Lisa Niver's Blog: We Said Go Travel, page 330
February 21, 2015
#RedCarpet Ready with @United #FilmFriendly #Oscars
Photo credit: United Airlines. Oscars Red Carpet 2014
Thank you to United Airlines for inviting me to see the glamour of the OSCARS tomorrow!
I will be sharing from the bleachers with FIVE other amazing writers! Follow these accounts below to enjoy what we will be seeing!
United Airlines is the official airline sponsor of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences and the 2015 Oscars.
Oscar is resting up for his big day. #Oscars #OscarsCreators (Video by @asenseofhuber)
A video posted by The Academy (@theacademy) on Feb 19, 2015 at 9:18pm PST
AND THE FIVE BLOGGERS ARE:
ARNETTE RTW of Round the World Girl
Some more art for you from Düsseldorf but some #pink delight at @KunstImTunnel. This piece is called TAU by Katharina Grosse. KIT is a contemporary #art museum located within the Rheinnufertunnel along the #RheinPromenade. Check out their cool little cafe too #artthursday #airberlin #kunst A photo posted by αrneттe – roυnd тнe world gιrl (@rtwgirl_) on Feb 19, 2015 at 2:51pm PST
MONICA OLIVAS of Run Eat Repeat
A photo posted by Run Eat Repeat / Monica Olivas (@runeatrepeat) on Feb 20, 2015 at 6:25am PST
SPENCER SPELLMAN of Whiskey Tango Globetrot
Home sweet Southern California. #mydayinLA #home #california_igers #California #instagood A photo posted by Spencer Spellman (@spencerspellman) on Feb 19, 2015 at 5:48pm PST
DIANA MARKS of LA By Diana
This guy will love you even with no make up on – the cutest @jiffpom
and Me —Lisa Niver of We Said Go Travel
Mayor @ericgarcetti shares what citizens can do to make #LosAngeles better @wiselosangeles
A photo posted by Lisa Niver (@wesaidgotravel) on Feb 11, 2015 at 2:38pm PST
Thank you to United Airlines for making so many dreams come true!
A photo posted by United (@united) on Feb 17, 2015 at 2:00pm PST
Get your Fandango’s Prinable Oscar Ballot or a beautiful gold ballot from WGNTV
THE NEW YORK TIMES OSCAR BALLOTBest Picture
Jack English/Weinstein CompanyFrom left, Keira Knightley, Matthew Beard, Matthew Goode, Benedict Cumberbatch and Allen Leech in “The Imitation Game.”
American SniperReview
BirdmanReview
BoyhoodReview
The Grand Budapest HotelReview
The Imitation GameReview
SelmaReview
The Theory of EverythingReview
WhiplashReview
Director
Martin Scali/Fox Searchlight Pictures
Wes AndersonThe Grand Budapest Hotel
Alejandro G. IñárrituBirdman
Richard LinklaterBoyhood
Bennett MillerFoxcatcher
Morten TyldumThe Imitation Game
Actor in a Leading Role
Warner Bros. Pictures
Steve CarellFoxcatcher
Bradley CooperAmerican Sniper
Benedict CumberbatchThe Imitation Game
Michael KeatonBirdman
Eddie RedmayneThe Theory of Everything
Actress in a Leading Role
Liam Daniel/Focus Features
Marion CotillardTwo Days, One Night
Felicity JonesThe Theory of Everything
Julianne MooreStill Alice
Rosamund PikeGone Girl
Reese WitherspoonWild
Actor in a Supporting Role
Matt Lankes/IFC Films
Robert DuvallThe Judge
Ethan HawkeBoyhood
Edward NortonBirdman
Mark RuffaloFoxcatcher
J.K. SimmonsWhiplash
Actress in a Supporting Role
Fox Searchlight Pictures
Patricia ArquetteBoyhood
Laura DernWild
Keira KnightleyThe Imitation Game
Emma StoneBirdman
Meryl StreepInto the Woods
Original Screenplay
Birdman
Boyhood
Foxcatcher
The Grand Budapest Hotel
Nightcrawler
Adapted Screenplay
American Sniper
The Imitation Game
Inherent Vice
The Theory of Everything
Whiplash
Foreign Language Film
IdaPoland
LeviathanRussia
TangerinesEstonia
TimbuktuMauritania
Wild TalesArgentina
Animated Feature
Big Hero 6
The Boxtrolls
How to Train Your Dragon 2
Song of the Sea
The Tale of Princess Kaguya
Sound Editing
American Sniper
Birdman
The Hobbit: The Battle of the Five Armies
Interstellar
Unbroken
Visual Effects
Captain America: The Winter Soldier
Dawn of the Planet of the Apes
Guardians of the Galaxy
Interstellar
X-Men: Days of Future Past
Film Editing
American Sniper
Boyhood
The Grand Budapest Hotel
The Imitation Game
Whiplash
Short Film, Animated
A Single Life
The Bigger Picture
The Dam Keeper
Feast
Me and My Moulton
Short Film, Live Action
Aya
Boogaloo and Graham
Butter Lamp (La Lampe Au Beurre De Yak)
Parvaneh
The Phone Call
Documentary Short Subject
Crisis Hotline: Veterans Press 1
Joanna
Our Curse
The Reaper (La Parka)
White Earth
Original Score
The Grand Budapest Hotel
The Imitation Game
Interstellar
Mr. Turner
The Theory of Everything
Original Song
Begin Again
Beyond the Lights
Glen Campbell: I’ll Be Me
The Lego Movie
Selma
Production Design
The Grand Budapest Hotel
The Imitation Game
Interstellar
Into the Woods
Mr. Turner
Cinematography
Birdman
The Grand Budapest Hotel
Ida
Mr. Turner
Unbroken
Costume Design
The Grand Budapest Hotel
Inherent Vice
Into the Woods
Maleficent
Mr. Turner
Makeup
Foxcatcher
The Grand Budapest Hotel
Guardians of the Galaxy
Documentary Feature
Citizenfour
Finding Vivian Maier
Last Days in Vietnam
The Salt of the Earth
Virunga
Sound Mixing
American Sniper
Birdman
Interstellar
Unbroken
Whiplash
The post #RedCarpet Ready with @United #FilmFriendly #Oscars appeared first on We Said Go Travel.
February 20, 2015
The Fairmont Miramar in Santa Monica is Fantastic!
The Fairmont Miramar in Santa Monica is fantastic!
I loved my stay in the Presidential Suite Bungalow One. Enjoy these photos and videos and make a plan to see it yourself very soon.
From theFairmont Miramar website: “The moment you arrive at Fairmont Miramar Hotel & Bungalows you will notice the magical transformation that has taken place. From the exquisitely manicured grounds to the casual elegance of our guest rooms and suites, our luxury Santa Monica oceanfront hotel will challenge your senses and provide you with an unforgettable experience.
For over a century, Fairmont Miramar Hotel & Bungalows has welcomed guests seeking privacy and pampering. Today, the tradition continues in our Santa Monica oceanfront hotel.”
A photo posted by Lisa Niver (@wesaidgotravel) on Jan 13, 2015 at 12:23pm PST
Eat at Fig Restaurant
@figsantamonica Kale salad with fennel, cucumbers, almonds, yogurt chili dressing #amazing #WhereWilshireMeetstheSea @Lebanesechef @FairmonMiramar #Fairmont #SantaMonica A photo posted by Lisa Niver (@wesaidgotravel) on Jan 10, 2015 at 7:50pm PST
A photo posted by Lisa Niver (@wesaidgotravel) on Jan 11, 2015 at 9:55am PST
Bungalow One is INCREDIBLE!
I wanted to share a second photo of this 127 year old #Australian Morton Bay Fig Tree. #WhereWilshireMeetsTheSea @FairmontMiramar A photo posted by Lisa Niver (@wesaidgotravel) on Jan 13, 2015 at 12:42pm PST
The post The Fairmont Miramar in Santa Monica is Fantastic! appeared first on We Said Go Travel.
American Girls
American Girls
By Courtney Lund
“Let’s go!” I said. We were off on our road trip around America.
Kelly, my college best friend, and I were twenty-two and recent college graduates. The real world full of eight-hour days, cubicles, and office meetings was a far off place that we weren’t ready to partake in. Instead of joining the workforces as many of our colleagues did, we set out for adventure in our own backyard. America, the place we called home but knew nothing about. Well we knew it was large and dominant in foreign affairs. We had learned about its history from textbooks. And watched it evolve on the news. However, we wanted our own opinions. We wanted to see it through our own eyes – all the beautiful uniqueness of it.
So we left our bubble of Southern California where veganism is always trending and you can’t go a block without seeing a surfer or hipster. We borrowed her dad’s Nissan Altima, packed it full of maps, flashlights, Costco sized snacks, sleeping bags, bathing suits, and a tent and took off around the circumference of our nation (well, we passed on the Northeast, and instead headed to Midwest for my grandfather’s 95th birthday in Minneapolis).
We passed by screeching red rocks in Utah and hiked glorious green trails in Vail Colorado. We bickered in the long car rides through Nebraska where, for miles on end, we could only see the strands of brittle grass growing next to the highway. Once in Minnesota, we visited the Mall of America and rode one of its childlike roller coasters and celebrated the life of my gandpa. In Milwaukee we attended a ball game at Miller’s field and drank cheap vodka in the parking lot. In Michigan we camped on the sand by Lake Michigan and watched the sunset and the sky turn to a pristine pink. In Chicago we partied with my cousin and his friends, staying up until daylight. In the morning we took picture with the giant Bean and ate thick slices of bacon at The Publican. We snuck into Canada and stayed at a hostel in Niagara Falls for a week, where we worked, so we stayed fro free and were woken by the smell of freshly baked blueberry muffins each morning. We got soaked by the pounding Niagara Falls, and dripped in the glory and wonder of nature. In New York we ate bagels and fine wine and stumbled through the city as if we belonged. Once in Boston, we had a chocolate frosted donut at Dunkin’ Donuts and a beer at Cheers and gave a blessing and prayer at Mother Goose’s grave. On our way south we battled indescribable rainstorms. In Philadelphia we met with Kelly’s Uncle and had dinner on the Delaware and enjoyed a famous Cheesesteak – mine with no cheese, hers with no meat. The man at the encounter gave us a funny look, and her Uncle replied, “They’re from California.” In Washington D.C. we stayed on a friend of a friend’s couch and relished in all the white, from the White House to the statues. In the Carolina’s we stayed with her brother-in-law’s mother’s house. She was battling cancer. We laughed and cooked with her and had tea at Edgar Allen Poe’s café called Poe’s. In Florida we felt the heat and understood what the bus driver meant when he said, “Today will be 87 degrees but feel like 115.” In Louisiana we devoured beignets and two-for-one drinks and jambalaya. We peeled the hair from our necks in the heat wave that was the south. We were running out of money at this point and drove fourteen hours to San Antonio, where we toured the Alamo and fed ducks at the River Walk. From Texas we drove through endless desert roads full of san dunes to Arizona, where we spent our last night eating a pizza and watching a movie in a hotel room.
When we got to my parent’s house in San Diego, six weeks later, it felt like we had just left a different world. We had been clocking ten hour drives and staying at a new place ever few days or so. When we unpacked my things from her dad’s car we hugged and both stared at each other and started laughing. We were so lucky. We had just driven around America.
Thank you for reading and commenting. Please enter the Inspiration Travel Writing competition and tell your story.
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Don’t Look Down on the Yungas in Bolivia
Don’t Look Down in Bolivia
On first consideration it seems surprising that people still die when cycling the Bolivia’s North Yungas Road, more eagerly referred to as El Camino de la Muerte or ‘The Death Road’. If a person were going to be cautious, I reason, surely it would be a place in which ‘Death’ is half the title. But as I sit astride my bicycle, teeth chattering in the sub-zero bite of 4700 meters above sea level – the start of this revered freewheel – I change my mind.
The name is an invitation to push the boundaries of good sense and later bath in the glory of having nearly died, but not. This occurs to me as a band of game-faced bikers are conjured from squalls of cold mist, yards away from splintered wooden crosses – memorials to the backpackers and locals who have plummeted to their death. Beside us is the long vertical drop that flanks the Death Road for most of its course – the reason for the well-deserved reputation.
The setting of the Death Road is as staggering as the premise of biking it: cut into the mountains of the Yungas, where jungle owns every bulge and whim of the land, the track twists a continuous descent for over forty miles and three and a half thousand vertical meters. The trees hide the rusted carcasses of hundreds of toppled trucks and cars. Among the cyclists who have dared, not all have reached the small town of Coroico near the finish line. In the last fourteen years, eighteen “I survived The World’s Most Dangerous Road” t-shirts have gone spare.
As gravity takes charge of my wheels an internal monologue kicks up: “DEATH road… be careful!” on repeat. A fleet of Konas and their hooting jockeys rampage past, in yellow elbow pads and helmets, and I can’t help but consider what the protective kit and their human contents would look like after a hundred meter free fall and a jungle canopy crash-landing. A van trails behind so the guides can assist in case of accident, or get a front seat view if a client flies a short cut to the finishing altitude, ET-style.
Throughout these upper reaches water patters onto the rocks from high above, only the truly courageous, skillful or imbecilic veer to avoid getting wet – I am none of the above and receive a sopping for my cowardice. After each hairy switchback another curling ribbon reveals itself, along with one clear impression – roads do not belong here.
The soundtrack of the Yungas doesn’t mesh with the chilling vista, a timid and quirky blend of squawks, buzzes and clicks attest to life that lurks in the greenery. Underneath, barely discernible, there’s another layer of sound – the trickle and gush of invisible streams. As well as the magic of the precipice, it’s exhilarating too being so enclosed in nature. At times it’s tempting to wonder at the rows of impossibly deep Vs formed from converging mountainsides, or to glance behind and search for whatever squawked or screamed, but then the inner voice shouts ‘DEATH ROAD!’, my knuckles pale, and I refocus on the track and the ever-present peril to my left.
Towards the lower reaches though I relax, my wheels spin faster and I realize another voice has supplanted the last, something like “YEAAAAAAH! I’m riding the DEATH road! WOOOOOOOOH!’ The temperature rises, clouds evaporate, multi-hued butterflies dance beneath my handlebars and fetching purple flowers and banana plantations crowd my peripheral vision. I’m soon coasting through a village towards a river, birds of prey fly low wheels overhead as Bolivia welcomes me back from the edge of reason with women festooned in bowler hats and traditional pollera skirts of shocking pink.
I’ve made it; I’m not sure about my brake pads. Some bikers down celebratory beers, others pull wheelies, but most don’t feel the need to show off any more than donning their “I survived…” t-shirts. A quick body count by a guide confirms that, this time, everyone gets one.
There’s a subset of cyclists who enjoy climbs, I’m one of them, and from the off my inner masochist wasn’t entirely happy with the prospect of spinning downhill for hours. Where’s the payback? I needed to know. Where the pain to go with the gain? Fortunately for the guilty, the Death Road has another currency – you pay for freewheeling with fear. It’s more than a fair deal.
For the vast majority El Camino de la Muerte will fail to fulfill its eponymous promise, for me at least the opposite was true. I finished the ride not just giddy with relief, but fiercely alive. They could change the name, somehow though, I don’t think it would have the same draw.
Thank you for reading and commenting. Please enter the Inspiration Travel Writing competition and tell your story.
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February 19, 2015
Glacier Bay, USA: a magnificent and inspiring place
There are few places that have had such an effect on me like Glacier Bay did. It is one of those places that is best appreciated by being silent, and letting the impressiveness of the glacier sink in. Describing this magnificent place is truly difficult, as words cannot describe the inspiration and awe that it creates in you.
I was one of the lucky ones that had the pleasure of visiting Glacier Bay in May of last year. I had seen photographs of it, and thought it to be unimpressive and unassuming. I am glad I was coerced into experiencing it. As soon as we approached the glacier, I was speechless. I felt so small in the presence of grandeur, but also renewed. The light blue coloring was vivid, and the shade would be impossible to recreate by even the best painter.
Being at the presence of such beauty had such a deep impact on me. It made me realize how much there is to explore, to learn, and how much of my life had been wasted up to that point. It took a piece of ice caving into the bay to show me that the existence of something is not guaranteed, and that anything can change at any given moment. This phenomena inspired me to finally live my life the way it was meant to be. To be brave, to not only follow my dreams, but actively work towards them. I would not let my inspiration and joie de vivre cave like that giant piece of ice, and become indistinguishable from the other chunks of ice.
Once this experience ended, I felt that the energy in me had been drained, and although I was excessively tired, I wanted to keep going. I felt invincible. Like a giant weight had been lifted from my shoulders, and I could finally breath the clean, cold air. Almost immediately, I tried to pen my feelings on a napkin, but I could produce nothing. The sensation of having left behind the only place that had made me realize how bravery really is attainable, had left me speechless once more. I put my pen down, closed my eyes, and thought of Glacier Bay. The bright blue colors, the crisp air on my face, the peaceful sounds of nothing at all.
What could I do now? I had left this place behind, and my return uncertain. Photographs galore, but the true beauty of Glacier Bay is an experience that cannot be comprehended through them. The real beauty is the grand impression it has had on my life, and the impact I have felt since I was last there. I vowed to return once more, since I have found that only here can I feel safe and unprotected at the same time. My mind clears, and I find myself in the presence of my true self.
Lucky are the ones that can experience such beauty.
Thank you for reading and commenting. Please enter the Inspiration Travel Writing competition and tell your story.
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Die Alpen (The Alps) in Germany
We started the day off early, making our way downstairs to the breakfast room. The guest house in which we would be staying for the next week was quite quaint; resting in the small town of Garmisch-Partenkirchen. I grabbed a hard crusted roll from the center of the table and topped it with butter and strawberry jelly, as I watched my brother pour sugar into his morning coffee. I tried a small triangle of cheese that I had to unwrap from the cold foil surrounding it. The cheese felt as soft as butter as the smooth cream seemed to melt in my mouth as it touched my tongue.
Next I headed back up to my room and began getting ready for the cold mountainous weather. I put on my layers one by one; a pair of skin tight running leggings, wool socks that came midway up my calf, a pair of ankle socks (because one pair of socks is never enough), long-sleeved under-armor, a bright blue 76’ers t-shirt, my Hempfield Girls Soccer sweatshirt, my mother’s black overcoat with green pinstripes (because my father had neglected to pack mine), gloves (which were clearly made for a man much larger than myself), a light grey headband (that left the very end of my earlobes bare), my black patterned “tassel hat” (which my father hates almost as much as chicken), a white scarf with a black and red stripes, and a pair of orange ski goggles that fit securely around my eager face.
My family piled back into our large grey rental car (seating 7 people) and drove 3 doors down to get our ski rentals. I had almost forgotten the anguish of putting on ski boots; latching 4-5 buckles tight enough to make sure you don’t break your ankles but not so tight that you lose circulation.
After driving (what seemed to be aimlessly) down the road, receiving directions in broken English, and following continually changing signs that read words we didn’t understand; we arrived at the Zugspitze. The Zugspitze was the peak of the mountain, the highest point in Germany. A large cable car brought us along a zip-line to the frigid glaciers crowning the top of the Alps.
The view was breathtaking. The mountaintops were covered with a blankets of crystal snow; a view that nothing but the human eye could do justice. I stepped out into the winter air, as snow crystals blew into my face, their cold sting lighting up my already red cheeks. I anxiously clicked my heels into my skis, resting on my poles for support. It had been nearly 2 years since I had last skied. After undergoing ACL reconstruction surgery last fall, I had been unable to ski that winter; due to the 9 months of intense rehab that followed in recovery of my injury. The anticipation of skiing again made my heart pound inside my chest, both with fear and excitement. I knew the risks that ensued, but they by no means outweighed the emotional high that I had long awaited.
There is something about skiing down a mountain with the frozen wind blowing along your face, that makes it the best feeling in the world. You feel it when the snow flies through the air as you cut into a sharp turn, when your stomach drops as you lift into the air off a jump. It’s experiences like this that make you feel, for lack of a better term, alive.
I sat down next to my father as the ski lift slid in underneath us. I looked out onto the ski run, noticing someone lying at the base of a jump that I was planning to go on myself. I watched them for as long as I could, seemingly motionless until the emergency snowmobile carried them out of sight. I turned my head forward, trying to erase the images I fictionalized of myself with the same fate.
But once I reached the top of the run, I looked out over the horizon and I simply forgot. The earlier thoughts of fear and anguish simply fell out of my head, as I lost myself in the glaciers powerful beauty. The sun peered over the mountain peaks, glistening over everything within its grasp. It was then that I tightened my hands around my poles and turned my gaze to the slope directly ahead of me. I sensed my heart beating faster, this time purely for the thrill, and my head euphorically lost in that feeling that I had infinitely longed for; thinking plainly to myself, this is what it feels like to be alive.
Thank you for reading and commenting. Please enter the Inspiration Travel Writing competition and tell your story.
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February 18, 2015
Surviving in Morocco is Easy!
It was early in the Parisian morning, and I was waiting for a cab to take me to the airport. After solo backpacking through small European towns, I was headed to a land of camels, deserts, snake charmers, leather and Berber rugs.
Au revoir francais, fromage, et baguettes.
And Salam to Fez, Morocco, my new home!
As I climbed into the cab, I double-checked my notes. I had my passport, my boarding pass, and my notes about how to get from the airport to my riad, or my Moroccan hotel. The flight went smoothly, and as we got off the plane, the man next to me offered to help me get a cab. I told him no thanks. There was someone waiting for me from my riad. As I walked from the plane to the airport, we separated. Morocco was warm and beautiful, and I was relaxed, happy, and confident.
I walked through the people waiting to greet the arrivals, looking for someone holding a whiteboard with my name on it. Slowly, the others filtered out of the airport, and before I knew it, I was the one unclaimed arrival. My stomach flipped with panic, but I didn’t cry. Crying was for the Geneva airport, when I arrived alone, tired, and hungry three weeks ago.
I recalled lessons that I had learned arriving in other new cities. I stopped at the information desk, where the ladies giggled at my broken Arabic. I asked a security guard where to find a phone. I found myself talking in French to Yousif, at the riad. “I don’t know who you are,” he kept telling me. I asked if I had the wrong number, and if this was Riad Medina, but this was indeed my riad. I had never felt so lost.
Or so brave. I told myself that I couldn’t stay at the airport for the next four months. I couldn’t even sleep there that night.
I marched out of the airport.
Those who saw me might say that I dragged my backpack and stumbled blindly into the street until I noticed the sign pointing me in the direction of taxis. I remembered reading in tour books that in Fez, there were red cars labeled “Petit Taxi.” Unfortunately, there were none of these saviors in sight. As I was trying to come up with a new plan, a group of men surrounded me, claiming to be taxi drivers. They found someone who could speak English, and I gave him my handwritten directions and phone number to Riad Medina. He called Yousif and motioned for me to follow. And then, I did the scariest thing that I had ever done. When I was expecting to climb into one of the little red cars, he led me to a white car. And we got in.
I don’t know why I got into this unmarked car. The man was obviously trying to gain my trust, and like a kidnapper offering a child a puppy, he told me stories of his American friends. I listened nervously as we approached the city and those red taxis whizzed past us. I hadn’t lost all trust in this man yet, but an escape plan began to form in my mind: maybe I would roll out at a red light and find a nice woman to help me.
He pulled over eventually at what seemed to be a door to the walled city. A man came over and apologized for not being at the airport when I showed him my hotel confirmation. I paid for the cab, and Yousif and I went off into the old city.
Looking back, I might have just been sold into slavery.
He led me through the winding streets, and we stopped at a small, dirty door. I was expecting the worst and prepared to fight.
But a smiling, Moroccan woman greeted us. The other hotel guests were sipping tea near the pool, as promised on Trip Advisor. As I chatted with Yousif, his wife, and a French couple, I thanked my good luck that I had run into good people, that the white cars are actually “Grand Taxis,” and that I was still alive.
Today, back home in America, I am proud of the bravery that I mustered up on that wonderful day. I dream about going back to Fez and getting lost in the old city, and relying on the goodwill and friendliness of the people to find my way home. That day in Fez proved two things to me: first, there are more good people in the world than bad. And second, I am a brave person for taking a risk and trusting the world in which I live. I dream about returning to Fez, where I learned just how brave I am.
Thank you for reading and commenting. Please enter the Inspiration Travel Writing competition and tell your story.
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Are you ready for a WIDE OPEN WORLD?
Enjoy this excerpt f rom the Prologue of the book WIDE-OPEN WORLD by John Marshall. Copyright © 2015 by John Marshall. Reprinted by arrangement with Ballantine Books, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC. All rights reserved.
From inside the Human Kitchen, I watched the spider monkeys begin to arrive. They don’t look so tough—or so I told myself as they climbed onto the bars that separated me from them. They were docile, for one thing, hanging out like bored visitors at a human zoo, not baring their teeth or trying to get in. One, two, then three monkeys; they all just scratched their red belly hair with their long black fingers, searched for the right grip with their wandering prehensile tails, looked at us—at me—with their black unfathomable eyes, and waited. Soaking wet and full grown, spider monkeys weigh around fifteen pounds, but they have ten times more muscle mass per body weight than your average human, which makes them incredibly strong. A spider monkey, hanging only by her tail, can pick up a sixty-pound bag of ice and swing it playfully around like a loaf of bread. One monkey at the sanctuary even broke into a bathroom, ripped a ninety-pound toilet off its bolts, and threw it out the door! Plus they have sharp teeth and lightning-quick reflexes, and they can be unpredictable and territorial and jealous. Especially with guys like me.
Several months before we left home, before we bought our tickets to Costa Rica, I received an email warning. Carol, one of the sanctuary founders, was writing with some advice about volunteering. Along with suggestions on what to bring and descriptions of what we would be doing, she slipped in a couple of lines that caught me by surprise. She wrote, and I quote:
Sweetie is growing out of her propensity to attack white males, but Winkie seems to be the culprit now. John: there are a few special guidelines that you will have to follow until they realize you are not a threat to The Troop.
Now, several words jumped out at me right away, the first being “attack,” the second being “white,” and the third being “male,” two of which describe me pretty well. My wife, Traca (pronounced tray-sa), laughed the warning off, as white women on the non-attack list are prone to do, but I was a little freaked out. It didn’t help that I received this email right after seeing the interview Oprah Winfrey did with Charla Nash (the woman who had her face chewed off by a chimpanzee in 2009); and though I knew spider monkeys are much smaller than chimps (especially the two-hundred-pound male chimp that got Charla), I suspected they were still capable of peeling me like a big white male banana should the desire arise.
As I watched the monkeys at the window, wondering which one was Sweetie and which one was Winkie (or whether it mattered), I noticed two scarlet macaws fly from above the Human Kitchen, screeching like show-offs, as if their spectacular red and blue plumage wasn’t attention-grabbing enough. They soared across the grounds, through the dense jungle growth, landing together in a palm tree that curved out across the Golfo Dulce. Beside me, Traca looked awestruck, as if witnessing a miracle, and our two kids—Logan, our seventeen-year-old son, and Jackson, our fourteen-year-old daughter—were as focused as I’ve ever seen them. If they were still harboring any reservations about this trip, they weren’t letting on. They looked enchanted, alive, overloaded by the sheer density of wildlife, the potential for danger, and the pure novelty that surrounded us all.
Our home for the next month would be the Osa Wildlife Sanctuary, a little orphanage/rehab center for all kinds of abandoned or injured rainforest animals. Creatures like kinkajous, peccaries, coatis, tayras . . . though I was focused strictly on the spider monkeys. While all the other sanctuary residents were being cared for in cages, the spider monkeys were the only animals allowed to roam free. Which meant one very critical thing for me and my family: For the next thirty days, we would be living in cages. Whenever we stepped outside, we’d just be part of the monkey troop.
“Well, let’s see how this goes,” Carol barked in her usual forceful voice. She reached for the security latch on the kitchen door, then turned to me. “Just don’t show any fear or it’s all over,” she warned, clearly not paying attention.
Short of holding an i am afraid sign, I’m not sure how I could have exhibited any more fear signals than I was exhibiting at that moment. I was sweating liquid fear. My legs were weak. My heart was racing like a rabbit’s heart in Coyote Canyon. I knew this sensation. When I was a kid, I had an irrational fear of dogs; not just big scary dogs but all dogs. Even friendly golden retrievers could get my blood pumping in a panic, and as Carol opened the door, I had that same reaction: pure, instinctual fear.
“You okay, Dad?” Logan asked me, a white male himself but, according to Carol, too young to be perceived as a threat by the monkeys.
“I guess so,” I said. “If they go to eat me, save yourself.” I hoped he knew I was joking.
“They’re not going to attack you,” Jackson said, rolling her eyes as if she was annoyed. But I could tell she was a little worried, too.
Then, right before we stepped outside, I caught Traca’s eye. She flashed a big excited smile and I knew exactly what it meant. This was her dream. She’d wanted to take a trip like this ever since we first met, and now here we were, at the threshold of our first big adventure.
Click. The latch opened and out we went.
Leaving the safety of the Human Kitchen, I felt unprotected, but I wasn’t—not really. Surrounding me like bodyguards, moving as a single unit, was my family: my wife of nearly twenty years, my son, and my daughter. I knew that we wouldn’t always be together, that life and change would pull us inevitably apart. But as Sweetie (or was it Winkie?) casually dropped from the cage bars and made her way toward us, toward me, there was no future. There was only this moment, the whole world narrowing to a single small, hairy shape. No matter what happened next, one thought stood out in my mind like a red macaw against a blue tropical sky:
We’re doing it.
After years of talking about it, we’re actually doing it.
From the book WIDE-OPEN WORLD by John Marshall. Copyright © 2015 by John Marshall. Reprinted by arrangement with Ballantine Books, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC. All rights reserved.
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Christmas in Alaska
It is approximately 4,200 miles from Houston, Texas to Anchorage, Alaska. That translates to more than 70 hours in a vehicle if you’re going on land. For me, it meant a mere twelve hours in airports and two plane rides. Fortunately for me, the return trip waited two weeks from my initial flight. Being born and raised in Texas, I am accustomed to heat and humidity. Smog, congestion, and heat threaten to suffocate you in Houston during the summer months.
I had never considered travel to be a top priority, but when I broached the idea of visiting a close pair of friends as they settled into their new home in Alaska, everyone I talked to told me the same thing; go. As I talked with my mother about my plans for travel the two weeks immediately after Christmas, she nearly pushed me out the door when it was time to head for the airport. Go, she told me.
Twelve hours doesn’t seem that long to me. I can keep myself occupied easily for twelve hours, but on a crowded plane with scared children and tired, travel worn, adults, it’s a completely different matter. I have no fear of flying; I did, however, begin to understand the anxiety accompanied with those who suffer from claustrophobia. The flight from Seattle into the Anchorage airport was short, but as I stared out the window with the sun setting on the most beautiful, and only, mountains I had ever seen, the stress of travel began to wear away.
Despite being a little tired, I was ready to jump into my Alaska adventure. I was shocked that I could walk outside in my simple fleece leggings and flannel shirt! The cold wasn’t unbearable, as I thought it would be. Unlike what television shows I had watched about Alaska, Anchorage seemed to be a relatively modern city, although much smaller than I had become accustomed to at home in Houston. As my friends drove from the airport to a local restaurant I noticed no lines designating lanes on the road, not an uncommon sight during snow months, apparently.
As we drove through downtown on my first night, I noticed the ice sculptures. We parked and began a small side trip through the sculptures. Ice blocks, larger than I am, were carved into elaborate creations and works of art. The dedication to New York City was detailed with hand carved windows of the skyline. Animals, abstract sculptures, even a spinning bowl for children to play in. What struck me was the art decorating the sides of buildings, so well depicted I thought surely there had been a mistake in my research before coming to this place. There’s no mention of the extensive art premating the culture here.
I was fortunate to see much of Anchorage, however, one memory takes hold: the hike at the Thunderbird Falls. In winter, I thought that there would be no one on the trails. A snow covered trail uphill and slippery proved to be inhabited by local hikers. I stopped so many times during the hike for photos of the breath stealing scenery, my friends warned me that we might be hiking back during sunset if I continued. I never knew that a person could sweat so much and still be surrounded by snow and ice. I took off my gloves and touched the trees, larger than any that I’d ever seen. I touched ice delicately hanging from limbs, in awe at the grace with which they held on. As we approached the Thunderbird falls, after three slips and one almost fall, I stood in awe at the mostly frozen falls. The steaming rush of water filled everything. Staring at the four story high ice with water continuing to flush itself under the exposed surface, I wondered at it’s magnificence. With the sun slowly descending in the sky, I began to cry. Knowing I’d never be able to take in the magnificence with any number of photographs.
There are other memories to recount, but weeping in the presence of nature so pure is a profound experience that I will never forget. Photographs and words do the Alaska landscape no justice. The air in your lungs and vast expanse of glory cannot to be captured by a lens or ink on a page. The experience soaks into your bones and becomes a part of you. It expands your existence by reminding you of how small humans are and how nature goes on.
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February 17, 2015
Falling in love with Melbourne, the most livable city in the world
My reason for falling in love with Melbourne, the most livable city in the worldOh, the city of Melbourne…
When I think of Australia…. And why shouldn’t I be thinking of this wonderful country…. Being a cricket crazy Indian, I make sure that I wake up early morning every single day and switch on the TV set to watch the scintillating cricket match going on between the two great cricketing nations.
And every break between over, as we are shown the Australia Tourism advertisement welcoming us to this picturesque country, I can’t help but think and dream of only Australia. With the current test match going on in one the greatest cities of this country, which place other than Melbourne can I dream about. The modern, cutting-edge designs of its skyscrapers and buildings added to the fascinating mix of heritage architecture, makes us feel that that this city is never the same every single time we visit it, with its constantly changing skyline. But mind you, talking about skyscrapers, building height limits and heritage controls have kept the city at a human scale while highlighting its diversity and creativity.
There is a lot to love about Melbourne – just ask the locals. Melbourne’s lifestyle, the climate and its future plans are all part of what inspires so much passion in those who live here. With the city’s vibrant energy, restaurants, fashion boutiques, café-filled laneways, cool bars, unbeatable galleries, spacious parks and village-like inner suburbs, each with its own special character, no wonder, it has been ranked as one of the world’s most livable cities.
We just need to take a walk through the streets of Melbourne to really enjoy it’s labyrinth of connecting laneways and arcades which provides us an ‘other world’ experience of intimate spaces and mystery. And believe me, it is while you stroll through these streets, where you get a feeling of openness and natural light, but still you find it home to many of Melbourne’s bar, dining and shopping ‘secrets’.
The streets of Melbourne provide a logical canvas for artistic expression and its laneways are home to sometimes controversial street art. And did I not mention that the locals also love a party, with the year-round calendar of events offering something for everyone.
And if you lose your way through this labyrinth, there’s no need to worry at all, because the locals are known for being friendly and inclusive, strongly advocating the city’s strong culture of philanthropy and volunteering. Looking worried and lost, and don’t be surprised, if you are confronted immediately by the City Ambassadors, the dedicated team of tourism volunteers.
Being and odd man out in a foreign country is something which you would never feel in this city. Melbourne has a multicultural population, being home to people of 140 different cultures: Indigenous Australians, post war European migrants, and recent arrivals from India, Somalia, Malaysia and beyond. Yeah, you heard it right! Indians, you find in plenty there.
And in all these absolutely stunning things that I mentioned about Melbourne, did I forget about its geography. For those who are keen on this, Melbourne is located in the south-eastern part of mainland Australia, within the state of Victoria. It is the capital of the state of Victoria and the second most populous city in Australia.
But believe me, it’s not the geography, but the lifestyle that makes Melbourne a magnet for so many people lie in the combination of these things. It is the sum of its parts – and more.
Thank you for reading and commenting. Please enter the
Inspiration Travel Writing competition
and tell your story.
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