Lisa Niver's Blog: We Said Go Travel, page 480

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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America: Independence on the Interstate

I have no fear of flying. I just don’t love it. I find it disorienting to board a plane in one city and land in another, having missed all the landscape and all the people in between. Give me a roadtrip in America any day.

When I made the decision to move from Portland, Oregon to attend college in Claremont, California (40 miles east of L.A.), I knew I wouldn’t make that move on an airplane. Each year of college, I made the drive south at the end of summer, and north again at the end of spring. Sometimes these migrations were short, other times I dragged them on for weeks, but each time I got in the car and turned onto the on-ramp for Interstate-5 I felt my soul buoyed by the fact that I could go anywhere.

The end of the journey was always where I planned to end up; I never had a drastic moment of change where I decided to abandon school and work a bookstore in Texas instead. I was and still am happy with the two homes I’ve created for myself on the west coast.

In between these two points on the map were myriads to explore, and I did, usually with the company of a close friend or family member. We would stray off I-5 to take the highways 1 or 101 for a stretch and then return to the fast moving freeway cutting through swaths of agricultural land. Sunset Bay State Park, Oregon. Ashland, Oregon. Mount Shasta City, California. Humboldt Redwoods State, California. Each of these places we would stop, and when we left I would feel as if a bit of the unknown had become known, a new familiar place for me to return on my next migration.

Each place we filled with memories of our own. Swimming in the cold Eel River off the Avenue of the Giants. Watching the California state capitol building lit up for the night in Sacramento. Driving hours out of our way simply for ice cream sundaes at Fenton’s Creamery in Oakland. Stopping in Santa Cruz for a gypsy punk concert, and then continuing tired and drenched in sweat later that night. Listening to the birdcalls that in the dead of night make me imagine too vividly the predators of Jurassic Park. Making the final push through the grapevine as temperatures and altitude both climb. Upon leaving each place, whether it was a picturesque rest stop, a secluded camp ground, or a travel channel featured restaurant, had burrowed into my heart and come with me.

When I go back to Portland for Christmas, winter storms and snow make the passes in the Siskiyou Mountains temperamental and occasionally dangerous, so I fly. Invasive body pat-downs, waiting areas filled with stressed and weary passengers, the cries of toddlers as their ears pop all set my own nerves on edge. My spine tingles with the general discomfort of the mode of travel we’ve all chosen for its convenience.

The summers, though. I eagerly anticipated the sight of Castle Crags and each familiar off-ramp and detour. The 14 hours of driving (if you do it all at once along the 5), never gives me that unsettled feeling of powerless waiting I am overwhelmed with at the airport. When you drive it, every turn is in your control. On the interstate and state highways and scenic detours I no longer feel like I am waiting to arrive home—the whole route is home now, and each return is with pleasure.

About the Author: Ariel Bloomer is just returning to the States after a year of teaching English in Bulgaria. In the future, she hopes to write novels, work with university students, and drive the Ring Road in Iceland. You can read about her travels in the Balkans and her upcoming battle with reverse culture shock at the Unintential Explorer.

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Social sharing: How Facebook got me travelling

Social sharing: How Facebook got me travelling

First it was the advent of the internet and then it was the sudden explosion of social media that made the world in which we live a much smaller place. On the whole, it’s technology that’s enhanced all of our lives – as well as inspiring me to stop viewing it on the web and to explore it with my own eyes!

After graduating from university and settling into a full time job, I began noticing through Facebook that a lot of my friends had chosen to go InterRailing across Europe. A couple had gone backpacking across Australia, while a group of lads I used to share a Sunday afternoon drink with had made the bold decision to explore South America for six months.

Having been brought up on a diet of caravan holidays around the UK with my parents – which is no bad thing, by the way – I didn’t think I was missing out on much when all these travel plans were in the pipeline.

Time to travel

But a few months into my new shirt-and-tie office life, I began to grow jealous of what I was seeing on my Facebook feed. Pictures of statues, monuments and landmarks were accompanied by people I recognised and knew, stood together, in their t-shirts and shorts, looking almighty tanned and proud of themselves. It looked like fun – much more fun than work.

So that was it – I ditched the job and began planning to see more of the world. It felt incredibly liberating to know that I could go literally anywhere. I wrote down all the places I thought about visiting – some I’d seen on TV, others I’d seen on Facebook. And then I set about visiting them.

The Blue Lagoon, Iceland

In the middle of absolutely nowhere, as if it was dropped from a great height into the eerily black volcanic landscape of Iceland, is a geothermal pool full of minerals that are said to hold special healing powers. It was the outrageously stark contrast of the deep blue, steaming pool set against the backdrop of the black yet snow-topped mountains that initially drew me to it.

Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe

Known locally as ‘the smoke that thunders’, Victoria Falls is twice the height of Niagara Falls. I had an uncle who lived in Montreal, who used to tell me that if I were to see any waterfall in the world it should be the one he’s never been to. He had seen Niagara while my friends had visited the Iguazu Falls on the border of Argentina and Brazil. Between us it feels like we’ve now completed the set!

The High Tatras, Slovakia

I had a relation who’d spent time living in Bratislava and he recommended that I explore the High Tatras in northern Slovakia – which is what I did. They’re part of the Carpathian mountain range, which makes it a popular place to ski in winter. However, with its glacial lakes and an electric tram service, which connects the resorts and offers spectacular views, it’s equally as popular in the summer.

Kutná Hora, Czech Republic

One of the most fascinating places I visited was the Sedlec Ossuary – known as the ‘bone church’ because its chapel is decorated with the bones of more than 40,000 skeletons. Technically it’s art – macabre art, it must be said – but it’s unlike anything else. The focal furnishing is the chandelier, which is said to hold every single bone in the human body.

I’d also spent time in Italy, Romania, Spain and Cyprus, with Japan and Thailand next on my list.

Testing my travel knowledge

Just recently I found this great travel game on the net, called the worldwide window machine, which almost felt like it was purposely made for me! You’re presented with an image from Google Maps, taken somewhere in the world, and you have to call on your knowledge to know where it is, and then drop a pin on the map. The closer you are, the better you score.

Since everything is scored, it’s highly addictive. I’ve constantly been trying to beat my own record – and now that I’ve shared it with a few friends on Facebook it’s become ultra competitive. The only problem is that it’s giving me more ideas of where I’d like to visit!

My ambition was to see more of the world – and after two years of travelling (not to mention a few credit cards worn to a nubbin) I felt I did just that. But now I’ve got a new list – although they include far flung locations that may have to wait for a time when my bank account is properly replenished!

About the Author: Cameron Thomas was born in Lincoln, UK, and studied marketing and communications at the University of Huddersfield. He’s an avid photographer and has been working for a major food retailer since he returned from his travels across southern Africa and central Europe.

 

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Basque Country: Home is where the Pueblo is

It was exactly what I had in mind when I applied to teach in the Basque Country; green hills, a strange language, separatist protests, and retired shepherds stalking down cobble stone streets that had seen bull and beret alike- this was a strange region in a foreign land, and I was ready for it. My assigned town, called Laguardia (“the guardian”) in Spanish, Biasteri in Basque, was at first wild glance the sublime realization of that which I had for months pictured in mind; this, I told myself, was where I would be Hemingway, be me, be a man; a man on a mountain, the best kind of man. Nothing to do but read, write, teach, and drink down sunsets like gazpacho on a Spanish summer day. It wasn’t freedom that I felt-not yet, anyways-but independence, and to a 23-year old aspiring writer set on spurning law school, SUVs, and Sunday brunch, independence felt great.

Then reality hit, and to my giddy, ready senses, it looked like this: a medieval village, perched upon an ornery lump of earth above the high Riojan wine country; the Basque Rioja called the “Alavesa.” Its thick, reconstructed flanks straddled the hill; the walls drew the landscape in, and vineyard vistas lapped at its stone shores. Inside the fortress’ facade, narrow streets wound like the wind that swept through them; high, cold, mighty. Tourists followed them, taking pictures and drinking wine, waiting for the sunset that seemingly always came; came softly, slowly, floating achingly along the valley of La Rioja like a painter’s wet canvas until at long lens’ last the colors suddenly disappeared, and the town, startled, awoke from its sunburnt siesta–thirsting for the Tempranillo that filled more than just its bodegas and their patrons, but indeed its soul itself, one starving for an identity lost long ago, as I’d soon learn.

Ironic, in retrospect, that I’d come here, of all geopolitical regions, to seek out my independence; this was the paradox of my journey. “ESTE NO ES ESPAÑA” read the graffiti, and I in turn read it everywhere; on every street, this slogan; on every wall, this resistance; on every street, this sign-THIS IS NOT SPAIN. It was cruel, this contradiction; what was my independence, my new found freedom, in the daily light of this struggle? What did it matter, really? My walks, my Dylan, my Kerouac, my ruck sack; these items, idols, activities, all were at once symbols of what I had gained and what the Basques, frankly, might never have.

I wasn’t a rolling stone in the hills of the Basque Country anymore. No, I had hit a wall; the wall of Laguardia. I began to gather moss, and it looked like this: a boy, not the man as planned, struggling to understand his adopted home; an outsider, torn between cultures, languages, peoples; Basque at the dinner table, Spanish in the classroom. I, unlike my friends, only spoke the latter. Their language, Euskera, was their identity; I was deaf to Euskera, blind to the Basque Country. I no longer felt independent but isolated, and the difference depressed me. I began to drift away from my friends, from the Basques.

It was then, however, in my isolation, that I began to understand my home, Laguardia, and what we had in common. The town was stuck; stuck in this cultural chasm, between Basque identity and Spanish life. I could relate. The village was a border town, and always had been. It didn’t understand itself any better than I did. Neither Spanish nor Basque, the village was like me: a misfit, and a wine-drunk one at that.

Laguardia’s roots were dug deep in the lands and histories of Iberia; of Navarre, the Basque Kingdom, and of Castile. I stopped trying to dig them out, and what I found, inexplicably; was freedom; a peace with what I was in this place, an outsider, and with the town I had come to call my own. I finally felt at home in the Basque Country, and that, more than independence, was everything.

About the Author: Joseph Farewell is a young writer from California.  He’s lived in Spain, France, and the Basque Country in between. When he’s not running from bulls, studying psychology, or hitchhiking in Scotland, you can find him on Facebook.

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Kerala, India: The Place that Makes Me Feel Free

The more I travel, the more I realise that my feelings about somewhere do not only come into being because of that ‘place’. My feelings about the cities, towns, beaches, and villages where I end up on my journeys are shaped by the locations I visited immediately beforehand, by the anticipation of the places that I will travel to afterwards, as well as my current feelings about work, relationships, and family.

A place, a time, and my wandering thoughts all converge to give me a true sense of somewhere. I’m sure there are many who have mastered the art of living in the present far more effectively than me, but I have a wandering mind and that means I tend to live in the past, present and future all at once.

This way of being doesn’t seem very conducive to finding a sense of ‘freedom’, and though I can live in an apparently freer way than most, my passport providing me with the luxury of being able to visit pretty much everywhere around the globe, and my ability to work on the road offering endless travel opportunities, would I say that I feel free? Perhaps not.

But there is one place on this earth that inspired a greater sense of freedom in me than I have ever felt before – the state of Kerala in south India. In fact, there was one point on my trip, as I was strolling along the waterfront of Odayam, a stunning coastal fishing town, when the thought crept up on me that I had never felt so relaxed before in my whole life. Relaxation doesn’t necessarily equal freedom for everyone, but for me and my jittery mind, I had never experienced that kind of escape before – the kind of slowing down of your mind that somehow also focuses it and provides you with a greater clarity about the things in your life that suddenly seem unimportant and unworthy of clouding your brain.

So what is it about this tiny state in south India, which so many people like to tell me is “not the real India”, that made me feel such a sense of freedom where other destinations have failed?

Kerala provided a convergence of all of my favourite things about travel with very little of the rubbish stuff. By rubbish stuff I mean dorm rooms and hippies, both of which put me on edge. The culture of homestays in Kerala allowed me to experience a little bit of family life, a home away from home with freshly cooked family meals and dinner table chat, and I’m guessing that the ukulele touting hippies were somewhere in “the real India”, wherever that might be. This laid the foundation for a month long visit to the state of Kerala where there is a truly staggering breadth of landscape.

The beaches of Varkala are an ideal spot for beach bums who can choose to have relaxed days of swimming and massages and fun nights of partying should they wish, the port town of Cochin has an incredible café culture and the smell of ginger and cardamom are always present on the streets, the backwaters promise unforgettable boat trips amongst the endless green of the waterways, and the hill stations provide ample opportunity for trekking and learning about life in the coffee and tea plantations.

Beyond the beauty of Kerala, it is the kindness and openness of Keralan people that focused my newly relaxed mind on wanting to be a better person. In Kerala, it is impossible to walk down the street without locals trying to make conversation with you, to openly smile at you, to offer you a cup of masala chai – and always simply because that’s the nice thing to do, because kindness is so important to the people there.

Kerala is not somewhere in India that has a great deal of poverty, but people aren’t rich either, and the population’s feeling of contentedness that derives from living in the moment and putting your best food forward is something that rubbed off on me, gave me a sense of freedom, and when the pressures of life start to weigh heavy, I remind myself of that feeling and what inspired it – the heart filling kindness of the people who live in the most beautiful place I ever visited, Kerala.

About the Author: David is a twenty-something travelling writer from London, documenting his travel experiences at ThatGayBackpacker.

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