fruit, just-baked muffins, and a selection of entrees. Every meal was an experience with local fresh cuisine. We ate the best calamari of our lives. Times were flexible for meal service.

The resort was easy on the eye and mind, and we never had to dress up -- always a plus for us. Service was exceptional. A local island band played over dinner and we were called to dinner nightly by a drum-roll. Temperatures ran in the 80's with a lot of humidity. It cooled dramatically at night.

Resort Activities

We visited on the shoulder of high season, and enjoyed the solitude and lack of crowds.
We enjoyed the few showers that fell. Mostly we had the place to ourselves and a handful of other couples. These included a set of honeymooners. One couple brought a small infant, and the resort provided baby-sitting service.

It's a great place to relax and unwind. But the Koro Sun also offers plenty of active events, like hiking, kayaking, snorkeling, scuba diving, or biking around the hillsides or into town. The resort presented some stiff hiking up the hills behind it, which rewarded us with stupendous views of the ocean and surrounding hillside. That hike also led us to a beautiful waterfall in the rainforest that helped us cool down from the arduous walk.
We enjoyed lunch at a local villager family home as part of a small group tour.

On our return, we passed the spa, nestled back against a bubbling creek that ran just below a small cascade of water. I couldn't imagine a more serene setting. On the walk back, frogs surprised me intro shrieking as we made our way across the rear lawn. Small ones nested and jumped out from everywhere in the dense grass. It was mutual that neither of us wanted me to step on one! We traveled past the golf course, and stopped to get a close-up look at two large ponds filled with water lily pads and the lovely pink flowers.

We headed back to our room for a shower and change to swimming suits, and then headed to the pool. Two pools were available, and Monty picked the one with a waterslide. He got stuck going down twice and gave it up. It's for the kids I think.

Enjoying the Island

The next day, we kayaked down the river with a tour from the resort, and ended up in the middle of a natural salt lake. You must see this. It was a beautiful trip, and fairly easy to make. The deep lake contained every fish you'd see in the ocean. At dusk, bats come out, that other hotel guests described as something out of pre-historic times. We were disappointed to miss this, but visits had to be timed with high tide, and to return before dark set in.

Kayaking was also required to get to the best snorkeling, just across the lagoon. The tide and current were swift, but these waters offered fantastic views. The water is clear, and we saw lots of coral and ocean life. When the tide goes out, loons rush around the shallows seeking food. As the sun sets each day, local fishermen spear fish in the lagoon as the tide comes returns.

We spent a good chunk of time just reading in the two shaded hammocks facing the lagoon. We made them our own while watching the sea and sunset every day. Breezy cloudy days offered the perfect weather for this.

During our stay, we visited the busy town center, which bustled with locals. Indians ran most stores. The town is made up of dive shops, small stores for groceries, mercantile, and hardware, a couple bakeries and restaurants, and a marina-type establishment with multiple tenants. A bus station, taxi queue, gas station, and a farmers market for fresh produce and fish rounded out the town. Giant lobsters stood out among the mounds of fish for sale and the hotel staff offered to prepare them for dinner, if we wanted to make a purchase.

Life After Dark

After darkness takes over, this wasn't the time or place to find nightlife. You're mostly on your own. Inside the resort, there's a bar, but it's hardly used, and alcohol and most soft drinks are pricey. There's not much to do if you don�t the resort food or activities -- and that was fine for us.

Local Culture

The Koro Sun is a former coconut plantation, now owned by Americans. It houses 17 separate guest units�separated by shrubs, flowers and trees, and completely private.

Savusavu the island is a European settlement with mixed culture of Fijians and Indians. Bus service runs continuously for local labor at the resorts and to and from town and schools. Homes are built close to water sources and provide basic shelter, but not much else for most people. A beautiful island, but still very primitive.

Villages exist across the island, each with it�s own ruling chief. Dogs, goats, horses, and lots of cows can be seen. Children were on a 2-week hiatus from school during our trip, so we saw them often at play. Most villages had their own schools. The island also has it�s own technical institute, and a single college. They hope to get a good scholarship to get into college off the Islands.

A volcanic hot springs is nearby, and a small town center with a scenic harbor and boats. Hibiscus Highway runs the cost as a scenic road, but resident cows long ago ate all the Hibiscus.

Unexpected Paradise

You just might fall in love with this unexpected jewel. If you decide to buy your own piece of paradise, foreign ownership is permitted.

We�ve truly enjoyed our visit here, a very unexpected surprise we�d never have found on our own. Our last day is cloudy and perfect, with a few sprinkles in the air. We catch our small plane back to Nadi, and head back to the culture shock of civilization and going home.

Posted By Debbie Christofferson on April 30, 2007, 11:16 PM

Stef has a fantastic ability of making you feel like you spent the day traveling with her and Tash. Sooo decriptive and alive....I truley enjoy her blogs and traveling along with the both of them across South America... even if its only throught her words and pictures! We post all her blogs and pictures at work so ALL of her friends/fans can travel along and keep up with her adventure!

Posted By lisa Martel on May 11, 2007, 8:56 AM

Hello

Very interesting information! Thanks!

G'night

Posted By hiutopor on September 17, 2007, 3:39 PM

25th anniversary trip
London, Paris, 15 day Mediterranean cruise

About Us

Traveler
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"We just wanted to do something special. So this journey was a gift to each other!"
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Sunday, December 9, 2007
25th Anniversary Trip
Sunday, October 7, 2007
Fly out to London.

Our long awaited 25th anniversary trip had finally arrived. With anticipation and excitement, we were ready. My alarm went off at 7:00 am. At first I wondered why it was still dark in the room, then I remembered that I was still in the process of putting up our storm panels before leaving. Sandra was already up folding more clothes in the family room for packing. I got dressed and took whatever was left in the freezer over to Trevor's home along with some trash that I had left at the house. Afterward, I picked up some breakfast from McDonalds and then headed home. I then helped Sandra clean up the house, finished with the storm panels, and did some last minute packing. Trevor picked us up at 2:30 pm and off we went to the airport in Miami. Everything went quite smooth I might add, much better than our last airport experience. No delayed flights at all. The plane left right on time. The flight was quite smooth with just a few bumps but not too bad. The service was great, the best I've personally experienced on any airline. Snacks, full meals, and a continental breakfast, even videos, movies, and other sources of entertainment from the monitor screens on the back of each passenger seat to pass away the length of the flight (it was 8 1/2 hrs).
After about 30 minutes in the air we were given London time so we set our watches. Instead of 7:55 pm, it was 12:55 am taking us into day two. Sort of.

Day 2
Monday, October 8, 2007
Arrive in London

I really couldn't sleep on the plane even though I felt really tired and the gas in my stomach was extremely irritating but tolerable. Sandra was fine and sleep was not much of a problem for her. So I watched some movies and listened to some music until they served breakfast. The flight was smooth and it really didn't seem that long. We had a smooth landing as well and off the plane we went. It was a surprisingly long ride from the shuttle to the terminal and the walk to baggage claim was long too. (Whew!) It didn't take long for us to claim our baggage, and Sister Una and Brother Roy (who picks people up) were already waiting for us. Everything went quite smooth on the way to our destination with maybe some traffic congestion which was only expected as it was rush hour. After Roy dropped us off, I tipped him before he left and we then went on inside. The apartment was small and cozy to say the least, but that is the standard in which most of the English live. I relaxed a little while Sandra went out to a few stores. When I woke up, Sandra already had dinner waiting for me in the kitchen, and boy was it good. After dinner we put on our jackets and went out for a walk in that nice 51 degree weather. We went to a bus/train station to get some info and then picked up a few things before heading back. We showered, Bible reading, relaxed a little bit, snacks, some British television and then bed.

Day 3
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
London

My body was still out of whack because of the time difference. That jet lag can really throw you off. I didn't wake up until 12:00 pm. Forget about breakfast, I had brunch instead. Sandra lovingly prepared it for me. Bacon, lettuce, and tomato along with a nice fresh hot cup of coffee. (Yum!) Bad weather spoiled our plans for today, so we just stayed inside. Sandra washed some clothes while I sat in and watched a DVD. (Chicken Little) Ha Ha! Hey, it was fun to watch! Afterward, I just watched whatever else was on TV before dozing off. Sandra soon had dinner ready and then afterward, we got ready for book study. It was about a 5 minute drive from where we were. The friends there of course were very warm and nice, and our host provided some snacks for everyone afterward. After snacks and loving association we headed back to our lodging. We look forward to a lot of sightseeing and activities for day four, and went right to bed.

Day 4
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
London

We were up early at 7:00 am for a long day of sightseeing in London. We stopped for breakfast on our way to the train station. It was a little confusing at first but we eventually figured out how to catch the train and buses in order to get around in London. Our first stop was at Jubilee Walk next to Jubilee Gardens from Waterloo station where the London Eye is located.The eye is a huge Ferris wheel that slowly rotates (once every 30 minutes) giving visitors a birds eye view across London from within 32 glassed capsules. At 450 feet high, it is the largest observation wheel in the world. We wanted to experience it right away but because of the weather, we decided to skip it for later. We crossed Westminister Bridge where we saw the houses of Parliament, "Big Ben" (that large clock), the Westminister Abby Church, and the Admirality, where the horse guards are located. They mount guard on horseback between 10am and 4pm. A long British tradition. They keep their stations without moving or making eye contact with the people going by.
From there, we checked out the National Portrait Gallery, and then picked up some lunch before making our way to see Buckingham Palace. Sandra needed some tennis shoes (she forgot hers in the US) from a nearby store and so we had to take care of that before we moved on.

On our way to Buckingham Palace, we rode on one of those spiffy Double Decker buses that Sandra was dying for me to try. So I decided to give it a try. We walked the rest of the way toward the palace along Duke of Wellington Place next to the Buckingham Palace gardens and boy, what a beautiful place to take a stroll through. We took plenty of photos along the Queen Victoria Memorial which sat right in front of the palace.

We then headed back to the London Eye to try it out again because the weather had gotten better. We crossed the Hungerford bridge over the river Thames to get there. The line to purchase tickets for the ride was long but moved at a reasonably good pace. After getting the tickets, the line to get on the London Eye was almost non-existent so we walked right on, and we had an amazing view of the city.
After that wonderful experience, we headed back to Waterloo station to catch our train back to Battersea. Our last stop was at a local pub called Falcon's where we had fish and chips and plenty of beer to go with it (the glasses were huge!). It was quite an experience to say the least. We had to search for any vacant table and then find what we wanted on the menu that was already provided on the table. The Bartender, that's right, I said bartender, not waiter, would take the order, pay him(or her)and that was it. We would then wait for our food. We thought it was great. Just follow what the locals do. The food was good I might add, quite different from what I would usually find at home. (It appeared that tips were not expected but they were accepted). Afterward, we walked the rest of the way back to our lodging and boy, were we tired from a long, long, long, long, day. Bathe, Bible reading, then straight to bed so we can rest up for another full day of sightseeing.

Day 5
Thursday, October 11, 2007
London

7:00 am, my alarm went off. I watched some TV in the kitchen along with a starter breakfast, some coffee and 2 pieces of toast. I let Sandra sleep until 8:30. I then woke her up, we got ready, and off we went. We had breakfast at the London Waterloo station and then made our way out to take the next bus to the Tower Bridge and the Tower of London where we took some photos.

We then took the tube (or underground railway) to the British Museum. We couldn't find the words to describe how massive that museum was. You really need an entire day or even more to take advantage of that most impressive place. There were so many archiologicial artifacts that were dug up from ancient civilizations such as Rome, Egypt, Assyria, Greece, and many other places. There were many organized tours that we could have taken, but we decided to simply check out the museum on our own, having lunch and spending the rest of our day there.

Time of course would not allow us to continue with our tour of the museum so sadly, we had to leave. (we had school and service meeting that night) On our way back, we stopped at a few stores and purchased some post cards and a souvenir for our neighbor. Time would not allow us for a sit down dinner at a restaurant so we picked up some meat pies from a local bakery and took them home with us. Sandra was not feeling too well upon our arrival so she stayed in while I went on to the meeting. The meeting at the Kingdom Hall was very nice, and the friends of course were very warm. Upon arrival from the meeting, Sandra was feeling much better and she did quite a bit of work around the place. I ate the last meat pie while writing my travel logue along with an ice cold beer. Bible reading then we watched a little TV and then bed.

Day 6
Friday, October 12, 2007
Brighton

I had to really really push myself to get up that morning. It was hard but I managed. I couldn't even fix my starter breakfast of toast and coffee either. I never knew that vacationing could be so tough. I let Sandra sleep until 7:30, then woke her up. We had to leave early if we wanted a good early start to Brighton, which was south of London on England's sea coast (a one hour ride on the fast train). We grabbed a quick breakfast at one of the cafes in Battersea and off we went to the train station. The weather was cold and wet like most mornings there in England so far. It was overcast and gray for most of the day, never needing my sunglasses. After a smooth 1 hour ride we arrived in Brighton. We took a stroll through North St. to the Cultural Quarter, as well as a stroll through the Brighton pier. The Beach was unlike anything I had ever seen before. Instead of sand that I would usually see on beaches, there were tiny rocks and pebbles. As the waves washed against the shore, it was intresting to see how the rocks would roll down. We then had lunch at a nice little restaurant on Kings Road for some traditional fish and chips and some local beer (huge glasses again). It was delicious I might add and Sandra enjoyed it too. What made it taste even better was the buy one get one free coupon that was kindly given to us by one of the elderly residents who was waiting in line with us before the restaurant opened. That added a little spice to our day!

After lunch we strolled through Queens Road back to the train station for our next destination which was Knightsbridge where the famous "Harrods" high end dept. store is located. Not only was the building impressive but the inside as well, just about everything was high end, even their food area. We were very impressed with the store, however, after about a 30-45 minute stroll throughout the store, I was just about ready to call it a day. We had considered taking a double decker bus back to Battersea, but it would have taken too long so we took the underground train (tube) instead. After our arrival at Clapham Junction in Battersea, we picked up a few things from the convience store as well as some take out chinese food. I immediately chowed down as soon as we arrived. I went into the shower and felt better afterward. Sandra and I had our daily text consideration and Bible reading. After writing my travel logue I watched a little TV and then sleep thereafter. YAWN!!! Goodnight!

Day 7
Saturday, October 13, 2007
London

7:30am and I am out of bed. As I enjoyed my starter breakfast of toast and coffee, I watched a nature documentary in the kitchen (there was 3 TV sets). Sandra eventually woke up after 9:00. We soon got dressed and out we went for a late breakfast. We then headed out for the train station to depart for Portabella road to check out the outside marketplace. It is a famous street market with hundreds of stalls selling antiques, vintage clothing, artwork and fresh food and so much more. We snacked on fruits as we walked a good distance to see so many items on display for sale. The marketplace was so long (we could not walk all of it) that we had to turn around and walk back to where we had started.

After the marketplace, we took a bus over to Hyde Park and speaker corner (you just stand up and speak about anything you want, except the Queen). Upon our arrival we headed straight to the park, grabbed a couple of lounge chairs that happened to be unoccupied and we began to study our Watchtower magazines together in preparation for tomorrow, Sunday meeting . But wait! Out of nowhere comes one of the park's employees. He says that we have to pay for the use of the lounge chairs in which we were laying. I knew that it was too good to be true! Oh well, we were too comfortable to get up and we had a lovely view of the sunset so we paid him whatever it cost to rent them.

After we finished our magazines, we laid around just a little bit more before we decided to head back to Battersea. We took 2 buses back to our destination. It took quite a while to get back but at least we had a nice scenic view on the top portion of the double decker bus. After arriving at Clapham Junction in Battersea we decided to look for a place to sit down and eat. Sandra at first suggested the same pub that we had eaten at before. But we had already eaten there once and we also had breakfast there and I had just simply wanted to try a different place. We saw another restaurant located on the corner so we tried them instead. Though dinner was good, it wasn't enough so we strolled down the street for a pastry and coffee shop on our way back to our lodging. On our way down we passed by a pub that was so crowded that people were standing out to the street. They were enjoying beers (in hugh glasses) and watching a playoff rugby football match(England vs. France). The locals were really excited about that game. Anyway, we eventually came across a Starbucks coffee shop that was just about to close but they were nice enough to take us in as thier last customer. I sipped on the coffee as we continued to make our way back on a mild chilly night. As we arrived, I immediately headed to the shower. Afterward, I laid in bed and watched some of the rugby match trying to understand the game. I still didn't quite get the game but it did hold my attention somewhat because it was very tense between both teams(also because there was nothing else on TV to watch). In the end England won the game. I could hear many fans screaming in nearby homes. Hey! I'm no different with my buddies with NFL games at home. Sandra and I then got our meeting things together for Sunday 10:00am tomorrow, Bible reading, then got ready for bed.

Day 8
Sunday, October 14, 2007
London

Sunday morning, time to get ready for the meeting. I had a terrible amount of sleep that night and so getting up for the meeting at the Kingdom Hall was not easy. Sandra was a great help in assisting me to get ready. She had breakfast ready for me as well as my meeting clothes. All of that along with Jehovah's holy spirit to help me was a great asset in my getting ready to go. I was really glad that I went, the friends were very warm and pleasant to be around. Everything went very well and they asked us to send their love back to Parkway (our congregation) back home. After the meeting we went to our lodging. Sandra and I walked with a few load of clothes to the nearby laundry mat. We would have arrived back earlier but the clothes took a while to dry. After a nice stroll back I took a nap right away to make up for the lack of sleep from last night. Sandra then woke me up at about 5:00 so that we could go out and seek out a place for dinner. We ate at Falcon's again. The food again was great, and I just simply love their beer (huge glasses)! We picked up a few things at a local store after dinner to bring back, and when we arrived I waisted no time heading for the bathroom. It must be from all of that walking that we've been doing throughout our trip so far (we must avg. 8-10 miles daily). Tomorrow we head for Paris, the second part of our trip. I speak no french whatsoever so this should be an intresting experience for me. We packed our things so that we can have an early start in the morning. We considered our daily bible reading and text, we enjoyed some champagne which Sandra purchased by mistake, TV and then retired early for bed.

Day 9
Monday, October 15, 2007
Paris

Paris is now our next destination. 7:30 am we were out the door with one piece of luggage and handbag. We ate breakfast at the