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

Manchester: Alone Away From Home

I was twenty-three when I moved from Montreal to Manchester to pursue my Master’s degree. It was my first time living overseas. It was my first time living away from home at all. Twenty-three is late, especially when you consider the number of teenagers who leave home in search of freedom, growth, and independence at university. My parents preferred me to stay home. That way, I didn’t have to work and pay rent while being a full-time student. I didn’t mind either, but that was because I was waiting for grad school.

I remember the evening I left. I was having dinner with my family at a restaurant, a final meal before my overnight flight to the UK. I turned to my older brother, who’d left home over a decade ago, and said, “I can already see it coming. When I get there, I’m going to feel all alone. I’ll spend the first night crying.”

He gently patted my shoulder. “You know,” he said, “it’s okay if you cry. It’s okay.”

I had waited a long time for this day to come, to finally “spread my wings” and flee home. Going so far away was more than just about discovering a foreign city, its nation, its culture. It was about discovering myself. I had lived a sheltered life. I had travelled, but never on my own. Not even with friends. My parents had a hard time seeing me go out and an even harder time seeing me come home past midnight. And now I was going to take the plane by myself for the first time. Now I was going to live in a country where I didn’t know a single person. As the day turned to dusk, the reality began to settle in. I was terrified.

I’d only learned three things about Manchester from my upbringing in Canada. Football. Working-class. Coronation Street. I knew it wasn’t my ideal of the Old World either. No castles. No abbeys. No beaches or bays. But I spent the following year having the best time of my life.

I made new friends, both native and from all over the world. I visited the buildings of old and new: a neo-gothic library exhibiting ancient manuscripts since the turn of the twentieth-century located next to a glass prism of an Armani store on a popular downtown street. I ate some of the finest Indian cuisine in The Curry Mile, a long stretch of South Asian shops and restaurants with brightly lit signs and colourful decor. I prowled alfresco markets on the few days that didn’t rain. I navigated the littered, grey streets of the city centre, even when it did rain. I frequented nightclubs and danced to 80s music from local bands like The Smiths and New Order, and came home way after midnight. I explored other parts of the UK and Europe too. By myself. I’ve become a different person. I’ve become more capable, more self-assured, more adventurous. I even drink tea now.

I arrived to Manchester in the early afternoon and spent the rest of the day meeting my new flatmates at the residence hall where I was to stay for the next year. Exhausted from my flight, I went to bed early, but I didn’t fall asleep right away. I waited for a sense of fear and dread to overwhelm me as I lay in bed alone that night, in a cubicle of blank, starch-white walls that was now my home. But to my surprise, I felt okay. I didn’t cry.

About the Author: Karen Chung is from Montreal, Canada, and she recently graduated from the University of Manchester with an M.A. in Creative Writing. Her travel blog can be found at globetrotterkaren.blogspot.com or you can tweet her @ChungKaren

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The Magic of the Swiss Mountains

Majestic mountain tops, leafy pine trees amongst the immense white and sprinkles of glistening lakes, these are the first things you might notice as your coach approaches your resort. Then as the sun sets, the golden twinkle of villages below, reflect the stars above.

As you arrive to your chalet, a crackling fire and freshly cooked rösti welcome you in to an oasis of warmth. Laughter and stories fill the rest of the night, as you will away the hours until it will be Ski Time in the Swiss Mountains.

And then suddenly it’s dawn and you are raring to go, the best would be to be the first on the snow. Daybreak is spent in a flurry of thermal leggings and tops, a lost glove here and a wooly hat there, a quick breakfast at most. One last equipment check and a lather of sunscreen meticulously applied to face and neck, before catching the first golden rays from above. The queue at the ski lift booth seems eternal as it suddenly dawns that there are other early birds in this neck of the woods.

Finally you are crammed in the gondola, trying to take a peek at the fading village down below and a glimpse of the mountain triangles above. After an abrupt halt, the doors open and you all spill out from the lift, at last being able to breathe in the beautiful scenery that surrounds.

There’s something dream-like about looking over the vast whiteness all around, outlined by the dark spots of grey where the mountain-tops meet the clear blue sky. It is now time to buckle up and float along towards the pistes; Except, you don’t head for the piste, but stop on the edge of one of the connecting trails and look down below – the off piste to the side is where you’re aiming to go.

It is scary as the skis turn towards the ungroomed terrain, with the weight of the boots still fully touching the ground but the tips of the skis already dangling mid-air aiming at what lies beneath. Now is the time to take a big breath and push, push all your weight forward, and land on both skis in the white powder below. The softness of the terrain might surprise you, as both skis sink slowly into the white mush as if into water. Don’t expect to touch solid ground, instead start floating along from left to right as if dancing, picking up the rhythm of the terrain as it tells you to turn or glide through. This is the moment you’ve been waiting for, feeling at one with God’s creation, forgetting all your fears and inhibitions, flying through the snow as if it were cloud number nine.

You may pass trees on one side, followed by a rock pointing out, avoiding these obstacles as you make your own path. At times you may weave your way into previous skiers’ tracks, but you are always free to make your own new ones as you want. You are even free to take a gamble and land in soft mush, then get up again and continue to carve your own tracks.

As you reach the bottom and re-join a piste, following once again a more herded course, you look back up at the plunge that you chose to take and the sense of freedom it gave.

About the Author: Orsolya Kerek

I am a Hungarian traveller, currently living and working in Luxembourg – the only grand duchy in the world! Learning new languages and getting to know different cultures have always been my passions. Recently I have also become an aspiring travel writer.

Find him on Facebook.

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Soviet Union: Have Your Juice and Drink It Too

“Don’t deprive yourself of anything,” said dad giving me a paper ruble, now extinct currency of the Soviet Union. In St. Petersburg in the 1980’s you could buy half dozen loafs of bread, ten glasses of tomato juice or a quarter-bottle of vodka with this amber-green note.

What’s the best way to make a kid feel independent? Give them money and look the other way.

Past the beer stand was a grocery store called “Stekljashka,” Russian for a piece of glass. That was because it was single-story and dark and looked like a piece of a green bottle glass that a sea had spat out. It carried white and rye bread, and if you came exactly at 4 pm, you’d catch it hot straight from the bakery.

Across the street was Universam, the closest Soviet Union had to a supermarket. This was the place to score frozen calamari, cans of seaweed salad and bluish chicken parts that looked that they had belonged to animals that died of natural causes. But the best part was that it sold juice in three-liter jars, and by the glass.

At seven years of age and with a ruble in my pocket I felt empowered. I would run my finger against the rough surface of the note and feel, as dad would put it, that “there are no obstacles to us either on land or on sea.” I was free to do anything I wanted. I could ride a metro to the zoo. I could go to the movies. And most of all, I didn’t have to ask anyone.

I decided to exercise my newly obtained purchasing power in Stekljashka because it was on the same side of the street as our house. I stood in line to the cashier, paid for a half a loaf of bread, took the receipt to the bread counter and watched a woman take a guillotine-style knife and cut a black round loaf in half. Once the bread was in my hands, it was impossible to resist pinching a piece off and biting into its slightly sour gooiness.

I put the bread in my mesh bag and with 83 kopeks left decided to venture across the street to Universam for tomato juice.

Carrying a heavy jar home seemed like too much so I paid for a glass and began to stir in salt with a metal spoon attached to a salt dispenser with a piece of oily rope. Someone touched my elbow and said,

“Devochka, (meaning girl), where did you get that bread?”

Startled, I spilled salt on the counter. A very bad sign.

“I bought at the store across the street,” I said to a square woman with a badge saying “Director.”

“Do you have a receipt?”

I checked my pockets and remembered tossing it into a trashcan by the beer stand.

“No, but the cashier there probably remembers me.”

“So? Our store carries exactly the same bread. You have to either pay for it again or I will call your parents.”

I took two sips of my tomato juice and followed the woman that moved like an ice breaker down to the aisle to the checkout stand, where I spent the next 13 kopeks. So what that my bread ended up being twice as expensive and the juice never got finished. Being independent was priceless.

About the Author: Anna Huddleston is an award-winning travel and business writer in Las Vegas.

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Operation Iraqi Freedom

In my mid-20’s, my husband and I lived in a tiny townhouse, which was part of a small city at the epicenter of nowhere in a botched effort to be halfway to everywhere, namely college for him and work for me.

We were tripping over our cat, Elryck, and boxes that never got unpacked. Then my husband was deployed during Operation: Iraqi Freedom for 15 months and suddenly our little townhouse seemed way too big and the universe was merely a shadow threatening to engulf me. I suppose it was a direct result of my concerns over the future and the unknown.

I worked a great deal of overtime back then and the hour-long commute gave me time to think. Sometimes I thrilled over what a great opportunity my job turned out to be and sometimes thoughts dwindled while I listened to the radio about the newest incidents in the Green Zone. I did both while waiting for trains to pass over the several railroad tracks I passed daily, listening to the roar of engines and looking at the reflection of the rusty water beneath rickety bridges. I was young, fearless about my job, passionate about life, and outwardly indifferent to my husband’s disappearance. Inside, I was a melting pot of emotions.

I had started traveling at a young age with my parents. It was never too extravagant. Trips to Canada in a camper were not uncommon and we made it as far south as Florida in a station wagon, but it fueled a fire. I dreamt of bigger things in other lands.

When I was 10, I bought a bargain book about Bali, full of glossy pages and photos that bled off the pages and seeped into my dreams. I’d turn the pages over and over, the corners of the hardbound book leaving imprints in my arms as I leaned against it for long hours, looking at dragons dancing, strangely pierced ears, and food elegantly displayed on banana leaves. Before I could read other languages, I was making up my own and singing songs about cultures I really knew nothing about. Every glance across the misty, tree-covered hillside was a glimpse at some far away jungle. Every key unlocked a door to another world.

Needless to say, I felt entangled and torn between loathing for my husband’s departure and a yearning to go with him. When he returned to the United States for rest and relaxation after 14 months away, he had two weeks to visit. Most soldiers chose to spend that time at home with their friends and families. We chose to spend it travelling in Europe.

We travelled to Paris because we reasoned we would not need a car just to hop on the metro and we knew enough about the language to muddle our way through without too much embarrassment. But the truth is, it could have been anywhere. We didn’t care. We just wanted to get away. Get away from the isolation we felt from being apart, the desolation of a country shocked by recent events, a town too full of unemployment and disappointment. And from the constraints we felt so heavily over us.

We considered the awkwardness that might come from the residents of other countries, those that did not agree with the American occupation. Instead, we found that most people were curious about what we thought of current events and sought reassurance that Americans were not as crass about international affairs as it would seem with terms such as “freedom fries” and “un-American” being flailed about.

But mostly, what we found was that everyone was watching and waiting like we were. Waiting for something better or waiting for something worse. They were just as worried about the instability too and concerned for the Americans, who had suffered a loss. And just as concerned for the future.

When my husband travelled back through the airport with his uniform on, Americans looked on. Perfect strangers offered him free lunches at the airport restaurants, shook his hand in the waiting areas, and offered to let him stand in front of them in long lines at water fountains.

I didn’t realize it then, but what I was waiting for more than anything else was freedom: Freedom of opinion, freedom from war, freedom from economic hardships, freedom of a world without borders. And while I hugged my husband goodbye at the end of that journey, knowing we had a few short months before his return, I felt farther away from those boundaries that held us apart and a little closer to freedom.

About the Author: Tera Eliot is an avid reader, traveler, and knowledge seeker. When she’s not chasing her toddler, she’s in the library with her nose in a book or plotting her next big adventure. Her favorite location is the Mercantour National Park in France.

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Amsterdam: Dutch Sky

There are many accepted treatments for panic disorder. International travel is not usually listed among them.

I took my panic attacks on a rail odyssey across Europe with my best friend, largely because I was too embarrassed to admit that my fear of everything had reached the point that I was afraid to do something I had always loved – get on a plane and explore somewhere new. My world had shrunk to a packet of anti-anxiety meds and the well-worn path between my flat, my temp job and the local tea house.

When my best friend suggested we get rail passes and explore Europe, I found myself saying yes even as the familiar walls of panic begin to rise around me. Panic is best described as the feeling that your brain is no longer on your side, and mine seemed determined to make sure I never left Dublin again.

My rail pass, which allows EU nationals unlimited train travel in participating countries, was delivered with indecent haste. It’s an unremarkable-looking thing – dull-white, covered in grey print – although it comes with a colourful brochure full of pictures of young people throwing their heads back for reasons I couldn’t fathom. This grey slip of paper represented a licence to be anywhere – a deliciously seductive idea, redolent of freedom and exploration and adventure. The Irish, my wandering little island nation, have never been afraid to cross the water conquer the world.

Except for me, that is. I was afraid of everything.

We flew into Schipol airport and took a double-decker train to Centraal Station, Amsterdam. Living on an island with under 6.5 million people, Ireland has little need for large trains or railway stations, for illuminated signs directing us to multi-desk ticket offices. The departures board in Centraal Station, directing travellers on to endless adventures in multiple countries, made me light-headed with possibility as we searched our maps for our hostel.

Amsterdam is all about freedom, and not just the freedoms offered by the red light district and the coffeehouses. Built from reclaimed land, encircled by canals, with streets full of trams and tall canalside houses, Amsterdam’s very existence is a bold statement about freedom – the freedom to take what you have and construct something new, the freedom to create land where there was only water.

The following morning, we awoke to sunlight. The high, slender buildings on out street, the elegant willows and the early morning light cast long, sleek shadows on the walls. We had left a rainy, grey September Dublin, soft light filtered through grey cloud, and we had entered another world where gold streamed down through green leaves. My panic hadn’t kicked in yet. I was sure it would, once my brain was no longer occupied with the mundanity of getting from place to place.

Full of yoghurt and armed with guidebooks, we walked to the Museumplein, a historic square dating back to 1891 and surrounded by the world-famous Rijksmuseum, the Van Gogh Museum, the Diamond Museum and the Concertgebouw. Once off our narrow street with its slanted shafts of sunlight, we found ourselves under a rich blue sky.

Looking up, I strained to see if there were any clouds, my head flung back, walking in disjointed clumsy circles staring at the perfect sphere of blue above me – looking, ironically, like the girls in the brochure that came with my rail pass. I had never seen a Dutch sky before, and even the Van Goghs I saw an hour later struggled to compete with it.

I was in Amsterdam.

I had taken a chance, and my reward was freedom, the knowledge I could go wherever my rail pass could take me. My reward was my best friend by my side on an adventure, the warmth of the sun on my skin and the flat stones of Netherlands beneath my feet. My reward was the hugeness of the Amsterdam morning sky.

About the Author: Ellen Brickley is 29 years old and lives in Dublin, Ireland. When she isn’t working on a novel, she can be found pursuing her quest to find the best chai latte in Europe. She blogs at www.ellenbrickley.blogspot.com and loves to connect with new people on Twitter, where she tweets as @EllenBrickley.

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Letting out the Italian

I pound on the door, knuckles slamming against the hard wood.  I wanted to call out for help, but other guests in the hotel were sleeping.  Pressing my head to the door, I jiggled the handle and felt my heart fall as it jerked to a stop with a solid clunk –I was locked in.

Traveling outside the United States I had a long list of worries:  losing the group, being pickpocketed, having to go to a hospital, failing at Italian, and ending up exploring alone.  Being locked in my own hotel room did not quite make the list.  However, after my roommate opened the door, I had to laugh –only I could manage to lock myself into my own hotel room.  That takes some serious skill.  Still, despite the fact that I was trapped, I remained completely calm.  I was comfortable being alone.  I thought my lack of trust in myself would lead to a failure to experience Italy; on the contrary I formed a lasting sense of self-sufficiency –the Italian people’s loquaciousness nourishing my growing confidence.

In Amelia, my host family lived five minutes from Eurolinks School.  I enjoyed immense freedom as I could walk anywhere.  However, walking to school on the first day by myself, I ran into a few snags.  I had forgotten the road leading to the parking lot –the landmark my mind gripped like a life raft.  I couldn’t ask my host family for help because only the Nonna, who spoke zero English, was home.  Watching the cars whiz by stop signs, I finally asked for help.

“Scusa,” I said to a small woman on the side of the road.  “Where is Eurolinks school?”

She frowned, shooting a dart into my sinking heart.  No English.  School started in ten minutes, but I was afraid of looking like an imbecile if I spoke broken Italian.  But she had stopped –this gave me the courage to try talking.  She may not understand, but she cared to help.  I tried again using some Spanish.

“Escuela de Eurolinks?”  She shook her head.

“Che scuola?  No lo so. Mi dispiace.”

“Grazie.”  I smiled.  I was proud I could communicate, but frustrated that I was still lost.  New tactic –I decided to use my instinct to guide me.  This was the land of my ancestors; there must be some navigation system embedded in my blood.  Following my gut, along with the signs marked with a giant white P, I found the parking lot and the school.  I survived my first lone trek in a foreign city and my first encounter with a native Italian stranger.  Even though I struggled to communicate, she was willing to listen.  In the U.S it would take me multiple tries to convince someone to stop, and if I couldn’t speak English, I would be waved away.  Her patience encouraged me to attempt to speak Italian, and I relished a new sense of capability.

I trusted myself to explore on my own –something I thought was impossible, because of my shy nature.  This newfound independence saved me in Florence when I found myself, by myself.

Sitting in the hotel lobby with only a bust to talk to, I was torn.  The other students were gone or napping.  I could nap too, but I would regret it.  I was in Florence.  One of the most historical and beautiful cities in the world.  I flinched at the thought of returning home and saying ‘well, in Florence I stayed in the hotel.’  Although Florence was a bit more intimidating than Amelia, my sense of regret trumped every anxiety.

Wandering through the crowded streets, I realized I could visit all the places I wanted to see, including a small stand that sold masks.  As I admired the glittering faces, the seller came up to me.  Normally I would just leave with a hurried ‘grazie’, but not this time.

This time I chatted with the vendor.  He eagerly engaged me in conversation and kept his own phrases simple.  I was even able to say small phrases, like the masks were ‘bella’ and distinguishing them by color –‘azzurro.’  Though I didn’t buy anything, the vendor still wished me a great time in Florence.  His enthusiasm for connecting with other people made me comfortable enough to talk with him and not shrink away timidly –my trademark move.

The Italians’ easy manners and acceptance of foreigners opened up my shell.  Their compassion lent me confidence to carry back to America.  These were basic conversations, but they impacted my view of my own agency.  Italians have such expressiveness that they draw it out in others; it was time to embrace my Italian side and let out my own expressiveness.  And if I see someone lost on a street –maybe think about stopping to help.

About the Author:  I’m Lindsey Fischer and I am going into my junior year at Allegheny College, as an English major, and History and Latin double minor.  Originally I am from Ohio, where all the members of the Italian side of my family live, and eat, and talk and talk…I love reading writing, swing dancing, and now, travelling!  Find me on Facebook.

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Ukraine: Chotyn

We looked for old people; we found them on a quiet road, standing near a well, ready to draw water. They were short, thin people; the woman wore a kerchief over her grey hair, accentuating the multitude of wrinkles on her face. She had a greying cloth apron over her top and skirt. The man wore a short sleeved blue cotton shirt, beige trousers, and a plain beige cap. Their clothes were soiled, appearing to reflect their daily toil.

I pulled out my book and carefully intoned the words my friend had translated prior to my departure. “Jibes kladbishe”. “Jewish cemetery”. After a short pause, they both smiled and spoke simultaneously, in Ukrainian, very rapidly, with accompanying rapid gestures. I stared blankly. My grandparents had grown up in this town, Chotyn, located in the southern part of the Ukraine, had gone to school and married here, but they left to Canada in the 1920′s, before my mother was born. They had quickly learned English, and my mother, and then I, did not learn Russian from them. I had no idea what these people were saying to me.

My grandparents spoke often of the town they came from, and I grew up thinking of it as a magical place I could never visit. The Ukraine was swallowed by the USSR, for many years people could not leave, and westerners, especially Jews, would have had to be crazy to try to go there.

But Eastern Europe has changed, and less than a year before finding myself with the old couple near the well in the summer of 2011, my husband Avi by my side, the Ukraine opened its borders. It now no longer requires a visa for visiting Americans. Most tourists fly to Kiev, or travel by tour bus from Poland. My husband Avi and I arrived by car, in a long term rental that the company allows to take into Eastern Europe.

We entered at the southern border of Poland and the Ukraine, after more than a two hour wait to get through the chaos of the border crossing. We saw a large sign in Cyrillic proclaiming we were in a new country, and the smooth, multi lane highway of Poland changed to a two lane, poorly paved pale grey ribbon of a road full of potholes and bumps. Our GPS directed us.

We turned onto a lonely country road, the slim grey ribbon snaking before us, meandering lazily through rolling hills, small towns, people talking and walking and barely paying attention to the French car in their midst. We were on our own, without a guide, a chaperone, a guard, anybody watching us, traveling independently with the rise and fall of the road, the bumps, the simple villages, and the beauty of a semi-developed land.

The old couple by the well in the town of Chotyn turned to talk to each other, this old couple who did not know or understand me, and then the old man, who could have known my grandparents family in another time, who could have shunned my grandparents family for their Jewishness in another time, or who maybe helped my grandparents family in a time of need when being Jewish was a danger, this kind old man who was not afraid to help, climbed into the back seat of our car, the back seat of a car of strangers, the back seat of people in whom he put absolute trust, to direct us to the Jewish cemetery.

He directed us to a rutted road that ran through a grassy area off the main highway. He left us to walk back to his wife. On our left was an old fence, more a pile of bricks about a foot high, with interlacing wires extending a few feet above the bricks, than a barrier to keep people out. I peeked through, and saw what appeared to be well maintained paths that led to marble tombstones with pictures and inscriptions. We entered.

The cemetery seemed to be divided into two parts. The area near the fence through which I had gazed, contained navigable paths, that meandered between tombstones of varying size; large, marble tombstones with clear, delicate Hebrew script, smaller markers that were still standing, and fallen stones. I looked, bud did not find tombstones with my family’s names.

The front area ended abruptly at an impenetrable mass of trees, bushes, branches, scrub, and broken remnants of tombs. There was no access.

I did not find signs of my ancestors that day in Chotyn, did not see any resemblance to the images my grandparents had painted of their Jewish shtetl, but I found peace in being able to find my own freedom in a land that was once so oppressive to my family.

About the Author: Rona Amichai lives and works as a speech language pathologist in Los Angeles, USA when not traveling the world in search of new adventures and stories.

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Canada: Child of the Wind

This place is my home.

I love it here. I am infatuated with the smooth, curved logs that form the walls of the Ranch House. I am entranced by the cool, fading orange-brown oak of my cabin floor. I am hooked on the smoke that billows from the copper-coloured kitchen. Spider webs, thick glass windows, horse skulls, and old framed photographs from pioneer days liter the dusty ground of the campsite where I work. I’ve lived here for one month and two weeks, and this place has become comfortable. This place has become home.

It was familiar to me in the first dawn of May, when I waltzed into the communal kitchen to grab small snacks and cold milk. I opened the correct cupboards and found exactly what I needed without even trying. It was obvious: I belonged.

Within a fortnight, I could walk around blind in a place I had never before seen. I became attached—me, the girl who doesn’t know the meaning of the word commitment—to this camp, to these buildings, to the dirt road, to the sunsets over the lake, to the stables that contain the horses. The air is crisp and clear. I gulp oxygen into my lungs like I’ve never breathed before. Like I’m finally coming home.

I was always meant to be here, but was simply scared to consider the possibility of perfection. I would fly to Australia, run away to China, stretch my wings to Indonesia in an elaborate search of enlightenment—but I would never admit that true happiness has always been here waiting for me on my own doorstep.

I’ve always been a drifter. I hate settling, I sprint from comfort. I don’t let myself become homesick—I don’t dig roots. It’s the curse of the traveller. I uproot before I allow myself to be left. I fight so hard to be wild, to be free, that I cage myself in mobility.

But out here, soloing a plastic green canoe on Crimson Lake as the sky turns purple, roasting marshmallows over a crackling orange campfire I created with my bare hands and acquired skill—here, among singing crickets and wild birds and the soft swish of the breeze through the tall trees and the voices of people I love laughing together, here I am unashamed to admit that I am happy to be home.

In another month, I’ll have to leave. I don’t know where I’ll go. I have a plane ticket and no plans. Everything I see and experience reminds me of somewhere else. I compare everything to Canada. To home.

I belong beneath Alberta’s wide skies. Sometimes I hate it, but the spirit inside me, the Child of the Wind, she longs to offer herself to the endless fields. She cries to soar through Alberta’s vast sea of skies. She adores cowboy hats and rugged mountain ranges; she is aroused by the wafting scent of boiled coffee over a fire before the red rays of dawn can stroke the morning sky. She sifts the black soil through her fingers and chews on hay. I was born and raised to be a country girl at heart; a Child of the Wind. This is my home, because home is where I am free.

About the Author:  Alison is a 21-year-old world traveller and newspaper columnist secretly addicted to Alberta’s golden wheat fields.  The desire to explore has taken her to over 25 different countries around the globe, but Canada will always be home. Follow Alison’s Adventures or her twitter feed @AlisonKarlene

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Traveling in Sin is a HOT NEW RELEASE

Traveling in Sin  is a HOT NEW RELEASE on Amazon. Thank you for all your support of our memoir and our journeys! We really appreciate it! George and Lisa

BOOK DESCRIPTION:

This exuberant and unique travel memoir is written in the voices of the story’s two leading protagonists, George and Lisa, who meet on-line in January 2007. After exchanging emails and dating, the couple travels to Fiji over the summer of 2008 where George reveals his lifelong dream to travel the world for a year and urges Lisa to join him. With much convincing, the duo embarks on a journey that takes them from French Polynesia to New Zealand and Australia. From that point on, the “true” adventure begins as they journey by land across vast portions of Asia covering Indonesia to Mongolia. During these adventures, Lisa shrinks down her waist size while developing her inner courage and belief in herself; George learns to open up his heart to form a team-based relationship that leads to a culminating special proposal.

Peppered with humorous characters, tears of joy and disaster, and different realities related to their varied social strata and travel style, George and Lisa meander around Asia seeing the sights, building their relationship and returning triumphant to the United States in love and excited about their imminent wedding. They both took a leap when leaving their jobs, home, cat and cultural clutter, and land together as a team with a new life.

  Buy Traveling in Sin on Amazon today!

 

Traveling in Sin is a HOT NEW Release on Amazon! from Lisa Niver Rajna

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Canada: Tall Towers and Freedom

TORONTO: TOWER TALLER THAN ANY OTHER AND DISCOVERING THE REAL MEANING OF FREEDOM, INDEPENDENCE AND FRIENDSHIP 

Written by Dindo Varona

In the back seat of the 8-seater Nissan Murano van, was where I patiently anticipated our next stop; it was a nice early July summer day as I see the tower high in the air. The distance from New York City to Toronto is 792.2km, a relatively long 8 hours-drive that flew by quickly. It was definitely worth the trip.

I found us leaving New York City, heading southwest merging on Hwy. I-81N for about 133 miles past Binghamton; then turn west to merge onto I-90 W towards Rochester, Buffalo and Hamilton and then turn north-east to merge onto Queen Elizabeth Way then eventually Bay St, Toronto.

We had to walk pass security, which had a bizarre nozzle-filled chamber that blew bursts of air at you, as if my body was being sucked out; once each of us got out we all paused and burst out into laughter; apparently the bursts of air coming out from these “puffers” are intended to release microscopic particles on your skin or clothing, which are then inspected for any residue that might indicate the presence of an explosive device in clothing and skin folds, in order to detect terrorists.

My excitement grew, as the tower elevator shot us up to the top level in only a few seconds! You can easily lose your group while walking around in the tower, so we made sure everyone stayed close. The “scary” glass floor: definitely check it out. Over one thousand four hundred feet high above the ground, it’s absolutely breathtaking to look down and see my own feet above the city of Toronto. I was surprised to see there were kids lying down on the glass, taking photos and even breakdancing on it!

The next day we visited Niagara Falls. The day was a fine sunny day at the Falls. By mid afternoon, it was beginning to get crowded with people surging toward the viewing platforms. As we walked along the amazing and mighty Niagara River, we passed so many people wearing bright clothing of different colors and large crowds of locals and tourists all together.

I couldn’t believe my eyes! I’m here! People travel from all over the world to marvel at this destination because of the large amount of water flowing non-stop, every day, all year long. The sights, the never ending loud roar of the waterfall and the mist are inspiring, and give energy to anyone close enough to feel it!

The ‘Maid of Mist Ride’, which takes you right up to the falls, is exciting and amazing. Large amounts of water and spray repeatedly hitting the boat was nothing compared to the feel of the ice-cold water and the chill of the surrounding air, while watching my parents and relatives going through the same adventure was an unforgettable experience. After the wild ride was done, we walked up to the lookout point, where everyone can see the rainbow rising up from the mist.

We visited a related family’s house later that day. I remember my related Auntie standing in the backyard of her own house waved me over to sit with her only son. Although I didn’t have a Canadian accent and he noticed my Australian accent, we instantly got along so well, engaging in a two-way conversation about his hard-working life in Canada and how hanging out at the local coffee shop with his best friends helped relieve his stress.

I still remember the two days spent in Canada like it was yesterday. My new friend would let me sit in his house to talk, to drink coffee, to go hang out with his Canadian best friends, to watch them play “Jix” (Americans call it “Foosball”) and pool, or to talk about his work. Despite our difference in accents, their warm welcome made me feel accepted into their group and (believe me or not) for those couple of days, loved by others. The evening before I left, I still remember standing in the local parking lot with his friends looking a bit sad that I was leaving Canada so soon. He smiled and responded, “Come back to Canada when you can” as I said goodbye.

It was just before midnight we prepared ourselves to leave a town that now felt so warm to me. As I looked out the back of the van, I took in the view of our host’s house for the last time. Our host family all stood outside by the front door; Mixed emotions welled up inside me as we all waved back. As the van drove further away, I couldn’t stop looking out the window, reminiscing about all the good people I will hold in my heart and memory forever, and said goodbye to Canada before the long drive back to New York.

About the Author: Dindo Varona: I was born in Sydney but moved cities at a young age and grew up in Adelaide, South Australia. I have an undergraduate degree in Psychology & postgraduate degree in Journalism and have been traveling around the world since 1997. I now write for a company in Hollywood, Los Angeles, California, USA. So far I have made it to the Philippines, Malaysia, Singapore, Europe, USA and Canada and spent two years studying Spanish. Find him at: au.linkedin.com/pub/dindo-varona/62/1..., dinjvar.wordpress.com and https://twitter.com/dinjvar

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