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Bhutan: Seduced By A Country

Bhutan: Seduced By A Country

I’ll admit it’s unusual, but have you ever flirted with a country? Been tempted to toss everything and start over, by a sovereign nation? Felt weak in the knees, butterflies in the stomach and knew that you were smitten, all by a place and not another person? In my case, the tiny seductress is the Kingdom of Bhutan, and she is now one of the most important parts of my life. I’ve seen Bhutan make grown men and women cry, when upon departure at the airport they hug their Bhutanese guides, tears welling up in their eyes and say “I will never forget you or your country.” I see this time and time again, and the only reason I am not crying about Bhutan is that I’ve arranged our love affair so that I repeatedly return.  Yes it’s a long distance relationship, but it works, and here’s how it began.

Some six years ago my travel agent friend arranged a trip to Bhutan. One fine spring morning seven of us met at Bangkok’s Suvarnabhumi airport, boarded the Drukair, Royal Bhutan Airlines flight, and hours later stepped onto the tarmac in Paro, Bhutan. First-timers to Bhutan are noticeable as they do not walk to the terminal, rather they twirl about as they take in the view, including the Paro Dzong, a 17th-century fortress/monastery to one side and the snowy peaks beyond this; tree-covered mountains and enormous stone and timber houses in other directions; and the small terminal itself, a mostly white building, partially clad in timbers with elaborate carvings and embellishments, arrestingly compelling upon first sight, though one soon learns this is the Bhutanese architectural vernacular seen throughout the country.

Chortens at Dochula

We were met by Dorji our guide, he draped white prayer shawls over our shoulder, and greeted us with the words “welcome to Bhutan.” Then we climbed into a van, and set off for downtown Paro, Bhutan’s second largest city, home to 20,000 people. The buildings—mostly two and three-story structures and all made of rammed earth painted mostly white and interlaced with timbers all ornately carved and painted— looked vaguely Tudor, though the walls with painted dragons, Garudas, and giant phalluses erased any notion of Tudor England. None of this made any sense, though this is the wonder of travel, seeing sights so different they delight with their strange beauty. The pedestrians on these streets were red robed monks, heads shaved and feet clad in sandals, and women in ankle length skirts and men in what appeared to be knee-length dresses, the traditional clothing, kira for women, gho for men. Most of the garments were made in colors and patterns that you’d see when gazing into a kaleidoscope, an eruption of color, yet neither gaudy nor garish. Our group appeared dull and drab next to the Bhutanese.

I love to travel, just the idea gets me excited, and the actual process is one of the most thrilling activities I can imagine. After a few days I could easily say Bhutan was the most remarkable place I’d visited. Everything was so different and unusual, an aesthetic so foreign yet so comfortable. Towards the end of our trip a sad thought appeared in my mind: we’d soon be leaving.  The Bhutanese government limits the number of visitors by adopting a policy of high-end, low-impact tourism, making an extended stay in Bhutan costly.

Did you ever have one of those proverbial light bulbs goes off in your head? I had my first one in Bhutan. It went like this: “I’ll start a business bringing people to Bhutan.” I ran this idea by Dorji, and his comment was: “No problem, just find the people and tell me where you want to go.”

Monks in Trongsa

 

Since then, I have led sixteen trips to Bhutan and I will be departing for trip number 17 in two weeks. After all this time, my love affair with Bhutan has not diminished, only grown stronger. Dorji is now my business partner, and all those that I’ve brought to Bhutan have only fond memories of the country and its people, and many left with tears in their eyes.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

John Leupold owns and operates Champaca Journeys, offering small groups cultural tours to Bhutan, Laos, Cambodia and Mexico. Mr. Leupold worked as a landscape designer until the travel bug took over his professional life, now his commute to work takes much longer, though he has absolutely no regrets about life as a tour operator.

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Purple Clover: Our Sabbatical Adventure

Thank you to Purple Clover for publishing my story about Our Sabbatical Adventure.

Five years ago, Apple’s App store opened, Kindle was brand-new, Skype was not yet a verb, and my then-boyfriend/now-husband George and I flew to Tahiti to start a one-year sabbatical adventure.

I chose to leap for love and was unsure how a year on the road would play out. George and I met online and had an instant connection, in no small part due to a mutual passion for exotic travel. George said very early on in an email exchange, “We will at least be friends,” knowing that he had found a kindred spirit of wanderlust.

After several months of dating, we traveled for three weeks to Fiji and Vanuatu during summer holidays. Visiting a local village on Espiritu Santo meant this Princess (yes, I worked for Princess Cruises) had her first bucket bath. I liked it so much, I told George, “I am going to buy a bucket for my shower in Los Angeles. All the soap came right out of my hair.” Later that week, the former Peace Corps worker asked me to join him on this dream to travel for a year in Asia. Thank goodness, I had really liked the bucket!

During the next school year, many of our friends continually asked us, “How can you leave for so long?” Others said, “Just go for the summer and come back to teach in the fall.” They couldn’t imagine being uprooted for a full year. But, I had to ask myself, “If George goes on this year-long adventure without me, how will I feel?” I knew the answer in my heart. I had to go with him.

Under the moonlight in Fiji, when I had first agreed to join George’s dream trip, we had been together for six months. My 40th birthday was fast approaching and I missed the time when I traveled full-time.

Read the full article: Click here.

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A Place I Love – Inside the Heart of Bruges

Inside the Heart of why I Love Bruges.  Ever since I watched the movie ‘In Bruges’ I’ve always wanted to visit the town itself. Fairy tales are part of most people’s childhoods because of what we watch on TV, or read in books. Most of us have an idea of a stereotypical Fairy tale. It could be how we experience them in an ideal situation such as the perfect wedding or romantic reconciliation. In this case it was the surroundings and way of life that made me think that this was a Fairy tale town. It was almost like a Disney movie, nothing went wrong for too long.

This trip was a road trip, a new place and it actually signalled the beginning of travelling in hostels for me. Our adventure elapsed from late December 9th 2012 and concluded back at home Monday the 12th.We arrived in Belgium on December 10th around lunchtime after a 10 hour journey, 5 hours through empty motorways from the North to South England, followed by a 5 hour mundane and sleepy ferry ride.

We got to Bruges in the early afternoon. Christmas time was in full flow, decorations in shopping windows, market stalls with themed toys and bakeries traditional Christmas characters.  The ice rink was out and in full access with locals skating around in enjoyment.  We wondered through the alleyways then arrived to our first hostel. I decided to stay in 2 hostels, so I could experience different areas and to indulge with more people.  The first hostel we stayed at was St Christopher’s Inn Hostel; it had a few backpackers there and had numerous rooms full of dorm beds. We checked in. It was now late afternoon so food was calling along with some White (Blanche) beer I’d heard much about. We went to a place called Bar Salon, socialised with some Flemish locals.  The surrounding Grote Market aka Markt Square was alive with people. It was a floating sort of atmosphere, a cool breeze and it had a clear feel to it. That night was pretty short, it was spent most from taking it all in. That first visual you get of a new place, the novelty, everything seems just colours and shapes, well we focused on concentrating our eyes on adapting  these new colours and sights into places we could remember.

The first image of the morning woken in my dorm bed was of my important belongings. A typical needs for a backpacker I guess.  I remember waking up feeling I only needed these items and I was set.

When showering the shower door covered half the area of the shower when open. It was uncomfortable but all part of the experience. Once at breakfast, mingling with the other people there it was pretty obvious a lot were solo backpackers; That perception of a traveller was easily fitted, the way they looked with their unique way of dressing, their sociable but tired persona, their different accents and ages. It was good to have a connection with them, to feel like one of them, and have a sense of meaning and freedom.  I remember thinking to myself, we are all alone, but we are one together, right now, in this place. Us against the world in some respects.

Our new hostel for the night was called The Passage Hotel & Hostel.  I met a French girl called Marion. She was a  dancer of some sort. Maybe a form of ballet if my memory serves me right. A very elegant girl, well spoken but looked exhausted. She was travelling to Paris to audition for a show, typically a poor dancer trying to make the big time. At that time, I thought she was the most interesting person I’d ever met in my life.

The Groeninge Museum had many 15th century paintings which were very odd and interesting. Paintings which were extremely detailed, which had meaning and myth to them. The one I remembered the most was The Last Judgement which was my favourite, showing the end of the world symbolised by crazy sized animals, objects and fatal predicaments.  We strolled around the town over the canal bridges which were delightful; there were taxi canoe boats for passengers to circuit around Bruges, looking at the monuments, inhaling in the fresh smell of the canal water. It remembering it feeling like it w   as before 8am. That peacefulness where there is no TV or music, car engines or market traders, that peace which just automatically soothes the mind opens up the body and mind for the day.

The iconic Belfry Tower was a lot more challenging than I thought to climb.  All 366 steps I climbed, and towards the top I was on my hands and feet to make sure I didn’t dwindle. It was a nice journey up, very medieval old fashioned steps, the walls, the space was very limited. When I got to the top it was quite euphoric. I looked over Bruges and it was beautiful. The quirky buildings, the sun setting, the Ice rink from a bird’s eye view, the breeze of the wind cooling down my now sweat in juiced eyebrows. It was peaceful, until the bell went off. Wow that was loud, deafening! However it was a new experience, I was just happy to be there and up at the top.

Towards evening time and our last night, back again in the Grote Market area. We ate at Café Des Arts.  The mussels and frites were great and a Tower beer all 25 euros!  The atmosphere was cosy but vibrant, the bars were old fashioned but modern and the people were odd but friendly. It was a nice end to a new sort of vacation.

 

Why do I love Bruges? It was wonderfully eye opening, almost like I was time travelling through an un-touched past time. Tourism wasn’t huge, so it wasn’t spoilt. Things were cute, canny and cosy. At the time, , it was quite an odd place to me, but Bruges offered history, unusual views, a different culture, a peacefulness, a freshness about Europe. It provided me with the kick start to want to sacrifice my comforts to see different things in the world. It opened my mind to a whole new world. It opened my mind to travelling. I love Bruges.

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Athens, Greece: A Walk in Anafiotika

Finding hidden gems in the places we visit has been a hobby of mine since I started traveling independently. There is a certain magic in finding places which are not on the tourist beaten track. And the best persons to show you these places are the locals.

I met my friend L. via Twitter and when I started to plan my trip to Athens I really wanted to get a chance to see the city from a local’s perspective. I was lucky enough to be guided to see…Anafiotika.

Perched on the slopes of Acropolis, high above the new city, is a very interesting area which makes you believe you’ve somehow ended up on a Cycladic Island, not in the capital of Greece.

The houses are white-washed, the windows are protected by blue or purple shutters, cats walk freely and flowers enchant the eyes. It’s Anafiotika, an area created by workers from Anafi – a Cycladic island – in the 1800s, who came to Athens to work as construction workers. Today only 45 houses are left in this charming area.

The view from above is amazing. You can see Mount Lycabettus , part of the archeological part near Acropolis and part of the new city.

Tips on visiting

First of all, make sure to wear comfortable shoes which deal well with the uneven and sometimes slippery terrain. If it rains, it’s very slippery. Also, if you decide to come to Athens during summer, the area is very busy.

If you want to have Anafiotika to yourself, then plan a visit in winter or early spring. I’ve been to Athens in March and although it was a bit cold and windy, it was a delight not to run into tourists (the city had its fair share of visitors). With a bit of luck you might end up meeting a local lady, who is also a writer and who walks in Anafiotika hoping to sell her book.

Don’t make any plans. Just grab your camera and a bottle of water. Sooner or later you’ll end up near a taverna where you can enjoy some of Greece’s great food.

How to get to Anafiotika

From Monastiraki square, start walking towards the Acropolis (northeastern side). Follow the narrow streets and keep going up. At some point the streets become so tiny that only one person can walk on them.

Going down, you are most likely to end up in Plaka.

By the way: maps are really useless here as the streets don’t have names. It’s a charming area which invites you to get lost. Eventually you will find your way to a square, or a taverna or the Acropolis.

The city of Athens is served by an airport which receives flights from all over the world. It might be worth it to fly into a larger European hub and hop on a low cost flight to Athens.

Photos by Traveling Cricket and cannot be used without permission.

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Pakistan: Why I love Lahore

Badshahi Mosque

Pakistan: Why I love Lahore

I stood in the balcony sipping the aromatic cup of pink tea while watching the sun rise and spreading the vibrant hues of yellow stealthily over the city, bringing the heart of Pakistan to life. My gaze shifted back to the stunning Badshahi mosque as sunlight lit up the beautiful architecture of this fifth largest Mosque in the world that has been depicting the Mughal grandeur since 1673. I stood in awe devouring the splendor of this majestic mosque.

Inside the magnificient Badshahi mosque

Sometimes I wonder why I am so in love with Lahore? And I hear my heart whisper that reasons to fall in love with this amazing city are countless! From a two months old baby to a Mom of two, it has been ages since I am dwelling in Lahore and still Lahore continues to surprise me every day, mesmerize me with its beauty, hustle and bustle and of course, love for food.

Lahore Fort and Shalimar Gardens

 

If you have a profound interest in history then Lahore is destined to leave you enthralled with its historically rich culture. The inner city of Lahore, a very densely populated area was once surrounded by a 9 meter high brick wall with thirteen gates making this Walled city one of the oldest cities in the world. The Lahore Fort built inside the walled city by Royal Mughals is one of the greatest Forts built in South Asia and was declared UNESCO world heritage site.

However it’s not just the city but also its people who make Lahore so alive.

Minar-e-Pakistan

People are friendly, hospitable and like to dress up in their national dress, Shalwar kameez (long knee length shirts and baggy pants) as well as jeans and shirts. Urdu is their mother tongue but Punjabi is also widely spoken. And English being the official language is easily comprehended among educated masses.

A famous Pakistani proverb goes, “One who has never visited Lahore is not born yet.” and if you have actually had the opportunity to visit this cultural hub of Pakistan, you wouldn’t agree more! Lahore’s famous Food Street is a heaven for those who appreciate fresh food, wide variety of local dishes made with aromatic eastern herbs and spices, the rich curries, spicy gravies, assorted sweetmeats, BBQ platters that tantalize one’s taste buds. It is said that Lahore never sleeps and the same applies for Food street. Street food all over the country is Halal and simply awesome. You just got to locate the most popular hygienic stalls.

Rickshaw is a popular mode of transport here apart from taxis and buses. This brightly colored three wheeled noisy ride with interesting quotes and poetry written at the back makes its way through the traffic jam hastily, bouncing on the slowdowns of the roads, producing a loud traaaaa sound. For inter-city transportation of goods, trucks with wooden carved doors and various floral designs painted in bright colors over the vehicle’s entire body are quite popular.

A seasonal festival that is most enthusiastically celebrated in my city is “Basant”. This festival is celebrated during February to celebrate the arrival of spring and is a major tourist attraction. On this day kites of different colors, shapes and sizes adorn the clear blue sky. Families gather on roof tops to witness the art of kite flying. The colored sharp strings of kites tangle and pull as both kite flyers use tactics to cut the other kite’s thread. Gazes fix in the sky, suspense mounts up and as soon as victory is announced, enthusiasts in family and friends rejoice by hooting and performing “bhangra”, a traditional dance done on the beat of drums.

Pakistani Handicrafts

Catering to the needs of all, Lahore is a shopper’s paradise with malls laden with latest fashionable variety. A 100 Pakistani Rupees is equivalent to approx. 1 USD. Whatsoever is your budget, you can find great stuff at affordable prices here. Ranging from Designer brands to inexpensive stuff, traditional handicrafts to intricate hand embroidered Kashmir shawls, the Persian and Afghani hand woven carpets, Lahore has it all. Lahore is the most popular city but can be really hot during summers.

While standing on the balcony, suddenly I spotted the first vehicle on the empty road. A horse carriage being driven by an old man. The sound of the horse shoes hitting the road was audible in the stark silence of dawn. Soon the vacant roads of Lahore will start getting flooded with vehicles as Lahoris wake up and leave their homes in pursue of bread n butter. Soon the traaa of rickshaws, the Tongas of inner Lahore, smoke arising from the wagons and buses on roads will bring to life these empty roads. I took my last sip of tea and stepped inside.

Photo Credits: My friend Shabnum Zulfiqar

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Myanmar: Boat trip on Inle Lake (video)

WATCH: 36 Boat trip on Inle Lake October 20, 2012, Myanmar (Burma)

We asked the team at Golden Empress Hotel to help us arrange a boat trip on the Lake. With Ya and Nop from Bangkok, we spent the day exploring and we saw the famous Leg rowers, local fisherman, and the Weaving Factory.

Khit Sunn Yin, Lotus, Silk and Cotton Hand Weaving Center

Mya Hin Tha Special Fish Silversmith shop

Golden Moon Restaurant (Near Floating Market) for lunch. The food was hot and sour potatoes and fried vegetables with cashew nut.

Shwe Inn Dain Pagoda: Inn Dain Khone original stupa donated by King Siri Dhamma Sawka 273-242 BC

Eastern stair (2000′ x 12/5′) (1054 pagdoas—14th c AD — 18th C AD) extra time but worth it

Jumping Cat monastery—The monks stopped allowing the cats to jump a few months before our visit in July 2012. Tourists were concerned that it was not nice to the cats. To me it was a Buddha museum. There were so many styles of Buddha from so many centuries. Incredible and intricate work. There were two large golden Buddhas made from Bamboo. We saw a monk teaching a group who came to visit. It is a working monastery.

Definitely spend a day on Inle Lake there is so much to see!  October 20, 2012

This movie is from our 28 days in Myanmar (Burma) from September 28, 2012 to October 26, 2012 and our year TRIP in South East Asia, see all the videos from our trip.

Our memoir, Traveling in Sin, is available at Amazon; it is a HOT NEW RELEASE!

Traveling in Sin is a HOT NEW Release on Amazon! from Lisa Niver Rajna
Traveling in Sin is a true tale of TRANSFORMATION thought LOVE and TRAVEL! After meeting online (on two different sites), George and Lisa travel internationally, give up their jobs, condo, ice cream and toilet paper in search of adventure and love. Along the way, Lisa sheds over 60 pounds and the couple gets engaged underwater in Thailand. There are tears, twists and true love!Recent Press: 

By Amy Sommer on Westside Today By Dani Stone on Diets in Review

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Vermont: 50 Shades of Green

Vermont: 50 Shades of Green

Beyond its partially-trussed shoulders, and sensually curved back, beyond its juicy, succulent berries, Vermont is a place that emanates a pheromone that smells more pine than Axe. And yet it somehow manages to excite in ways unexpected. The favored car is not a Porsche, rather a Subaru. The state color not hot pink, but forest green. It is more Von Trapp family than Marvin Gaye. More Orson Bean, who was born in Burlington, than Jodi Bean. It has one of the highest church-to-bar ratios in the country, and the highest cow count per capita in the continent. There are more covered bridges than gentlemen’s clubs; there is more hardwood than neon. Yes, there are a couple of Victoria Secrets in the state, but the wear is more Pendleton than Wendy Glez; the bedcovers more wool than silk.

But then again, what could be sexier than syrup pouring on hot, buttered pancakes?

So, defraying the city’s claim, I set out for a summer swirl in Vermont, more for the activities than anything risqué or romantic. But along the way I discover a fixed point in a turning world, a place endlessly suggestive and evocative, where time and the senses seep like sweet liquid from the maple tree.

I begin in Burlington, at the Hotel Vermont on Cherry Street, a reclaimed oak-floored boutique along the lapping shores of Lake Champlain. The hotel hosts a warm, minimalistic design, appointed with paintings and furnishings from local artists and craftsman, giving it a cool, jazzy feel. The restrooms sport Dyson Airblade hand dryers.

I dine at Juniper, the hotel restaurant, and enjoy farm-to-table, grass-fed pot roast with turnips and horseradish, the raciest of foods. Afterwards, I order up a maple martini, with the local Barr Hill gin, and step outside into the velvety folds of the late afternoon.

On the patio deck, by the fire pit, in the radiance of twilight, hypnotized by the cocktail and its glow, it’s easy to lose willpower, and surrender to Vermont, like followers of Odysseus to the island of the lotus-eaters. There is a tall woman, with cascades of dark hair, marmoreal skin, and eyes like almonds, sitting on the deck sipping a glass of organic, biodynamic Vermont wine, the liquid Franca of the state. I venture to sit in the chair adjacent. No words are spoken, but the evening shadows become our conversation, the softness of the light and the calm of the lake emotions made tangible. When the light on the lake pools to black, she departs.

Thoreau said “give me a wildness no civilization can endure,” and he could have been ordering the Northeast Kingdom, the most remote realm of the state, a domain admired for her refusal to compromise with the contemporary world, a place more Vermont than Vermont. She has, however, become a mountain biking mecca. Lilias Ide, the lavishly tattooed operations manager at Kingdom Trails, describing the trail experience, uses the word “stimulating.” She also says the color green, a hue I more associate with Christmas and St. Patrick’s Day, is sexy. It seems a suggestion that inhabits some previously uncharted crevice between the glib and the profound.

I think about this aperçu while riding the chairlift to the top of Burke Mountain, where several of the more extreme single-track trails launch. And watching the waves of green undulating beneath me, 50 shades of green, I find myself agreeing with Lilias. The woods transcend the ornamental; raw, wild, exciting and implacable, a lusty, voluptuous stealth of Nature. And then the route down, sinuous as a snake, the perfume of churned earth sparking the nose, the cool wind on the face, the hot pant of sun on the neck, and in front, a pair of toned legs pumping. She is right…this is the velocity of desire.

Next I unwind the road through a landscape mercifully caught in the waiting room of civilization. Destination: Jay Peak, a resort just a romp away from the Canadian border, and which has more moose on the grounds than guests. The summer air surges with first date humidity, and the dull clacking sound of soft young antlers in nervous ritual combat.

You can always judge a mountain resort by its film festival….and there is nothing of the sort here, which is bewitchingly impressive. You experience the thrilling charge of life first hand, not aspirationally, not up on a screen.

A portion of The Long Trail, the oldest long-distance footpath in the United States, stitching 272 miles from the buttocks of Vermont to the head, passes along Jay Peak. An Aerial Tramway hangs from a braided haul cable, hoisting us to heaven, the crest, and from here it’s a spectacular rattle along the spine of the Green Mountains. From the summit, four states, and the province of Quebec, unfurl. There’s a certain sensation on the skin when hiking beneath the Vermont summer blaze, the alpine air mentholating the senses. The beat of the placed and lifted foot soaks up the atmosphere of the mountain, which is already coiling itself around my being.

After the hike, drenched in sweat, the best après is an elemental natural wonder, a life force. We drink her in every day. She nourishes and refreshes. We bathe, swim and dive in her. She falls, flows, freezes. We slip, slide and skate over her. We love, honor, cherish her. She’s sensual; she’s fickle. She is water.

And Jay Peak has water in buckets….The Jay Peak Pump House indoor waterpark, at 50,000-square feet, is a city drowned in laughter, a place where the movement of water does more than entertain. It actually moves you. The echoes of voices, made slightly sharper and more diffuse by the effects of the water, bring me back to an unusual afternoon-delight peacefulness that overcame me on my first trip to Vermont, and which is so opposite of my pursuits with purpose. So, just chute me.

The hydraulic cynosure features a tangle of translucent fiberglass slides, the most ardent being the AquaLoop, a twisted version of a roller coaster loop in which you free fall 70′ down a red quim-like tube, and are then propelled, at 40 mph, upwards into a near-vertical loop at a force of 2.5 Gs. Finally you are discharged into a long, lazy turquoise river which gracefully curves around the perimeter of the park. It’s like floating in the Aegean, bobbing up and down with the waves, an agreeable sensation.

There, in a raft gamboling in front of me, is the raven-haired woman from Burlington, hair dripping, long arms and legs gently sculling. And in the back of her raft…a young boy with a solar flare of blonde hair, convulsed in laughter. As we spill around the far end of the river, her raft spins, and she sees me watching her… and sends back a sly smile, before disappearing around the bend.

The river then contours around a sight not reasonably expected in a landlocked state…a roiling continuous surf, simulating a North Shore experience, complete with skimpy bathing suits and Praxitelean athleticism. Water is passion expressed, and the coy fountains gush here in lodes of plenty.

From Jay Peak I wind the serpentine way over to the WilloughVale Inn on the edge of Lake Willoughby, a deep glacially-carved lake walled between the fente vulvaire cliffs of Mt. Hor on the west, Mt. Pisgah on the east. Between these walls, cyptobiologists say, lives “the Willy Monster,” a sexy beast related, it is told, to the supple long-necked Nessie of Lock Ness.

Besides the recherché view, the Inn offers up at least two titillating activities….jumping on a giant, floating trampoline; and gently urging a canoe along the lake. Is there a performance with more erotic torque than a clean paddle stroke? I used to compete in canoe races, and once, after a capsize during a slalom on the Potomac, I crossed the finish line naked, and ended up in a photo in the Washington Post, my paddle blade strategically positioned. Paddling is practically a religion in Vermont, and a place to perfect the smooth, steady rhythm of the efficient stroke, a movement that accentuates a prowess that must almost certainly translate to more terrestrial delights.

As I paddle down the lake I pass another canoe, only a few yards away, and within its gunwales is the dark-haired woman, who sends a swift and percipient glance my way, a look with enough sublimation to power a motorboat. Her paddle then catches the light as she turns the vessel towards shore, leaving me in her wake.

As the skin of the day sheds into the lake, I order a WhistlePig on the lawn of the hotel, a spirit bottled on a farm in rural Vermont that is, according to many critics, the best rye whiskey in the world. I sip unhurriedly, savoring its good, earthy, bread-like flavor, with the caramel-rich mouth feel of well-aged whiskies. And I chat with Roy Clark, the Innkeeper, who tells me he came to Vermont in 1970, and never left. That’s the seductive spell, he says, the state can cast. After the sun is gone, the only movement is the lazy turning of my own hedonistic thoughts.

“All happiness depends upon a leisurely breakfast,” said John Gunther, and so late the morning next I trundle to the southwestern end of the lake, where, in a bright cove there is a buoyant nude beach. The naked truth is that public nudity is legal in Vermont, which may or may not be sexy, depending upon the participants and the beholders. But Vermonters are active and fit, and at least the partakers qualify here.

I whisper down the road to Woodstock, passing tall, imposing silos, and copses of ithyphallic trees through a corridor of savage beauty. Flocks of ducks blow like rocket chaff across the blue sky. I check into the fabled Woodstock Inn, Laurence Rockefeller’s haunt, with a lobby fireplace the size of Scotland. In the rooms are wood-beam bed frames, exquisite linens, organic bath products, and quaint landlines. It’s a place you could check in and never leave.

From the Inn it’s a short steer, through a covered bridge (a Freudian construct if ever one), to Quechee, and a broad green field where I meet Gary Lovell, owner of Balloons Over New England. With tremulous anticipation I watch as Gary and his crew inflate the balloon, using flames to grow the long, flaccid silk dangle to something of size and splendor, and when swollen to full, we jump into the airship, and off we sail, over the unretouched treetops, the light twinkling through the branches. This is the ineluctable sensation of being unhinged. We float along the impatient Ottauquechee River, towards the border with New Hampshire, our bodies eggs in a flying basket. With the burner at our center, the breeze is a cool, feminine hand over a throbbing forehead, the earth below curving to the horizon in tier upon tier of green, the trees looking elusive and crushable, like rare exotic blooms.

At one point I look down and there is the dark-haired woman, hair billowing around her head like crimped silk, and next to her, the blonde boy. The hairs on the back of my neck quill up. She waves up to us, and then vanishes into the trees.

After a delicious hour inhaling the treacly light of late afternoon, we watch the land grow closer, and drop into a private fenced pen, where two horses, nervous with the approach, prance about the perimeters as though gone feral. One is a China white mare, like a hornless unicorn, muscled and fine-looking as the beasts in fantasy renderings.

As the evening tips towards darkness I stop in at nearby Simon Pearce, a tony restaurant which perches over a frothing waterfall, a roaring, misting diadem of plunging water, another of Sigmund’s expressive images. But it is the downstairs pre-meal tour that unfreezes my flesh. Simon has set up a glass-blowing factory, and there amidst the forges, the fires and tools, a passel of sweaty men and women are blowing bowls and vases, wine glasses and decanters, pitchers and carafes, candle holders and hurricanes, and all manner of immaculate confections in exhibitions of voluptuous shapes and sizes.

Dawn climbs inchmeal, the sky suffused with light so extravagant it seems stolen. I take a ramble down a path through the nearby Quechee Gorge, a burled, narrow cleft of granite through which shoots a white current. The steps are slightly bowed from generations of traffic, the edges rounded down like a pouting lip.

A good hike allows the lambent atmospherics of intimacy with Nature, and I step deeper into the Gorge’s embrace for a long meander by the bracing river under a sky of unnatural depth. There, again, just a short ways down the trail, is the dark-haired woman, camera to eye photographing the blonde boy skylarking with a stick. She drops the camera from her face and tosses a playful grin, the size of a hammock, my way. It’s near the end of a hot day, but the temperature seems to rise.

Like blotting paper, the dawn swallows up the ink of night, and is soon drowned by it. I can’t help but think as I drive the final miles to Smuggs, a busy oasis in the woods, that Vermont is somewhere in between the free-spirited wilderness of centuries ago, and the sleek, hedonism of modern civilization. What if Vermont actually signals the third point of a classic Hegelian dialectical triangle? Deep primeval forests at one point; glistening, neoteric cities at the second; and the third being some subtly unstated “third way” that draws on the tension and contradictory nature of the first two states of being to create a superior third. There is a tantric quality to this thought, and I hold onto it as I turn into Smuggs, short for The Smuggler’s Notch Resort, a seemingly treacherous place that bills itself as “America’s Family Resort,” a tag that seems about as sexy as a bee sting.

But there are so many activities here, it’s impossible not to experience something tactile and pleasurable. There is a zipline park at Arbortrek, offering the prelapsarian zing of whooshing through ancient hemlocks, sugar maples and paper birch at speeds and angles from serene to extreme. Step up; snap on; and fly like lightning.

Another activity is Disc Golf, a guilt-free version of the classic linksman game, in that there are no water-sucking fairways, but rather just chain baskets on forest trails into which players try to lance Frisbees. Golf has long been coupled with Freudian imaginings, swinging balls into holes, and this variation expands, as it requires spinning a smooth surfaced- discus into a manacled pocket. It’s like Diskobolus of Myron come to life, the fusing of rhythm, harmony, balance, though not quite nude. The famous statue, in a pose each golfer assumes, expresses the moment of stasis just before release, the potential energy just before the outflung, like so many facets of this state. And then, of course, there is the decuman billow of bliss with a hole-in-one.

Next I throw off the usual cautions to indulge in the recklessness of extreme off-roading, but in a new way…on a Segway. Dean Kamen, backed by Jeff Bezos and John Doer of Kleiner Perkins, invented the personal electric balancing scooter, with hopes it would change the way the world moves. The cold fusion pogo stick never took off as envisioned, though when George W. Bush fell off one in 2003, and then Jimi Heselden, who bought the company, died after riding one over a cliff at his estate in Britain in 2010, it earned some notoriety as a bad boy of vehicles. Danger deals, after all, something of the aphrodisiacal. So, with some interior butterflies, and no small measure of exhilaration, I board the fat-tire version, lean forward, and murmur into a dark, sumptuous forest of the senses, heightened with every bump and jounce. After a few turns, I’m overcome by a sort of madness, the impetuosity that comes from being in the belly of Vermont, where the usual demands of behavior are relaxed, combined with the special magic of a place that encourages risks and emotions normally tamped down.

I lean forward, put the vehicle into top speed, and head unstoppingly into the unknown, abandoning sanity to the wind.

I survive, and strut back with the splendid frisson that follows a brush with peril.

In the public area in front of Reception a pirate is playing guitar, with a basilisk look in his eye….what could be sexier than Johnny Depp as Captain Jack Sparrow channeling Keith Richards? It’s “Rockin’ Ron, The Friendly Pirate,” who wears his eyepatch on his forehead so as not to scare the kids. “How much does a pirate pay for corn?” he asks. “A buck-an-ear.”

This is a family resort, America’s family resort, nestled at the brink of a pass that once hosted smugglers trafficking booze from Canada, a sexy occupation by some reckonings. Thunder Road, the Robert Mitchum vehicle about running moonshine was the sexiest film of 1958, and it’s not hard to imagine the Smuggler’s fast and furious life here. But this is a place that cleaves to purity, full of giggles and small running feet, of the animality of innocence. “We’re in the exhaustion business,” says Bill Stritzler, owner of Smuggs with a smile identical to that of the Dalai Lama. Certainly the grounds are bursting with bouncing kids, of all ages, surrounded by the exquisite symphony of green that is Vermont, suggesting somehow that the moment will continue forever, and there never will be a tomorrow. It’s hard, here, to occupy with the concerns of the world, for concerns are always about what will happen in the future, and in Smuggs, the future will never come, and the past will never disappear. It’s like being in a different world, where everything fits together, where the play of life is splashing, zipping, tossing, swinging, sliding, in the most uninhibited ways, in a way innocent and wholesome, a way that brings unfiltered pleasure, and that perhaps is the sexiest sensation of all.

Then from the crackling crowd steps the dark-haired Circe, who makes a breezy stroll to my side, takes my hand in hers, and flashes a familiar smile, luminous as a seashell. With the other hand she traces her fingers along my psychic fissures, and then points to the blonde child, a supernal glow on his face, playing excitedly with the pirate. “Thank you so much for this trip,” she whispers in my ear. “I’ve never seen our son so overjoyed.”

——————–

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My Journey in Nigeria -Ikare Akoko- Ondo State

I actually did my one year voluntary National Youth Service Corps (NYSC) programme after graduation in Ondo state, south west Nigeria. The state is five times bigger than Lagos state-Nigeria , the commercial hub of the entire West Africa  and most populous city in Africa. However it is sparsely populated having less than one tenth the population of Lagos state.

For want of space l may not describe all the places visited , but l would want to briefly highlight Ikare-Akoko, one of the mountainous areas of the state , which is also an ideal location for both local and international tourism. Ikare –Akoko is one of the uplands of the state. The mountains are sedimentary and metamorphic rocks formed mostly from earth movements and fossilization of the rich natural vegetation of the state –which lies along the rainforest belt.

One of my favorite photograph on the uplands  of Ikare Akoko –Ondo state in Nigeria. It was shot during my National Youth service orientation programme just opposite the campsite.

The uplands are beautifully shaped to bring out its natural landscape,  and serene topography of the area. No wander the government deemed it fit to create a magnificent youth camp for the training and orientation of Nigerian youths both from home and overseas. The NYSC programme organized in Nigeria is similar to the Peace Corps programme in the United States of America and one year military service in Israel-for all youths.

The people: Very peaceful, easy going and mostly agrarian- farming being the predominant occupation of the people. Root crops, tubers, melons, felling of timbers are some of the ‘million dollar businesses’ in the area. Also education is a big industry. I must say here that every family in Ondo state has a graduate –at least- from an institution of higher learning (University, Colleges  etc which are also in abundance in the state). The state is said to have some of the highest number of professors in  Nigeria. At least l am a witness to their educated mean and hospitality.

The food: “Yam putting” called ‘inyon’ in the local dialect and ‘melon seed soup’  also called ‘egusi soup’  locally,  garnished with bush meat is among the best delicacy in the locality. I must confess that I helped myself with a lot of it until l nearly ran into stomach troubles – it is absolutely delicious. Fresh vegetables are in abundance and l fortified myself too with a lot of it too.

Transport: This is mostly by cab. Buses are few as virtually every household owns a car. I was surprised to found out that the area has some of the most developed cab system in the country- and one of the cheapest too.

Land of Great Men: The state has produced a good number of statesmen like late Pa Adekunle Ajashin of which the state university is named after. The University is located on the outskirts of Ikare. Another good mention is the late eminent lawyer and human rights activist-Chief Ganni Fawenhemi SAN(Seniour Advocate of Nigeria). One of the best disease  Diagnostic Laboratories in the entire Africa was recently built and commissioned in the state and named after him(Chief Ganni), by the current state governor chief Olusegun Mimiko.

About the Author:  My name is Bede Adazie. I was born some 35 years ago. I am currently a Volunteer teacher -with the Lagos Eko Projects Volunteers Teacher’s Scheme-and also doing some homeschooling for students in Mathematics/Sciences. Find Bede Adazie on Twitter and Facebook.

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Going Deep In Queens 1 – Flushing

Photo by Bryan Pocius

 

Question – how do you shoehorn the best Queens has to offer into a single quixotic, mega-hang?

Answer – you just do. (I’ll trust that when you read the rest of this article you’ll know the answer to the other obvious question – “why would I want to”.)

I write a blog dedicated to smart, less-than-obvious travel destinations, travel “best practices”, and weekend getaways, but some of the best travel adventures I’ve discovered are right here in NYC. Given the opportunity to write an article for We Said Go Travel, I couldn’t escape one compelling notion: Let’s Take Them Deep In Queens.

If you’re not from New York, there’s one thing you likely immediately associate with Queens: the Mets. But locals know Queens as something else – the area with most cultural diversity of any in the world (no – really), some of the best Asian food on this side of the Pacific – nay – anywhere, and a head-turning variety of neighborhoods. But how do you even begin to wrap your mind around this sprawling borough, much less try to experience it in a single day?

You have to be slightly crazy, and you need the 7 train.

And, if you’re lucky enough to have the advice of two intrepid New Yorkers, game to “experience everything for you,” then write about it for you, you take it.

We begin in Flushing.

But let’s back up. We’re going to take you to three Queens nabes, amongst which we’ll run you by Citi Field for a Mets Game midday. Since a long subway ride home is a drag – and because dim sum is abundant in Flushing and best at brunch – we’ll start on the far end of Queens and work our way back Manhattan-ward. There are two easy ways to get there:

Cheapest – grab the 7 train over from Manhattan. It’s a little slow – around 45 minutes – to get to Flushing, but you can ride it all-day for a single day-long metro card. (If you’re visiting from out-of-town and can do the queens hang on a weekday, the “diamond 7″ – so-called because of the illuminated diamond enclosing the number insignia – runs express.)

Best – take the LIRR from Penn Station to Flushing Main Street. The ride is around 20 minutes, but will set you back $7.00 for an off-peak fare. Considering what we’re about to put you through, it may be worth-the-investment.

Jade Asian Restaurant

136-28 39th Ave

Flushing, NY 11354

New York’s most famous Chinatown is located in southern Manhattan, but Flushing, its Queens cousin, is far more vast, beginning just across the river from Citi Field and continuing for miles to the East. It’s also more diverse – home to sizable Taiwanese and Korean populations in addition to its Chinese and Hong Kong residents. Chih-Yu and I have been going for years, and we’re barely scratching the surface.

Luckily, you don’t need to know any of that. Just remember two words: dim sum.

Jade Asian restaurant is quick a five-minute walk from either the 7 train or LIRR station (both nearby the intersection of Main Street and Roosevelt Ave). If you haven’t tried it before, Dim Sum is a traditional brunch in Hong Kong, and beloved in most of Asia. A visit to Jade is adventurous-but-accessible for a first-timer. The cultural idiosyncrasies are as much a part of the experience as the food. Jade’s dining room is cavernous and richly ornamented, full of big round tables, with a stage up front where, one imagines, the bride and groom sit when they rent out the place for weddings. A gaggle of waiters in matching aprons and chef’s hats crisscross the floor with food carts overfilled with plates and bamboo steamers, and endless varieties of food – mostly dumplings – offering it up to the seated diners. You could theoretically order from the menu, but nobody does. It’s all about waiting until somebody crosses your path with the item you want, then flagging him/her down and laying claim to it before somebody else does.

Jade is said to specialize in steamed items, while Asian Jewel, down the street, tends toward the fried varietals. In reality you can find both at both spots. At Jade we helped ourselves to a positively fool-hearty abundance of dishes, including, but not limited to, shrimp crepes (pictured above), beef tripe stew, beef ribs, egg-tofu-seafood dumplings, something I like to call “bean curd burritos”, and about five other steamers of ornate steamed confections.

Ten Ren Tea and Ginseng

13518 Roosevelt Ave

Flushing, NY 11354

We were lucky that our next stop, Taiwan’s famous Ten Ren tea franchise, was two long avenues away, because after the embarrassing quantity of dim sum we put away, we needed a walk. I rarely miss an opportunity to visit Ten Ren. (I’ll often drink only conservative amounts of water or tea during a meal just to save room for Ten Ren afterward.)

Bubble-tea joints of varying quality are all-the-rage in Asian neighborhoods these days, and Ten Ren is not the most popular with the high-schoolers. That’s okay. They’re geared toward “discerning” consumers, with an wall of canisters of rare loose tea, some of it running upwards of $100-a-pound. You can still get bubble tea, though. They use bagged versions of their extremely high-quality tea (Taiwan’s tea is reputed to be the highest quality in the world) to prepare the iced drinks. Bubble Tea, in traditional parlance, refers to iced tea with marble-sized tapioca “bubbles”, condensed milk, and corn syrup. You drink it through a large-diameter straw, and if you suspect this looks and feels ridiculous, you’re right.

I keep it simple.

“Iced tea, no tapioca, no sugar,” I tell the server.

“No sugar?” he repeats, incredulously.

“You don’t need it,” I say, more pedantically than I intended.

“Okay,” he assures me, rolling his eyes. I try not to take it personally that a Taiwanese tea-store clerk doesn’t consider me the font of bubble-tea-wisdom.

Bellies full, tea-jonze satisfied, it’s back to the 7 train, and onto Citi Field. Our day is only beginning.

 

In part 2, will Citi Field’s modernity and convenience make Mets fans soft? Plus, we go down the rabbit hole at Sik Gaek in Woodside, then “get lost” in Long Island City after drinking our fill at Domaine Wine Bar.

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Don’t Stop Living Interview with Jonny Blair

Thank you to Jonny Blair for interviewing us on Don’t Stop Living!

WORLD TRAVELLERS: LISA AND GEORGE FROM WE SAID GO TRAVEL

It’s time to meet Lisa and George who have recently launched their travel memoir, Traveling In Sin!! Lisa and George also run the highly successful travel site “We Said Go Travel”. It’s a pleasure to feature them on here as World Travellers!

Who are you? We are global nomads. We left California one year ago and have spent the last year meandering in Asia.

Where are you from? George was born in Los Angeles, California and Lisa grew up in Los Angeles but was born in Boston, MA, USA. We nearly went to the same high school but did not meet until much later online!

Where have you been? To six continents. We are ready for the final frontier, Antarctica! Maybe we will go for our next wedding anniversary.

Where are you now? We have spent the last two months on Lamai Beach, Koh Samui, Thailand. We just finished editing our memoir, Traveling in Sin, it is available on Amazon!

Read the full interview.

 

Traveling In Sin: A True Tale of Transformation Through Love and Travel from Lisa Niver Rajna

 

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