Lisa Niver's Blog: We Said Go Travel, page 483

New Mexico: Perfect Strangers Embrace

Ojo Caliente Hot Springs, New Mexico.

It was the moment of the Bloodline Healing workshop that touched me most deeply. My eyes swelled with tears as I witnessed Abbey, a Native American Elder, embracing Eliana, a young Jewish woman.  My chest filled with a pure satisfaction as Eliana sobbed and Abbey soothed.  These two participants were perfect strangers before this workshop.  Their embrace was perfect.

Ojo Caliente Hot Springs in New Mexico is a historic sacred site of Tewa speaking tribes. The first bathhouse was constructed in 1868.

It was all happening in a heavy wood yurt that sat in the bare New Mexico Sun.  Ojo Caliente, the first health spa in America, was constantly pushing its hot mineral water into the man made hot tubs. The large yurt was just a short walk from the hot tubs, and soon our bodies would soak in the curing waters to wash away the dirty smudges and heavy family burdens that we were expressing in the yurt.

Workshop space blessed by monks at Ojo Caliente Hot Springs in New Mexico

Abbey had journeyed from a far away reservation to come to this workshop.  Though she was the youngest of her siblings, she was born with the a strong and giving heart.  Even as a child, she was someone who carried herself with the authority of someone much older than her position as the “baby of the family”.  Early in her life, she had cared for her family by emotionally supporting them and ensuring the many responsibilities of family life were fulfilled.  Her service to her family became even stronger when a few early deaths filled her family with grief.  In that grief, they had come to lean on her without realizing that she was serving as unconventionally young Elder. For years, she emotionally carried her grief ridden family. But it was not a recognized role.  To them, she was necessary, but her contribution was assumed and unseen.

Now, in her later years, Abbey’s grandmotherly heart was reaching the guarded Eliana at our workshop.  Eliana didn’t trust her parents or the elders in her family.  She moved away from them as soon as she could after years of unspoken emotional neglect.  We asked her to participate in an Ancestral Dialogue, an often cathartic opportunity to speak to the deceased loved ones of her lineage about her family struggles.  But too many emotions surfaced after she introduced her family tree to the group.  In short, she didn’t want any contact with her ancestry because her family always seemed to need so much from her.  Instead, Eliana forged a transparent wall, a tense force field around herself to protect herself from a family that had betrayed her.  She needed support, but it could not be familiar.  She needed a trustworthy stranger.

“I understand what you are going through,” Abbey said. “I know what its like to be left in an unspoken way.  But you’re not alone right now,” Abbey moved towards Eliana gently.  Her inviting dark eyes put Eliana at ease.  Tears fell down Eliana’s face, as a wave of empathy washed over her from Abbey.  The ice wall around Eliana began to melt as she stretched out her arms like a forgotten child.  They embraced. Abbey spoke softly into her ear, consoling and validating the younger woman.  It was the female mentorship and guidance that Eliana did not get from her overwhelmed family.

Eliana cried, expressing how she had always needed this kind of support, sharing how her mother and grandmother failed to see how important this nurturing embrace truly was to her.  But Abbey knew.  That deep caring instinct of an elder took over.  In her younger years, Abbey carried the burdens of her grieving family.  But now, Abbey was being seen in her eldership in an appreciated way.  It was no longer a hidden job that was done from behind the scenes.  Abbey too was receiving a healing by being recognized for her gifted heart.

My heart also swelled with gratitude and celebration, because I knew that I had played a part in bringing together these two women from different worlds.  Like a resonate symphony, the whole group was moved as they gathered close to the hugging women.  Some cried, other smiled, as we all witnessed the courageous and intimate healing happening before our eyes.

“I really needed this,” Eliana said.  “Thank you, Abbey…Wow, this was intense! I knew I needed to be at this workshop, but I didn’t expect this to happen.”  The group laughed, as many of them shared that they felt the same way.  They were walking a path unknown to the routines of their life.  Healing needs change in order to happen.

Mineral Hot Spring by the Canyon just before sunset.

At sunset, the hot water emitted steam into the cool night air.  After feasting on fresh cornbread and tender Rainbow Trout for dinner, I slid into the thick heat of the moonlit mineral spring that was nearest to the rock canyon.  I too, had received a healing today.  By seeing these two strangers embrace, my trust and faith in humanity was growing.  “Perhaps we just need more safe spaces like this workshop in order to realize our full healing potential,” I thought to myself.  After our group session in the yurt, my heart felt clearer, the burbling water felt more vivid, and the taste of the fresh lemon water lingered on my tongue. “This is why I do this work,” I thought to myself. “It helps me to feel more alive!”

Each time I facilitate a workshop, I too walk into the unfolding healing process.  Just like Abbey and Eliana, each participant brings the group a special gift to the gathering.  As I daydream about our October 10-13th, 2013 Bloodline Healing Workshop at Brandeis-Bardin in Southern California, my heart becomes bright with excitement.  I look forward to being on that sacred land, that refuge from the everyday pressures of our busy lives.  Who will come to this retreat?  What cross cultural bridges will be forged?  What unexpected gifts will perfect strangers share with each other?

About the Author: Kamana Hunter

Brandeis-Bardin Campus, the overnight site of the next Bloodline Healing Workshop on October 10th-13th, 2013 in Southern California.

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United States bombs the Great Barrier Reef?

A Marine AV-8B Harrier fighter jet takes off from an amphibious assault ship. (UPI Photo/Noel Danseco/US Navy)

What is the real cost of the United States bombing of the Great Barrier Reef? By Jeremy Goldberg

“I think the environment should be put in the category of our national security.  Defense of our resources is just as important as defense abroad.  Otherwise what is there to defend?”

Robert Redford said that, and reading it again this morning made me think about the recent bombing incident along the Great Barrier Reef. By now, you’ve probably heard the story: As part of a joint military exercise with Australia, two American fighter jets take off from their ship, approach their target, and are basically told, “Stop!  Don’t drop your bombs!  There are civilians nearby!”  In response, the jets attempt to make several approaches before they begin to run out of fuel, forcing them to drop four bombs (two inert BDU 45 practice bombs and two unarmed high-explosive GBU 12s laser-guided bombs)  into the Great Barrier Reef Marine Park before they land safely.  Long story short, four American bombs now rest comfortably in about 160 feet of water, 19 miles from the nearest reef and about 30 miles from the Australian coastline.  The impact on the marine environment is thought to be negligible, there are plans underway to figure out what to do about this situation and the bombs are deemed low risk by the Great Barrier Reef Marine Park Authority, the federal government department tasked with managing the Great Barrier Reef.

http://blog.discoverqueensland.com.au...

So, that’s the gist.

All in all, there’s nothing too incredible – a military exercise went wrong and a couple of unarmed bombs were dropped in the ocean to save lives.  What is interesting is that this occurred along the Great Barrier Reef, one of the most beautiful, inspiring, amazing, ridiculous, stunning, incredibly important ecosystems on the planet.

The Great Barrier Reef Marine Park Authority is responsible for protecting the Great Barrier Reef both now and for future generations.  This means that they have a fundamental right to help protect it from climate change, declining water quality, commercial and recreational fishing pressures, port expansions, shipping, coastal development, tourism, invasive species, floods, Crown-of-thorns starfish outbreaks, agricultural runoff, and now, it seems, from bombs as well.  It’s a big job and to do it the Australian government provides the Authority with about $50 million each year.

To put this in perspective, the Great Barrier Reef contributes about $6,000,000,000 to the Australian economy each year, most of this coming from tourism.

To put this in even greater perspective, the two American AV-8B Harrier jets that dropped the bombs on the Great Barrier Reef cost about $25 million each.  The GBU bombs that were dropped cost about $19,000 each and I have no idea what the two BDU 45 practice bombs cost but let’s go cheap and say they’re only $10,000 apiece.  That gives us a total of around $50 million dollars.

So, essentially, the amount of money that the American government spent on two airplanes and four bombs is equivalent to the amount of money the Australian government annually provides to the key agency responsible for managing a global treasure, protecting a $6 billion dollar asset, and preserving an important cultural icon for future generations.

Isn’t that interesting?

Furthermore, despite the considerable media attention this story is receiving, these bombs are not the biggest immediate concern to the GBR.  In fact, in the big picture, these bombs are insignificant to the health of the Great Barrier Reef.  There are many other far more pressing issues, including the ongoing and future impacts of climate change or coastal development.  The proposed port development near Abbot Point, to use another example, includes the dredging of three million cubic metres of sediment.  If my back of the envelope calculations are right, we’d need 15 million GBU 12s laser-guided bombs to fill in the hole that dredging creates.

So, yes, America dropped a few bombs on the Great Barrier Reef and everyone is talking about it. However, there are far more explosive stories around.  We just need to know where to focus our attention.

About the Author: Jeremy Goldberg: I make big things small, small things visible, and visible things known. But mainly, I’m trying to make the world better than it was yesterday. Currently in Australia. Connect with me here.

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Traveling Around the World…in Sin

Thank you to Amy Sommer at Westside Today for her story, Traveling Around the World…in Sin about our memoir, Traveling in Sin.

“Traveling in Sin” is a love story and travel memoir rolled in to a single, enjoyable book. Written by George Rajna and Lisa Niver Rajna, the travelers who fell in love while traversing the Far East, the inveterate travelers include 80 beautiful photos from their journey in its pages.

The Rajna story starts in 2007 when the duo, after dating for about six months, travel to Fiji where George shares his lifelong dream to travel the globe for a year and urges a reluctant Lisa to join him. a year later, in 2008, the duo took a leap of faith in the universe and each other and embarked on a journey that from French Polynesia to Mongolia. As their adventures unfold, Niver-Rajna whittles her waistline while upping her confidence and Rajna learns to open his heart to the partner he proposes to toward the end of the trip.

Told through humorous anecdotes and populated with unique characters the couple met in their travels, Niver-Rajna and Rajna tell an exciting tale filled with tears of joy and disaster as they share their love story.

Read the article on Westside Today.

Buy the memoir, Traveling in Sin.

 

 

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From Greece to L.A.ve

‘If you had only one wish, what would it be?’

I’d wish the plane wouldn’t crash.

Of course that is not my answer. Marc, the guy I met ten minutes ago, doesn’t need to know that I’m afraid of airplanes, and that I am having a panic attack as we speak.

He needs to hear about my plans to become a worldwide known writer, or maybe to meet the love of my life, or maybe about world peace and stuff like that. Yes, that’s what I should talk to him about.

‘Uhmm… I don’t know. What about you?’

He says something, but I’m not listening. I’m thinking I could have answered anything, but I didn’t. Why? Because I’m scared. I’m afraid that if I told him a wish, maybe the universe would hear it and make it happen and I’m not sure I’d like to spend my only wish that easily.

*

‘Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to LAX Airport. Local time is 6:15 AM and the temperature is 93 degrees Fahrenheit.’

The pilot welcomes us to Los Angeles. My heart slows down to its normal beat.

‘How much would that be in Celsius?’

’93 Fahrenheit must be around 32 to 33 Celsius.’

‘Thanks.’

I’m making small talk, trying to erase the memory of me asking the stewardess for tomato juice, while Marc was talking about his dreams.

Marc is from the UK, I’m from Greece and the only thing we have in common is the fact that we both flew from Heathrow to LAX. I don’t know anything about him and he doesn’t know anything about me. I don’t even know the reason he took this trip. We just shared the experience of flying over the Atlantic Ocean for seven hours in a tin can.

*People come and go, they come and go, come and go… Half of them are in a hurry, the other half looking for something. Where they’re going to pick up their luggage from, where they’re going to meet their loved ones, were the taxi rank is… Nobody is waiting for me, I‘ve already picked up my suitcase from the baggage claim, and I’m pretty sure that I will find a taxi right outside these automatic doors. In the meantime I’m enjoying a banana-strawberry smoothie and watching people as they pass me by. I open my handbag, take out a notepad I bought at Heathrow and start writing. My handwriting on every first page is always exquisite. Then you turn that page over and start wondering how my notepads turned up in the hands of a drunken doctor.

What would happen if each and every passerby had a speech bubble over their head, like the ones in comic books, conveying their dream in life? Would we help them live it, would we laugh at them, would we rule them out as potential life partners?

I’m reading what I just wrote. I will never be a writer.

‘Nephelay?’

I know it’s Marc, before I look up. That is because he pronounced my name wrong and also because I don’t know anyone else in this country.

‘E. Nephele.’

‘Nephele.’

‘There you go.’

‘Are you waiting for someone?’

‘No, I’m just… sitting here.’

‘

Do you want to go get some coffee or something?’

Coffee? Why would he want to have coffee with me?

He’s standing right in front of me, holding his suitcase. Behind him, the automatic doors open and close, letting in the sunlight, that brings out the shape of his body. I keep looking at him and start actually seeing him. He’s tall, with brown hair and loose curls that hide his dark green eyes and a body naturally fit and not after hours at the gym. He is handsome and English, which means that every word coming out of his lips sounds like an invitation to the 18th century. Maybe coffee isn’t such a bad idea.

*

Half an hour later, we’re having coffee at the outdoor area of the Hyatt Regency Century Plaza, where I’m going to be staying for the next ten days. I find out that Marc works at a worldwide known publishing company and spends half his time in the UK and half in the USA. I don’t know what kind of game fate is playing with me, but I’m ready for it.

‘Do you want to take a look at something and tell me what you think?’

‘Sure.’

I show him what I wrote at the airport. As he reads, I gaze at his eyes, his hands and the crooked smile starting to form on his lips. I really like him.

I lean my head back, close my eyes and let the sun shed its red light upon my darkness.

I wish to feel like this more often.

About the Author: Dafni Mathioudaki is an aspiring writer from Greece. She studied in the Hellenic Cinema and Television School Stavrakos and over the years she took many creative writing courses. She also worked as a copywriter, find her on Facebook and Twitter.

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Minneapolis: The Mighty Mississippi River

My eyes flicked toward the trees as a blur of bright yellow flew past. That look away was enough for me to fishtail through the sandy road. I hopped off my bike to collect myself and to pull out my field guide. Not all birds are yellow, but that blur of yellow was not enough for me to identify which bird it might be. I put the guide away and pushed onward, toward the falls. I still had miles to go and already the sun, just beginning to reach above the trees, was adding weight to the air.

A bit of a daydreamer, as I type my own words, I can picture myself forging my way toward Angel Falls in Venezuela or Victoria Falls in Zimbabwe. I haven’t been to either of them, but they’re on my list. Instead, I was in fact a mere few blocks from home – in Minneapolis.

My travel budget is nil – for now anyway. That happens from time to time. I used to feel caged when there was no money to hit the road. I’m not the type just to wing it, whether that means hoping to land a job once “there” or to bum a couch for the night. So instead, my mind would pace in frustration, feeling the world was off limits until I could scrape together the resources to set off again.

I would probably still be that way if I hadn’t panicked before moving from Seattle in 2008. As the house was getting packed up, I realized once again, I was moving from a city, as though it were merely a rest stop, without having fully explored it. I was furious with myself. I had spent tidy sums over the years traveling to other cities and countries to see the very things I had been living amidst – for the previous ten years!

Before moving, I tried to cram a city and its mountains into two weekends. “Never again!” I vowed dramatically, although no one was there to witness, which was perhaps for the best as I wasn’t standing atop a mountain but scrubbing the stove top in the hopes of getting my rental deposit back.

This particular day in Minnesota as a blur of yellow flew past me, I was headed toward Minnehaha Falls. When I moved back to my home state of Minnesota in the fall of 2012, after a few decades away, I came to the “falls” to discover the creek had dried up. This time, still early in the summer and fresh from a storm, the falls were flowing fast.

I had ridden my bike ten miles to get to the falls, and after a few minutes at the base of the falls, I was about to head the fifty or so feet back up to the bike trail, when I realized a hiking path continued east along the creek. There was more to explore!

As I hiked along the path, I was surprised by the sense of wilderness that overcame me. The trail from the falls extends only a quarter mile or so, and I know the map of the city well enough to know the creek empties into the Mississippi River, but to see for myself this small creek open up to the Mississippi River was a sight to behold. That moment is why I travel – to experience the world first-hand: to be awed, surprised, awakened.

At the confluence of the Mississippi River and Minnehaha Creek, unlike the wide floodplain of most of the river, there is a gorge, the only true gorge along the Mississippi River. Trees, rising from the banks to the cliff tops, hide the city. Only when I finally looked north toward the locks was I reminded that I was still in the city. Otherwise it was the power of nature that stood before me.

Watching the mighty river flow past, I felt myself soar, limits replaced with possibilities. Just miles from home, I got that sense of freedom I feel whenever I’m off exploring and discovering. I used to consider where I lived to be a rest stop until the next adventure – stupidly leaving my own home unexplored.

As I walked back toward the Minnehaha Falls, I wanted more than ever to see the falls of Venezuela and Zimbabwe, but the Mississippi River was no mere rest stop. My home was begging me to live, to explore, not to wait for two weeks of vacation, but to be free every day.

About the Author: Patrick McGraw is a freelance editor and writer, who has returned to his home state of Minnesota after living in Boston, Seattle, Las Vegas and Portland, Oregon. Read more of his explorations.

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Brazil: The Lost Island of Marajó

After a three-hour boat ride from Belém, I arrived on the world’s largest freshwater island, Marajó. Roughly the size of Switzerland, it also boasts a seat directly on the equator and a city, Anajás, with the most cases of malaria in all of Brazil.

I didn’t visit Anajás, but Soure, another of Marajo’s sparse towns. I had chosen to put myself in this place in the hopes that it would be a respite from my up to that point challenging life in Brazil. I needed a change of scenery, and I got one.

Pools of stagnant water screamed dengue fever, a very real threat here, as I rode into town on one of the six modes of transportation necessary to reach my final destination: a humble, thatch-roofed hotel at the intersection of two muddy ruts in the grass, where I dined on guava jelly and buffalo cheese.

My friends and I had seen a hand-painted, chipping sign that read “Beach: 10km,” so the next day we rented rusted bikes and started off. We rode down pot-holed, dusty red roads, past dilapidated buildings being taken over by the jungle and Volkswagen vans puttering around us. These, along with the primary colors that painted the town, were reminiscent of the 1970s, but butted up along more primitive scenes they seemed jarringly anachronistic. It was as if we had traveled back in time, as if civilization had forgotten about this jungle island and left it to develop with the refuse of bygone technology. The houses were little more than cement block shacks, most outfitted with TVs, but no windows or indoor bathrooms. Some had markered wooden signs boasting, “we sell beer: 50 cents.” Old men sitting atop horse-drawn carts carrying produce yelled words of admiration as our blonde and red hair flitted past.

We rode and we rode, out of town and into the jungle, past over-sized palm tree fields and dragonflies the size of small birds, past strangely small buffaloes and horses grazing beside the road, and a lot of other creatures we couldn’t see, but could only hear slithering around the jungle. The odd sizing and suffocating greenery made me feel like a dinosaur could come crashing through the trees at any moment. My body was aching from the potholes and I had angry blisters crisscrossing my palms. The equatorial sun beat down on me. The road became even quieter and I started hearing louder crashes in the jungle. I started thinking that the road would never become a beach, that we had taken a wrong turn somehow. I thought about what we would do if one of us got seriously injured on that road, mauled by a buffalo or bitten by a snake. I felt wild. I felt lost. Then I saw it ahead, like a desert mirage: the beach.

We threw our bikes down, shaking, sweating, and relieved, and headed toward our only option for refreshment, a rickety cantina. We gulped down coconut water straight from the source and absorbed our surroundings. The pristine sand was the color of caramel and the water was brown, but had the tide and vastness of an ocean: the Amazon and the Atlantic’s meeting place. Because of the dips in the sand, there were many natural pools of warm, calm water that extended for miles. I ambled alone to the water’s edge, wanting to open my senses wider to take it all in: the forgotten shacks lining the jungle’s edge, the far-away notes playing from the cantina, the cool, murky water lapping at my tired feet, the sheer vastness of this secluded place. I sat down under the marshmallow clouds and knew the freedom that comes from feeling utterly forgotten. I had made it to the end of the world.

About the Author: Ashley Tessarolo: I graduated from the University of South Carolina with an M.A. in Linguistics. I am currently a Fulbright scholar in Brazil.

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England: Mind the Gap

Mind the Gap: The Transition to Independent Travel

There is a restricting uneasiness with terra incognita that ails any traveler venturing abroad for the first time. I was no exception. Before boarding the plane to London, I had a plethora of wrong assumptions, stereotypes and nightmarish fears that plagued me during the turbulent plane ride.

I had even convinced myself somehow that Customs comprised not only a full patting down, including a detailed dissection of the contents in my suitcase and my carry-on, but also a health exam complete with temperature readings to ensure that I was not bringing any disease into the country. I had stashed my protein bar in the secret pocket of my purse believing that if they found any food I had carried in, they would immediately confiscate it. I was shocked when only a few questions and an identification check earned a stamp for my passport and an ‘okay’ to go explore England.

I had made the voyage with a group of students from my college and our intentions were to study theater, or rather theatre, as it compared to what we are exposed to in America. Yet from day one, our professors urged us to invest in the opportunity to learn a greater lesson: how to travel alone.

I practically laughed at this suggestion at first. How could I possibly manage to find my way around in a foreign city alone? Never before had I independently explored an American city. Growing up in the suburbs, I couldn’t even begin to understand how to maneuver in a city. There was also the unnerving detail that I had no cell phone service abroad. If I set out on my own, I was truly on my own.

So for the first few days, I stuck with the group. But, it didn’t take me long to figure out that while it was nice to have the comfort of friends when exploring, it was often difficult to agree on a plan of action.

I found that a good portion of the time was spent hovering over maps and flipping through guidebooks searching for places to go and things to do that would suit everybody’s interests. Meals were the worst. Nobody seemed to share the same taste in food and so finding a restaurant that we could all agree on was next to impossible. This was not how I wanted to spend my time in London.

I wanted to see things, do things, and discover things. I was tired of planning things and disagreeing on things. So, one fine day, I summoned up all the courage I could muster, took my professor’s advice and jumped on the Tube solo with no plan, no phone, and absolutely no boundaries.

I quickly learned that the Tube is actually a nervous traveler’s friend. Not only is it very simple to decipher, but it is easy to locate a nearby station in case you get lost. In that situation, all you need to do is open a subway map, find where you need to go and follow the color-coded lines to your destination. I ended up getting off at Bank that day and decided to try to locate the Guildhall Art Gallery. When I arrived, however, there was a small sign on the door that stated in red letters that the building was closed for the remainder of the day, and inevitably the remainder of our time in London. But, this did not discourage me. Using the street signs that were located on each street corner, I looked for the most interesting thing, which happened to be Leadenhall Market where Diagon Alley was filmed, and took off in that direction. I was invigorated by the complete freedom I now had. I could go at my own pace, I could take pictures when and where I wanted and I could spend as much time shopping around Leadenhall Market as I pleased without feeling rushed.

That day I ended up making many discoveries. I discovered that I could climb up the 311 steps of the Monument, take a peaceful walk along the river Thames, cross the beautiful Millennium Bridge, get a nice view of Damien Hirst’s crystal skull on exhibit in the Tate Modern, stand beneath the glorious St. Paul’s Cathedral and then take the Tube back to Covent Garden and happen upon some free ice cream all in just four hours. I discovered the charm of London. With such varying architecture from Shakespeare’s Globe to the Tate Modern to St. Paul’s Cathedral, it is one giant time capsule, with the best bits and pieces of each time period preserved and arranged all in one place. But most importantly, I discovered that I could manage on my own in a foreign country and doing so had completely liberated me.

About the Author: Shannon Fitzgerald is a rising senior at Allegheny College pursuing a career in the literary field. She is from a small, snowy town south of Buffalo and just a short drive away from Niagara Falls. Traveling has been an important part of her life since her parents first took her on a trip to Disney World at the age of four. Find her on Facebook.

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Choosing: Cruising or Resort Holidays

What will you pick? A Cruise or Resort Holiday?

All-inclusive cruise and resort holidays allow you to sit back and relax on your getaway without having to spend time and energy worrying about planning and logistics. Both are very popular, as they offer the opportunity to make friends with like-minded people, and relax in a safe and welcoming atmosphere.

Cruises: controlled expenses, security & variety

Cruises offer the opportunity to visit multiple destinations at an affordable price without having to worry about how you will get from A to B. As many modern cruise ships have space for thousands of passengers, there are often last-minute cruise deals to be had as they try to fill up those empty cabins. Prices usually include accommodation, food and of course transport, making it easy to plan your expenses up front.

Cruise ships offer a sense of security that cannot be paralleled with other types of holiday. You will get to know the other staff and passengers as your holiday goes on, making you feel much more safe and relaxed in your surroundings than you would on land. You will find the staff on board are very knowledgeable about the ports of call, making sure that you do not miss any sights and ensuring that you get the most out of your getaway.

There will be plenty of opportunities for meeting new people, however, their size also means that there are plenty of activities to take part in and places to sit and eat if you prefer variety. The variety of activities on offer allow you to relax in your own way, whether this is sitting and reading a book from the library, or taking a fitness class.

Resort holidays: relax in one location

The downside to cruise holidays is that there is not always enough time to see everything at every stop on the itinerary. Resort holidays offer the opportunity to sit back and relax in one location. There will still be opportunities to take excursions to local places of interest, allowing you to take in the sights of the local area, without having to worry about planning. As with cruise ships, you will find that the staff are extremely knowledgeable of the local area and happy to advise you on possible excursions and activities that you can take part in.

There will be plenty of opportunities to sit back, relax and take in the resort and its immediate surroundings. Resorts will also offer a number of activities on site, giving you the opportunity to meet staff and fellow holiday makers. Unlike cruises, many resorts will allow guests to visit just for a day or two, so it is not quite as easy to let your guard down as it is when on a cruise ship.

Both cruises and resort holidays are a great way of spending more time relaxing and less time worrying about planning and logistics. Both types of holiday will give you plenty of opportunities to sit back and relax, whilst cruising will also allow you to add to the list of places you have seen and visited.

About the Author: Sam Morrison is a British travel writer. He spends most of his time planning or writing about holidays to North and South America.

Image credits: cruise ship in Greece, resort in Hawaii

 

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Disregarding Inhibition in Bulgaria

I am an overly cautious person. I religiously wash my hands, never jaywalk, and always obey posted rules and regulations. That changed when I moved to Bulgaria; this is not a country for the cautious.

I came here for the year as an English Teaching Assistant through the Fulbright program. Two weeks of orientation, which included survival Bulgarian language, and then we 23 Americans were thrown to our distant placements. Or rather we were dropped at the Sofia Central Bus Station and told “довиждане! Goodbye!”

That first week I visited the cathedral of St. Vissarion in Smolyan, the small mountain city that was my new home. A co-teacher and new friend of mine took me to see the small, but elaborately decorated interior of the Eastern Orthodox church. A golden chandelier hangs from the ceiling and gilded saints stare out from their portraits in the intricate wooden iconostasis. Inside, I took one picture before one of the caretakers of the church came over to speak with my Bulgarian companion. I assumed from her terse words and body language that I was not supposed to be taking pictures and so I let the camera hang loose around my neck and took no more inside the church. After leaving, I mentioned to my friend that I wished I could’ve taken more photos and she looked at me in surprise, “Why didn’t you? Photography is allowed!”

I didn’t know enough Bulgarian language or enough about the body language here to come to the conclusion that photography was not allowed; that conclusion was driven by fear and social inhibition. I did not want to make waves by breaking rules that I wasn’t even sure existed. I so desperately didn’t want to be doing the wrong thing.

In the months that followed I visited a number of museums, churches, and art galleries. Even places that see many tourists, like the attractions in the capital city Sofia, have no posted rules. Even worse, some posted rules only in Bulgarian. You can’t live your life by the rules when you don’t what the rules are.

Without the clearly defined structure I was used to (I am thinking now of the clearly demarcated rules at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art), I had to adopt a new approach. Learning to function in Bulgaria, for me, was like being given a blank sheet of paper after coloring inside the lines my entire life. To get the most of my experience in Bulgaria, I knew I would have to just assume things were allowed unless explicitly told they weren’t. My best experience in Bulgaria came from learning to disregard those inhibitions.

On a hilltop in central Bulgaria there stands a monument to communism, a dilapidated meeting hall named Buzludzha. The building has stood abandoned for more than two decades, since the Communist Party lost power. Bulgarians and foreigners alike continue to make the pilgrimage to visit this relic of Bulgaria’s recent political past. My fellow English teachers and I wanted to be among them. The guide from our hostel took us off-road, up the wooded hills of the Balkan Mountains and up to the peak where Buzludzha stands. As intrepid urban explorers, we donned headlamps and hoisted ourselves up through the hole in the wall to navigate the dark and crumbling interior of the building.

The person I was before Bulgaria would have politely declined an invitation to traipse around a building that should’ve been condemned and demolished for safety concerns. She would’ve missed out on colorful communist-era murals in varying states of decay. She wouldn’t have felt dwarfed by the hills and mountains stretching out in all directions. She wouldn’t have felt humbled by the effect of time on our efforts for artistic and architectural grandeur.

She would’ve only colored inside the lines.

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 (https://unintentionalexplorer.wordpre...).

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Philadelphia, USA: Steeped in History

Bill and I have been RVing in North America for a couple of years. We have the freedom to be who we want to be, where we want to be, and what we want to do.

Pennsylvania is a beautiful state. In Chocolatetown, Hershey we became children all over again. In Pittsburgh we were charmed by the former steel capital of the world. But Philly is special! It evoked a different set of feelings, especially for me, who just took my Oath on Valentine’s Day 2011, at the young age of 62, as a naturalized US citizen!

The Walking Tour

My American education was most intense in the 2 days we spent in Philly. Independence Mall is the nexus of the historical places: the National Constitution Center, the only museum of its kind in the world, the President’s Site from where Washington governed the nation for 2 years, Liberty Bell, which has continued to be the world symbol of freedom in spite of a crack, and the Independence Hall, where in 1776 55 brave men signed the Declaration of Independence and in 1787 39 great men signed the US Constitution.

In the immediate vicinity of the Mall is Benjamin Franklin’s grave at the Christ Church Burial Grounds. Franklin is the gifted man who discovered electricity, among others. He so influenced the shaping of American thought, serving as a statesman and later diplomat during the critical revolutionary and nascent government days. Inside his former neighbor’s building at Franklin Court, the replica of his print shop is preserved, of particular interest to Bill whose career revolved around the industry.

Nearby is the Carpenters’ Hall, built by the craftsmen of that period. It is where the first Intercontinental Congress was held in 1774, paving the way for the American Revolution of 1776. Three distinguished homes are also within walking distance of the Mall: Betsy Ross, the woman who made the first American flag, Mary Todd, grandest first lady during the Madison presidency, and the Declaration House where Jefferson wrote the Declaration of Independence. A block away is Washington Square where the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier honors those who fought in the American Revolution.

The Driving Tour

A little further away is the Philadelphia City Hall. At 548 ft tall, it is the world’s second-tallest masonry building (weight of the building is borne by granite and brick walls up to 22 feet rather than steel), only a foot shorter than Mole Antonelliana in Turin. Atop the building is the statue of William Penn, founder of Philadelphia. A few more blocks along the Benjamin Franklin Parkway are Rodin’s The Thinker and another block away, at the steps of the Philadelphia Art Museum, stands the statue of Rocky.

Several more blocks to the north you will find the Eastern State Penitentiary, an American prison from 1829 until 1971, now a museum. With a unique wagon wheel design, it redefined the revolutionary system of separate incarceration. It was the largest and most expensive public structure ever constructed in its time. Emphasizing principles of reform rather than punishment, it quickly became a model for more than 300 prisons worldwide.

And another few blocks to the east is The National Shrine of St. John Neumann who in 1977 became the first American male to be canonized, 1 of 7 American saints). Located in St. Peter the Apostle Church built in 1843, his waxed body now lies in a glass-enclosed reliquary under the main altar of the lower church, after it was exhumed from the church grounds in 1862. A few more blocks east is the Edgar Allan Poe National Historical Site, one of two homes where he lived that is still preserved (the other one is in New York). This is the home where he wrote most of his significant works; where he was happiest.

These are all wonderful examples of values in American leadership: intellectual, physical, emotional, and spiritual. We may have a nomadic lifestyle, believing that every place has its special meaning; we have now been to 49 American states, 9 Canadian provinces, and 6 Mexican states. I had considered myself lucky to have won a 6-year high school scholarship at the American School in the Philippines when I was 13. There I was introduced to American History and psyche through books. But in Philly it all came alive.

Now, at 65, I am even more fortunate for having become a naturalized citizen, roaming the vastness of America and enjoying the fruits of its early leaders’ genius and sacrifice with my American husband Bill! We are free to be where we want to be and do what we want to do. And I am free to be who I want to be. And I want to be an American.

About the Author: After stints as CEO of Philippine pioneers in information technology, Carol migrated to the United States.   Soon after she married Bill in 2008, they started and recently completed a 4-year cruise of North America in an RV which is written about in a blog. Carol has a BS in Math, an MBA, and a DPA abd from the University of the Philippines.

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