Lisa Niver's Blog: We Said Go Travel, page 478

Tunisia – International Festival of Sousse

Tunisia hasn’t exactly had a lot of positive press lately, and for understandable reasons. The country’s disposal of its less than democratic ruler triggered revolutions across the Middle East and North Africa, which became known as the Arab Spring. Yet, what you likely haven’t heard is that unlike neighboring Libya and fellow countries on the block Egypt and Syria, Tunisia has made huge strides towards democracy, and is no longer embroiled in the conflict it found itself in back in 2011. Now once again safe for tourists to visit, this country that sits perched at the top of North Africa has a lot to offer tourists, and one event that’s certainly open for visitors is the month-long International Festival of Sousse, which runs from July 16th all the way through until August 16th.

Sousse is situated 140 kilometres south of Tunis, the capital of Tunisia, and enjoys an enviable climate, with an average temperature of twenty four degrees Celsius, meaning that those seeking out some sunshine would be wise to head to the North African nation, especially as cheap flights to Tunisia are easy to come by from destinations all over Europe. Sousse has a lot going for it, and visitors often find themselves becoming spellbound, and subsequently lost, in the maze-like alleys of the city’s souks. The Medina of Sousse is a UNESCO World Heritage site, ascending to its current status in 1988, and tombs dating back to when the city state of Carthage dominated the region. And it goes without saying that there’s a whole lot of fresh produce to satisfy food lovers, with olives, dates and couscous just waiting to be delved into.

The International Festival of Sousse serves to add even more to the mix, and this year marks the 47th edition of the festival. Tunisian musicians and artists dominate the lineup at the festival, and performers from neighboring countries as well as Romania, Italy, Belgium, Syria and Lebanon add their artistic stylings into the mix, and Russia is also sending its Symphonic Orchestra across to Tunisia. Music isn’t the only focus of the festival though, with screenings of feature films and animations also happening all across the city.

The diversity of Tunisian culture and history is celebrated at the International Festival of Sousse, and for a country nestled among the African giants of Libya and Algeria, Tunisia’s history sure is an impressive one. Before gaining independence in 1956, Tunisia changed hands many times over the course of history, with the Romans, Ottomans and the French being in charge of the country, not to mention the Galactic Empire. That’s right, Star Wars fans – scenes involving Tatooine, Luke Skywalker’s home planet, were filmed in Tunisia, with set locations not being too far away from Sousse.

Lodging during the festival shouldn’t pose too much of a problem, as Sousse is a city that welcomes tourists with open arms, with hotels catering to tourists arriving from the nearby airport in Monastir. Tunisia’s third largest city, Sousse has the tourist infrastructure necessary to both handle and welcome the influx of people who come to experience and be immersed in true Tunisian culture.

Don’t let the media fool you into thinking Tunisia is a country to be avoided – when was the last time you heard about a country successfully getting back on its feet again in the news? Exactly. Tunisia is back open for business, and there’s no better place to get a taster for one of the African continent’s most accessible countries than at the International Festival of Sousse, with its world-class lineup taking place in the height of summer.

However, with only 2 weeks still to go, if you are interested in attending the festival, you’ll have to act quickly! Luckily, First Choice have some great deals to Tunisia for you to take advantage of.

 About the Author: Terrance Richardson is a keen writer, explorer and musician. He is particularly interested in music in different cultures but is also a big food lover.

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Wind in Ushuaia

Travelling is a question of time. Freedom is also a question of time. Where these two intersect, you realize self-autonomy.

It is late March, austral fall, and I find myself returning to what I thought I left behind in Canada, winter. I’m in Ushuaia, the capital and main port city of Argentina’s Tierra del Fuego. I’m not the first one to ever have arrived in this remote part of the world, in fact, far from it.

Most people head to the south in the Austral summer, but having never been much of a planner, I ended up here by accident, both in time and place. I happened to find a cheap bus ticket all the way down, so I took it, the freedom of no itinerary. With no plan, perhaps just vague direction, you open yourself to true travel, which in turn opens you to happenstance, life.

I quickly learned backpacking here, that if I wanted to meet travellers and regular Argentines, I had to avoid the more commercial hostels, and find less expensive ones. Instead of bright reds and yellows, shiny floors and trendy sofas, I discover a rather elongated wooden cabin, a hostel, but more rustic.

There I meet a young Belgian fellow, Antony, an archaeologist. He would like to travel across the Beagle Channel to Puerto Williams, the main town on Chile’s, Isla Navarino. There lives the last traditional Yamana woman and he wishes to meet her. What were his plans become mine and we soon find ourselves making several rounds to the wharf of the Ushuaia Yacht Club to ask if anyone can give us a lift.

After numerous awkward inquiries we encounter an American climatologist and his field assistant. He has a small Catalina. For a bottle of Malbec, they’ll take us across.

It’s autumn. Beautiful reds and yellows blanket the southern Andes. Here, the peaks are not nearly as high as they are further north, but they are jagged and forlorn. The first snows cover their bowls and crests.

We cross the channel, sailing east over the grey choppy seas. The mountains of the great island, blue-green-white, draped with waves of clouds as if they were spread with a spatula.

We arrive in Puerto Williams. There is an immediate transition from the relative bustle of Ushuaia, and Argentine culture to the quiet solitude of Chile. Puerto Williams may attract a handful of tourists in the warm summer months, but at this time we’re the only ones.

It’s late afternoon, a prolonged autumn twilight. We walk down the nearly empty streets. The ubiquitous barking dogs break the silence, of a landscape that could swallow you in its incessant winds, constant unsettledness, and utter wildness. A low layer of smoke hangs over the houses and streets, as it does in all Patagonian towns. Wood smoke. It colors the mood, making the twilight orange and ethereal. Almost every house down here has one, if not two great wood stoves, battling to keep Patagonia at bay.

We find a hospedaje, with great homey food and dark cozy warmth.

The days pass and sometimes we explore together and other times we go off on our own.

I walk up behind the town one morning; on a paved road that soon becomes dirt and then just a trail. I slowly enter the Fuegian biome. The Lenga Beech trees fill in around me. There is a rich earthy smell; damp, rotting wood, but also of clean cool air. Air from far away. The yellows and reds of fall dapple with the evergreens. There is utter silence. I become conscious of twigs cracking underfoot and branches scraping over my nylon clothing. Not a bark, not a bird, not a sound. It’s a strange feeling walking through a silent forest, as if the silence itself is conscious of your intrusion. You’ve entered and this Fuegian spirit knows. But I’m not afraid. There are no bears or wolves, and even pumas don’t make it this far south.

The forest opens up now and again and eventually the path wanders into a meadow. There are low, bare, rounded mountains to my left and right. Sharply, they contrast with the blue sky. Thin clouds are riding past on the upper air currents. There is a sound: wind.

The cobalt sky, the breeze, the dying orange and yellow. I don’t know why, but when I’m down here I feel a melancholy, a serene melancholy. My whole heart aches, but with an ache you don’t want to stop. It’s a feeling of spirituality without churches or mosques or interpretation, a spirituality of connection to raw, beautiful nature. And it fills me. I lie down on the spongy meadow, making my form, swallowed in the mosses, look up at the sky, at the travelling clouds, and I am complete.

About the Author: Nicholas Engelmann is a Canadian living in Cordoba, Argentina. After backpacking in Latin America and Argentina and Chile in 2008 and 2009 he met his Argentine love and stayed. Since then he has travelled all over the country. When he’s not in Argentina he works on vessels as a biologist in disparate parts of the world.

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Colorado: An Afternoon in the Sun

An Afternoon in the Sun in Colorado

I’ve spent many a summer in London. I’ve enjoyed a spring or two in Paris. I’ve had the pleasure of a few overnights in Cabo San Lucas, San Diego, Rapid City, Grand Canyon, and Disney World.

Of all the places my feet have walked, I am always happiest on my mini-vacations, my afternoons in the sun, at the ballpark; specifically, Coors Field. The only place I feel truly free.

Seriously, it’s personal. The ballpark is the one place that gives me permission to abandon all the things “grown-ups” need to worry about on a daily basis and be a kid again – blatantly discarding even dietary regulations – even if only for a few hours. It starts with the singing of the National Anthem. Standing proud with hand over heart, “…o’er the land of the free…” a smattering of applause, whoops and cheers, “…and the home of the brave.” Full tilt merriment, clapping and the announcer declares, “Play ball!”

I sit with my husband and my children, 10 rows up, third base side behind the visiting team dugout; sun beaming out from behind the occasional cloud, a comfortable 80 degrees, water bottle in one hand, and hot dog in the other. Thousands of people sit here on this balmy afternoon, united in spirit for one common goal. I take a deep breath in, elated. I am free from the windows that need washing at home, the clients that need calling at work, the oil needing changing in my car, the electric bill due, the laundry needing to be done, the dishes filling the sink. All of it is forgotten for one beautiful afternoon watching the boys of summer.

Top of the first, we get our first look at today’s starting pitcher and that basically sets the tone for the whole game. At this point, for me, win or lose is irrelevant. Just being here, smelling the acrid flavor of buttered popcorn, the pungent aroma of spilled beer, the dust, the chalk, I feel exhilarated. Peanut and sunflower seed shells are dropped like confetti up and down the aisles, the music plays between each batter, fight songs and “make some noise” orders splash across all the neon signs. The whole row of seats in front of us remains empty; perfect ottoman for my feet. Settle in, game on.

By the middle of the 7th, I realize my daughters have not uttered one single complaint. They have been celebrating the small victories and booing the little losses all the way though with me. They may not as interested in the outcome as my husband and I but they are on board and content none-the-less. “Please rise for the performance of God Bless America by Mrs. Johnson’s sixth grade class.” Thirty little people with pressboard perfect smiles nervously assemble in left field, harmonizing the classic while every spectator sings along using the words displaying on the jumbo-tron. “…from the mountains…” a small eruption of cheers as we happen to be nestled snuggly at the base of the Rocky Mountains here in Denver. “…to the oceans white with foam…” another small eruption as we are playing a sea side resident team. Tears fill my eyes with pride and love every time I hear that song, this time is no different.

“Take me out to the ballgame…” starts without missing a beat, we sway back and forth, belting this one out with little regard for the fact none of us can sing. We have spent the afternoon indulging in hot dogs, pretzels with cheese, handfuls of peanuts, but when the snow cone guy comes around, we figure the damage is already done so we spring for the treat for the girls but choose to wait for the cotton candy guy for ourselves.

The sun has descended to a comfortable low behind the giant stadium walls casting a cool shadow upon us. Slight breeze, noticing a slight sunburn on my thighs; I remembered the sunscreen for the girls but obviously forgot myself. Top of the ninth, our team leads by three, two outs, full count, thousands of people remain united, standing for the final out. Pitch, swing and a miss, game. The cheering crowd applauds the home team, gathers belongings and forms the lines up the cement stairs towards the exits

Holding hands, single file, up the stairs, through the gates, out to the streets back to the car, the little realities of life start creeping back into my thoughts. As soon as we get home, I will throw a load of laundry in, unload and load the dishwasher, makes lunches for tomorrow making sure it is something healthy after the piles of junk food we had today, check the schedule for the mechanic tomorrow to drop off the car on the way to work; the list seems endless. Freedom. It was lovely while it lasted.

About the Author: Working as a Tax Accountant in Golden, Colorado, Sheryl Ricigliano enjoys spending her free time with her husband and children, traveling America on summer roadtrips and writing. In November 2012, one of Sheryl’s short stories placed 7th in the ‘Mainstream/Literary Short Story’ category of the Writer’s Digest 81st Annual Writing Contest and in January 2013, one of Sheryl’s non-fiction works will appear in the publication of ‘Chicken Soup for the Soul: Angels Among Us’.

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Vietnam: You Never Want to Leave

Vietnam: Once You get there you never want to leave

Everyone told me that Halong Bay is a must seen in Vietnam. But as I’m travelling on a shoestring budget, I’m not a big fan of organized trips. This time I made an exception as I met some friendly guys from Belgium in my hostel who convinced me to go with them.

The first day we spent on the boat. The agenda was nothing really special: visit to the caves, Cat Ba- overrated and touristic island. There were so many people on the beach,  that you couldn’t even move. So after the first day I was quite disappointed but everything changed when they took us to the secret beach on a private island in Halong Bay. The beach was called Cove Beach and it was hidden between the rocks. There were only 7 bungalows and the whole island was exclusively for us. It looked like from the movie- Beach. Now I see how the Maya bay in Thailand looked like before all the tourists made their way and destroyed the beautiful picture it used to have.

But this beach was secluded, quiet, no ladies trying to sell you something, no motorbikes, no tourists. There were kayaks to our disposal so were the tubes. My bungalow was right on the beach and the view on the bay from my balcony was magical. This is without any doubt the most amazing beach I ever stayed on- was my first thought. After lunch we took kayaks and went around the island and later we went rock climbing, which by the way – was not as easy as I expected to be. Unfortunately I failed miserably and landed it water after my three attempts. Everybody was really tired after long day of activities so we went to bed really early. Falling asleep I was watching the moon from my bed.

The next day we had to pack as the boat was picking us up at 8am but when  I saw people getting on I just felt I’m not ready to go back to crazy Hanoi where you have to fight for your life when you are crossing the street so I run to my guide and desperately asked If I can stay one more night. He laughed and agreed for me to stay. When the group left it was just me and two other girls on the island and of course the staff.  Surrounded by silence that was broken only by waves I sat on my balcony and read my book. For the first time since I started travelling a month ago I felt like I’m relaxing, not rushing anywhere and just being alone with myself.   It was a perfect place where I could gather my thoughts, get inspiration for my next blog articles and just be happy .Those who know me think no, that’s not possible she can’t just stay in one place doing nothing but apparently I can and I did. The time stopped on this magical island where I felt most peaceful in the whole world.

About the Author: Ewelina Kawczynska: I am a journalist and currently travelling by myself around Southeast Asia and I absolutely love it. I’m from Poland but I lived in Austria, UK, Spain, Kazakhstan, Belgium and Thailand. I love exploring new cultures and getting to know new people. Visit my website.

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From Thailand with a Book

From Thailand with a Book
Hello from Ao Nang, Thailand! Newsletter #31 August 6, 2013

After over two months on Lamai Beach, Koh Samui, we finished editing our memoir, Traveling in Sin, and traveled a bit more of Thailand. We went to Koh Phanghan, Tanote Beach in Koh Tao, Ranong, Little Koh Chang, Krabi and Ao Nang.

One of the best things has been seeing old friends and meeting new ones. We were able to visit with our friends, Taryn and Andrew who we traveled with in Borneo in 2009 and we wrote about in our memoir! Spending time with them in Koh Samui and Koh Tao was great. We look forward to a visit this week with Jeremy who was with us in Fiji when George asked me to go on the first sabbatical and we saw in the Fall in Hua Hin and who was in our wedding!

We appreciate all of you who read our newsletters, articles, website and BOOK! Thank you to everyone for your support of our journey and all our writing. We are participating in travel events in Kuala Lumpur, Manila, Guam, Oahu and Los Angeles! More news about all of them soon! Connect with us on Facebook, Google+, LinkedIn, Pinterest ,  SlideShare,  Twitter, and YouTube.

Lisa and George (Click here to sign up for this newsletter. )

Recent posts to enjoy: Lisa’s review of “Zen Under Fire” is in the August/September issue of Whole Life Magazine. It is in print and available in Los Angeles or click here and go to page 39!

New movies on our site from Myanmar: Day Three in Bagan, and Day Four with Bikes in Bagan.

About our book, Lisa was interviewed for the site Diets in Review as a True Weight Loss Story.

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New Zealand: 134 Meters of Fear

When the wind rushes over the gorge, our metal box shakes like dice in the hand of a desperate gambler. Nervous, antsy.

The constant jostling, suspended 134 meters (439 feet) above the craggy ravine of the Nevis Bluff, is forcing a similar emotion in my intestines.

Should have used the toilet, I lament. But there had not been time; someone sounded sick in one of the stalls, and before I could whisper assurances, commanding voices dragged me out of that porcelain haven.

Another gust shakes us easily. New Zealand is still on the edges of winter, a grey sky veiling the thorns of the Matagouri that grows wild on the surrounding hillsides.

“Are you panicking yet?” asks Kelli, companion in this misadventure. My half smile and quivering palms answer.

One thin wire supports the pulley on which our box is slowly moving. If I stare at it, bouncing in the weather, I will cry. Focusing on my feet is equally terrifying: the metal grill they’re glued to only accentuates our height above the Nevis River.

We would hold hands for support, but the other travelers in the box are watching anxiously. A British couple, one Indian lad with raven curls and us, two apprehensive Americans. All trapped in a tiny container by this morning’s ill-conceived decision to jump the country’s biggest bungy.

Thunk. “Everybody out!” The AJ Hackett jump crew grab our harnesses and insert us into the sturdier jumping platform. Glancing down, I still see the river’s freezing rapids – the floor is a glass window – and my feet begin to twitch.

“Good spirit, you’ve got to get into the moment of anticipation,” the Indian applauds. He’s mistaken my involuntary dancing for enthusiasm. Throwing his head back, he also starts to tap around. “This is my fourth jump, what about you guys?” The British girl, I’m quite sure, is now crying. Woolen mittens hide her eyes but not the sound of upset sniffles.

“She’s not going to make it,” Kelli predicts.

Neither am I, I worry. “An Adult’s Playground,” the travel companies call New Zealand. For every quaint café featuring scones with locally-made fruit jams, there are thirty more outdoor opportunities to push the inner wimp. Trek up a glacier, body surf the rapids, snorkel with dolphins. Of all the physical challenges I’ve agreed to, none haunt me like this. I’m torn between admiration for the pioneering, hardy Kiwis who settled these parts; and, not for the first time, begrudging annoyance for their apparent lack of doubt or fear.

More than that, I’m aggravated by myself and Kelli. Is an “I survived!” bungy t-shirt any more proof (than a Queenstown postcard) of where we’ve been?

At this moment, when the AJ Hackett crewmember with the neck tattoo invites “Who’s first?,” I feel liberated by a decision to give up. Ignore the see-through floor and remove my harness with the maturity of someone who understands her limitations.

But then Kelli raises her hand. “Take a leap of faith tonight,” she hums to me, quoting the lyrics of Midnight Youth, a popular Kiwi band. This is the place that never sleeps, where your dreams are brought to life….

It all slips away from me like melted butter: Kelli’s ankles are strapped into red cords and linked to the bungy; she’s distracted by casual questions from the crew, chatting amicably about our two-month trip; smiling boldly and suddenly disappearing over the ravine.

Thunk. Blonde hair flying from the descent, Kelli is helped back onto the platform by the crewmen.

If she offers words of advice, I’m not listening. My heart is frozen, my legs turned into licorice sticks as I’m seated and ankle-sheathed. No light-hearted conversation, just positive reinforcements from the crew. “Stand up? You won’t regret it – move forward please – there we are. Ready to go?”

New Zealand’s South Island, even under dismal clouds, is stunning. Its clash of snowy peaks and golden hills a welcome distraction from the scene underneath me.

“Take a deep breath, you’ll be right.” A crewman has his hand on my spine, preventing me from shuffling backward. For the last time, I observe my feet. Mere centimeters separate white rubber soles from the open abyss.

It’s impossible. I can’t do it.

Or can I? A leap of faith – is that not the placement of your belief over the clatter of your distrust? Willingly choosing to step beyond daily boundaries for places yet unknown? Travel, in all its entirety?

Maybe it’s just the 8.5 second ground rush of a hysterical American tourist shrieking “Sh******” as she releases herself into the blustery effects of gravity for the first time.

Independent of weight or direction, arms hanging like tentacles and bladder bursting, my freedom is a choice. Nothing to hold me back but a length of elastic.

About the Author: Kelli Mutchler left a small, Midwest American town to prove that Yanks can, and do, chose alternative lifestyles. On the road for six years now, Kelli has tried news reporting and waitressing, bungy jumping and English teaching. After recently working with Burmese refugees in Thailand, she hopes to pursue a MA in Global Development. Opportunities and scenes for international travel are encouraged on her blog, Too Much for Words.

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San Francisco For The Freeman

My mother was born in 1926 to immigrant parents and was the first girl in our family to be born an American citizen and a resident of the San Francisco.

I had lived in the San Francisco bay area my whole life and not once realized the freedom and opportunities that were at my feet. The politicians have not only preserved the historical beauty that makes this port city San Francisco one of the most visited places in the United States but they have also preserved the rights for any class, as well as any nationality to have the same opportunities as any native born American, in this big diverse city.

This city should be known more for its promise of independence as it has a name that says independence, San Francisco means “Free Frenchman”. My family was one of the many immigrant families who flocked to America, who had been offered opportunities that were still new liberties to United States citizens and the immigrants in the U.S.. They exercised their freedoms by running hotels and restaurants in the well to do society in the city and did well for themselves in San Francisco during a hard time for America.

The name San Francisco is shared with my grandfather whose name is Francisco. He lived and worked there in the 1920’s, with my grandmother, the matriarch and head of the household. Over the years, I had heard about my grandfather and grandmother’s business. My mother remembers her young life, as a blessed one, and one of comfort that not every one of the same nationality were so fortunate to have such financial independence. My family ran hotels and restaurants in San Francisco, CA for years and did so well that my mom felt like one of the elite guests they served most of the time.

The city of San Francisco was visited by many foreigners that came here to try and see if they would be one of the bigger partakers in the golden promise of riches during this young city’s pioneering days. The city still possesses that feeling of a promise for financial freedom. See its  tall infrastructures that are blended well with the older historic buildings that make it a most unique city design. It has much rich historic architecture that serves as proof of San Francisco’s triumph over a time of depression to a lucrative state.

It is one of the prettiest preserved places in the world to visit, you might want to move there and try to exercise your own independence. Try to take advantage of the Embarcadero business section of the city that is one of a kind when it comes to statements of prosperity. It has a history of mixed business persons without prejudice which is San Francisco’s statue of liberty without the statue. Check out the Moscone Center where the big conventions are held. Some of the most popular sites that show the diversity in culture are Chinatown to catch the Chinese New Year’s Parade, Japantown, Columbus and Green St, Huntertown with The Royal Family’s own manufacturering plant the Estes Inc. company, and Ghirardelli Square Chocolates, which is now on the national register of Historic Places. The city still has a well told history through museums where you can take in the knowledge of the founders, some matriarchs in the merchant businesses like my grandmother.

San Francisco does speak for itself and definitely one to be explored by anyone that loves a one of kind experience. Not far off from this special city are naval weapon centers and retired ships that can be seen if you partake in the boat trips that are a great addition to San Francisco’s history and reminder of why the city’s multi cultured residents and others can enjoy freedoms in the first place as well as continue to live free.

I am proud that my family shared any memories in this city and had the chance to enjoy these freedoms as a minority like a lot of other present day San Franciscans. If the traveler looks closely and take a little time on their trip to San Francisco CA, they may really be able to appreciate that San Francisco’s colorful population is not by chance. The aromas from the ports where our service men once came home after securing our freedoms, say it all, unchanged and changing ,you might agree San Francisco is deserving of this message of true independence that has always been offered by this much loved American port city.

About the Author: Michele R: I am a former emergency vet tech from the San Francisco Bay Area. I moved to Kentucky to give my horses the best opportunity as I grew up with horses, race horse farm my playground. I chose to write and play with my product ideas as I love to create. FInd me on Writers Café as  St Phoenix. I do look forward to writing as my profession.

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Sky Symphony in Fairbanks, Alaska

I was standing on a snow-crusted field outside of Fairbanks, Alaska staring at the dancing shimmer of lights, the Aurora Borealis, in the nighttime sky. The lights spoke directly to me. They moved, surrounded, caressed, freed me from my body, then invited me to join their cosmic ballet.

I was overwhelmed. Tears of joy iced my eyelashes with sparkly crystals in the frigid air. My feet were firmly planted on the icy snowpack, but I was alone and fearless in the sky lifting higher and higher riding on the dips and peaks of light.

My husband, Larry, and I visited Fairbanks in February. February in Fairbanks is not tourist season. Most Southern Californians like us, who shiver and moan when the temperatures fall below 50°, are not happy to learn that, here in Fairbanks, it was a warm day in February if the thermometer edged up to 0°. That fact is enough to keep most tourists away.

Fairbanks hosts a spectacular, championship World Ice Art competition in February, but that was not the goal of our visit. We wanted to see the Aurora Borealis, the Northern Lights. Viewing the aurora is best done on dark, clear nights from 12am to 3am…no moon, no clouds, no city lights, and no residual daylight. Each evening we dressed carefully for our adventure fumbling with unfamiliar layers of sweaters, long underwear, fleece, down and heavy boots feeling like kids in our bulky snowsuits as we stuffed ourselves into the car. The first two nights were duds, but on the third we hit pay dirt.

We drove to Poker Flats, a University of Alaska research facility located north of Fairbanks. This isolated campus resembled a moonscape, pockmarked with dull groups of grey block buildings, military-like antennas and geodesic domes scattered along the heavy layer of snow next to the road. It was midnight when our car entered a security gate and drove to a building on top of the hill. We entered. Then zigged and zagged through the mazes of an institutional building, down nondescript hallways, metal stairways and doors until we stood in directly in front of our final destination-another unpromising set of heavy, grey metal doors.

I shot my husband an impatient look, “What is this?” His eyes silently communicated, “Just wait it will be okay.” I yanked the knob. The door opened to flowing, red velvet blackout curtains. The vibrant, crimson color and lush fabric of the closed curtains with its’ hanging pullcord enticed like an elaborately wrapped gift.

I slowly opened the luxurious fabric, blinked and allowed my eyes to adjust to a darkened room. Then, I tentatively stepped inside. Before me was a sanctuary, framed on three sides by floor–to-ceiling windows looking out over the curved star-studded horizon. Comfy, old sofas and cushiony chairs filled the area. A decanter of brandy and some glasses rested on a small table. A quiet “Ahh” escaped my lips, and I reached for my husband’s hand. I had just unwrapped a most spectacular present. We settled in and anticipated our evening’s entertainment.

There was not long to wait before a green glow warmed the blackness and began to throb in intensity. A shout of, “Outside everyone.” We dashed through metal doors, down hallways and stairs, and out to the 20° below zero, snowy icepack. There were ten of us yelling and pointing, but I stood alone. My heart drummed with the excitement of what was to come. It did not disappoint. The show began.

Auroral Sky Symphony

Filmy curtains with green-fringe, tipped with red move rapidly across the horizon. Unexpectedly, they wrap me in their embrace. Breathtaking-heart-stopping moments, enveloped in a celestial dome of lights. Beckoning me to touch the crown then receding to the background orchestra of stars and arc. Now, the symphony proceeds more slowly, gently guiding with subtle transitions. The heavenly arc recreates to form four neon green bands that hang in silent anticipation.

My earthbound soul observes the deception of graceful simplicity in this evening’s performance. Mounds of whipped cream electrons burn even brighter above. Pieces fold in on itself; a chiffon scarf blowing in a gentle breeze then slowly moving further away. My auroral sky music recedes; a diffusion of green light fading to black sky and stars. A standing ovation.

My heart screams “ENCORE”; there is no more. Reflecting back on this experience, I need only to close my eyes to revisit the image of those magical, few moments of cosmic freedom. When anxiety, fears, or negativity threaten to lock down my spirit, I breathe deeply and feel the joy and independence of dancing in the sky with the Northern Lights.

About the Author: Susan Miller is a retired Speech Pathologist living in Los Angeles California with her husband Larry. She enjoys travelling, hiking, swimming, and writing as well as the freedom and time to do whatever she wants now that her kids are grown. Find her on Facebook.

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America: Finding the Center of Two Revolutions

Bill and I have been RVing across North America, free to be where we want to be, do what we want to do. Concord, Massachusetts was not part of our itinerary but the Millers, Bills friends, invited us to visit with them. Am I glad we did! Doug showed us how the city was the center of two American revolutions, the political revolution that ended in American independence and the literary revolution that influenced the mindset of mid-1800 America, leading to the Civil War and the abolition of slavery.

The Political Revolution

The Minutemen National Historical Park links the cities of Lexington and Concord, Massachusetts on a trail of significant events surrounding the start of the American Revolution. Paul Revere took a ride on the midnight of April 18, 1775 to warn the Concord militia of the impending arrival of British troops. The lantern from the Old North Church would signal, ‘one if by land, two if by sea’.

The British troops, numbering 700, proceeded to Lexington from Boston. Their mission was to retrieve the cannons being held in Concord. At Lexington they quickly scuttled the rag-tag colonial militia. But around 400 minutemen (in a minute they can be ready for battle) were assembled in Concord, having been alerted. On April 19, 1775 at the North Bridge, the ‘shot heard round the world’ was fired.

The news quickly spread to the surrounding towns and the colonists’ ranks swelled to 20,000. They quickly drove the British back to Boston. More than 250 British soldiers and less than 100 colonists lost their lives. The fighting then resumed in Boston and on June 17, 1775, The Battle of Bunker Hill gave the colonists an astounding victory, pushing the British further south. The cannons were never found.

The Literary Revolution

The war lasted a few more years but on July 4, 1776, the Americans declared their independence. Then they went through a renaissance. Concord, with Cambridge to the southeast and Salem to the east became the seat of excellence in education and literary works in the mid-1800s. Five great American writers, the Concord Quartet and Louisa Alcott, lie together in eternal peace at Author’s Ridge in the Sleepy Hollow Cemetery. That evoked wondrous feelings in the fledgling author that I am.

The Concord Quartet is composed of: Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882, An American Scholar, Nature), essayist and philosopher, Henry David Thoreau (1817-1863, Walden, Civil Disobedience), philosopher and naturalist, Amos Bronson Alcott (1799-1888), educator, and Nathaniel Hawthorne (1804-1864, The Scarlet Letter, House of 7 Gables), novelist. Together, they fanned the ideals of individual liberty and equality, heavily influencing the abolitionist sentiment in the North. They also greatly influenced Amos’ daughter Louisa May (1832-1888, Little Women) towards becoming a great author herself.

In Cambridge, we visited Harvard University, an Ivy League school established in 1636. It was named after its first benefactor, John Harvard, who gave the school his entire collection of 400 books. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882) served as a professor there until he retired into fulltime writing, making Paul Revere an icon with his poem, ‘Paul Revere’s Ride’. He was privileged to live in the House that Washington used as headquarters during the initial stages of the war.

This house is right beside the campus of Radcliffe, formerly a renowned university for women and now part of Harvard. I wanted to see the campus, just like Bill wanted to see Yale, because I was offered an undergraduate scholarship there, after completing with honors my HS scholarship from American School in the Philippines. However, my mother could not raise enough funds for living expenses and felt it was just too far away. I went on to a scholarship in the University of the Philippines instead.

In Salem, we were surprised to see not just museums, statues, and memorials of the Salem Witch Trials of 1692. Nathaniel Hawthorne was born in Salem. His birth home was relocated to a spot near the only living colonial home in North America, the House of Seven Gables, his inspiration for the classic novel of the same name. It is now listed under the National Register of Historic Places.

Our visit with the Millers turned out to be much more than a visit with friends. Concord will now be forever etched in my mind. The outcomes of its two revolutions now give Bill and me the freedom to roam around the vastness of this land and to enjoy full equality in our partnership. It also gave me the inspiration to try to be part of an ever present literary revolution. Hopefully, what I write will be enough payback for the good education I was given, the opportunity to rise out of poverty, and be an American!

About the Author: After stints as CEO of Philippine pioneers in information technology, Carol migrated to the US to take care of grandkids, become a business counselor in SCORE, and serve as adjunct professor in three schools of higher learning in Seattle. She and BIll are on a 4-year cruise of North America in an RV. Read her blog.

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Costa Rica: The Journey to Freedom

Deep in the jungle in Costa Rica, climbing high above the treetops, all that lies before us is lush vegetation for miles and miles as thin fog rolls through. A light breeze brushes my cheek, as the chatter of monkey echoes in the distance, a natural musical. This is where I feel free, above the chaos, in the heavens where clouds walk and rain dances. The purest air you will ever taste, and the most breath-taking silence you will ever know.

Costa Rica is the devastation of the modern world, as a third world country. By definition, a third world country is meant to be ridden in poverty and drenched with sadness. What I witnessed was entirely the opposite. Though they had little to give in material goods, they had something else that each local provided: joy. The Costa Rican people, also known as “Ticos”, gave the gift of happiness with a simple smile.

To be a traveler, it is essential to discover the beauty of the land, to find the marvels never seen before, to speak with a people never asked the reasons why they dance. The slope of the lush mountains to the soft grasses of the fields below to the people living in a world modernizing around them but fail to notice. Sometimes we forget. We forget simplicity, we forget a world beyond media, we forget who we are and where we began. Remembering the wind whistling through the trees, or the ocean rolling in across a blanket of white sand. But the people are the greatest remembrance of all, their passion for life.

The world is not only defined as the land and the people but also the oceans. The color of the open sky, glistening in the sun. Floating in the cooling Costa Rican waters, below the surface, a silence encases the noise of the outside world. Thoughts race through the mind, and out of them climbs a longing for peace.

Harmony amongst the creatures who dwell in the depths and amongst the visitors who dare to venture into the watery world. The weight falls from my shoulders as I just let the water rock me back and forth. And in this moment I am free.

I guess freedom is not always the most amazing discovery but it does find its way into your spirit. A sudden burst of energy propels and an utter feeling of flight; this is how I describe freedom. Not with a liberation of stress but with a silence. A silence that envelops your soul and allows you to see yourself. For a single moment, the world goes quiet and all you can hear is the sound of your breath: in and out. I found my place and personal freedom in the humble country of Costa Rica. The breathtaking scenery and the deep blue ocean called to me, spoke to me in a gentle voice and lifted me above the confines of modern society. It is not the final destination that defines you but the journey you take. Allow yourself to wander through life and surely there will be a final destination awaiting your arrival.

About the Author: My name is Morgan Thompson and I am a second year student at the University of California, Santa Cruz. I am currently studying biology and psychology in hopes of pursuing a career in Veterinary Medicine. I believe that travel is the best way to experience different cultures and understand our world. Find her on Facebook.

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