Lisa Niver's Blog: We Said Go Travel, page 333

The End of the World in Ushuaia, Patagonia

Driving to the end of the world is any road tripper’s dream.  The route to the southernmost city in the world passes through some of the most beautiful landscapes in the world through Patagonia and culminates at Ushuaia, Argentina.  Any further south and you would be driving across the ocean to Antarctica.  The awe-inspiring sights from north to south in Patagonia include the Los Glaciares National Park, Fitz Roy, Torres Del Paine and finally, the city of Ushuaia itself.

Most tourists begin a road trip with a car rental in Chile’s capital city of Santiago.  From there, a popular route is to cross over into Argentina and pick up the famous “Ruta 40” (Route 40) which is very similar to the United States’ Route 66.  Traveling south, the first popular tourist destination is to stop at is El Chalten; the gateway town to Fitz Roy.  The clothing company Patagonia uses this mountain as their logo for good reason.  The mountain itself is only 11,000 feet high but is nearly all vertical.  Most of the visitors here do a three to four day hike that sees the best sights of the mountain mastiff.  This includes waking up before sunrise to hike up to a lake that is at the base of the 6,000 foot vertical rock wall.  In the end, a hike here is one that will never be forgotten.

After visiting Fitz Roy, the Los Glaciares National Park is a short 2-3 hour drive south from El Chalten.  This glacier system incorporates 47 separate glaciers and is the world’s largest glacier system outside of Antarctica and Greenland.  The most popular glacier to visit within the national park is the Perito Moreno Glacier.  Tourists here can drive up to the welcome center and park their rental car.  From there, boat tours are available and take tourists up to the glacier, which has an average height of 240 feet (73 meters) and is around 3 miles (5 kilometers) in length.  When chunks of ice the size of 10 story buildings crash into the water will make anyone appreciate the power of nature.

Image courtesy of Wikipedia

After a day or two of exploring the glacier, many road trippers continue on south to Puerto Natales which is the gateway to the majestic Torres Del Paine.  Tourists here have the option of doing a 10-12 day circuit around the mountain chain or to do a shorter trek, called the “W Trek” for the shape of the hike.  A hike here is unlike any other on earth.  During much of the year, wind speeds can easily approach 100 MPH (160KPH).  Snow, rain, wind gusts and clear blue skies can all be had in an hours worth of hiking, which makes this one of the most amazing hikes in South America.

The final stop on the road trip is in the capital of Tierra Del Fuego, Ushuaia.  This is the southernmost city on the planet.  The only land south of the city is uninhabited wilderness followed by Antarctica.  This is the closest city you can get to Antarctica.  Many tourists to Patagonia arrive in Ushuaia hoping for last minute cruises to Antarctica, which can be greatly discounted.  Besides last minute cruises, this town is very close to the Tierra Del Fuego National park, which is the southernmost national park in the world.  Visitors here can also visit a penguin colony outside of town, which is a major tourist attraction.

In the end, Patagonia has so much to offer any lucky tourist that is able to make it to the end of the world. There is so much to do and so much natural beauty to be seen in southern Chile and Argentina.  Glaciers and magnificent mountain ranges dominate the landscape; the most magnificent being the Perito Moreno Glacier, Fitz Roy and Torres Del Paine.  Any great road trip either begins here or ends at Tierra Del Fuego’s capital, Ushuaia.

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Nigeria: Somewhere in the Middle East

‘High rising bullet ridden walls, sky seasoned with black smoke, a street left in ruin.’ That was not how the story started but where I chose to. This is what has become of a once beautiful city of Homs, somewhere in the Middle East. I have learnt to skip the first few pages or chapters of any book to the point where the meat of the story begins.

‘The streets are quiet and desolate, distant gunshots and shelling keeping caution abreast. A door creeks open and a head concealed in hijab pops out, “You shouldn’t be out in the street,” she says, but I have to be on the streets – that is the reason I am here, to cover the story from the outside. Though the loneliness of the street sickens me and occasionally creams my skin with Goosebumps, I refuse to be scared into hiding, it is part of my job ethics not to show fear.’

This sort of loneliness reminded me of my trip to the University. University of Nigeria, Nsukka precisely. It was the first time I would ever perform a solo travel – tens of kilometres to the Eastern part of the country – and live outside our small flat in the middle belt. I was sixteen, and the idea traumatizing. Worse, I was a chronic introvert. Haven made the journey through rickety roads, I stood at the gate, staring bleak at pedestrians walking in and out.

The sun left the sky in a hurry as if to mock me. Without much options, I shyly stopped a dude and asked for direction.

“Take a bike to the Department of Student Affairs. You will find all the info you need there,” he said.

He was nice and looked it too in his shirt and jeans. I thanked him. The crowd was something else, queue the length of king cobra. Normally I would have chickened out, but on that day, it was not an option. If I failed to get registered, I might as well forget the exam I had the following day. If I haven’t eaten for the past twelve hours, I didn’t notice, the adrenalin in my system nudged me on, a day that flipped open a new chapter in my life. As an adult, travels now comes with a new kind of feeling; enthusiasm.

‘I move towards her and she shuts the door,’ I continued reading. ‘Down the street is a mall halved to rubble. I push aside the debris blockading the door and force my way in. The air inside is a blend of rotten vegetables, ammonia and decaying flesh. I cough. Twice. Removes a handkerchief from my breast pocket and choke the smell off my nostrils. My tummy grumbles. I am hungry but obviously, nothing good and edible can come out of such a place. I fling my head and turn to leave and a voice came, a low dull voice. I recognise the language as Arabic but not the wordings.

‘I turn the direction of the sound. Four children; three boys and a girl hid in the dark corner, probably trapped. They must have been there since God-knows-when because their skin is as light as polythene, eyes sunken in their sockets. They clutch each other tighter, spitting words that eludes my understanding, only their gestures translates they were begging for something, probably their lives. “I want to return to my country asap but there is no way am leaving this kids in this condition.”

As I read through the last lines, my fist clenched and my heart beat faster. Having the conviction to travel comes with anxiety which increases adrenalin flow to prepare the person for the unforeseen. Fear I like to view as setting restrictions for ourselves even when there should be none and the vice versa, bravery. For me, that first experience didn’t erase my introvert nature but refined it, made me know when to lower the shield. I can now easily relate with strangers, a once abominable act.

Moving from place to place however is not my sole form of travel. Those times I am incapacitated by finance to change geography, I sink in the ocean of words, words in books that transport me with vivid imagery of places, of Paris, Peshawar, Port Harcourt or Preston. In those worlds often, I encounter characters that give me reasons to be brave, reasons not to be afraid of what I can do once I set my heart to it.

Thank you for reading and commenting. Please enter the Inspiration Travel Writing competition and tell your story.

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Over the Trees in Puerto Rico

On the one hand, all I need to do is let myself go. On the other hand, I’m 900 feet over the forest floor.

“Ready?” the tour guide asks.

I hesitate. “Maybe?” I say.

The guide sighs. He watches tourists go zip lining in Toro Verde Adventure Park all day, so he doesn’t think flying over trees while you’re suspended from a cable is a big deal.

“Remember that you need to lean back to make yourself go faster, otherwise you’ll get stuck,” he says.

Besides my harness unhooking itself from the cable mid-flight, this is my biggest fear. If you don’t get up enough momentum, you’ll stop partway across the cable and have to pull yourself across to the other side, hand-over-hand.

I tug at the leg straps on my harness. They keep sliding down and it’s making me nervous. “Can you tighten these?” I ask. We’ve been warned not to tamper with our equipment ourselves.

The guide sighs again. “They’re fine,” he says, but he unhooks me from the cable and tightens my straps. My husband and brother-in-law are waiting behind me along with an entire American family. Like me, the Americans are pale, sweaty and unevenly sunburned – ill-suited for the Puerto Rican climate.

The guide hooks me up again and I know there is no turning back. He instructs me to lift my legs off the wooden block that I’m standing on, and suddenly I’m hanging with my stomach facing up to the sky, the guide’s hands holding me in place. My own hands, which are protected by yellow gloves that are damp with sweat, grip the hook that is attaching me to the cable.

“Ready?” the guide asks again. Before I can answer, he lets go and so do I.

The wind rushes in my face and roars in my ears, drowning out everything else. The trees below pass by in a green blur. I feel like I’m falling. Or flying. Maybe a little bit of both. I’m not in control of anything, and it feels wonderful.

And then I start to slow down.

The trees come into focus. I try leaning back to pick up speed, but it’s no use. Soon I have stopped completely, and I’m still at least 100 feet from the next platform.

I take a deep breath. Without the roaring of the wind in my ears, the forest starts to come to life. I hear tropical birds chirping over each other, having a conversation where no one is really listening. Looking down, I notice a river running below me that snakes through a break in the trees.

This could be worse, I think.

The guide on the platform is motioning for me to move. I turn myself around and begin pulling myself backwards. I’m going slowly, but it’s working. There is something deeply satisfying about

moving myself across this vast space with one hand over the other, little by little. I’m convinced that I’ll be able to get myself to the other side – until I feel a weight pulling on the cable.

I turn my head and see that the guide has lost his patience and is coming out to rescue me. I want to tell him to turn back, that I can get there by myself, but he has already attached his harness to the cable and is gliding towards me. There are other tourists waiting and I’m holding them up.

He gets to me and hooks his harness to mine without a word. “Thank you,” I say, because I know I should be grateful. He leans back without responding and starts pulling us both in. I have no choice but to go along with him.

It isn’t long before we reach the platform. He unhooks me from the cable and I watch as my brother-in-law take his turn on the zip line. He sails towards me, the cable humming as he picks up speed, until he too slows down. And stops.

“Hay otra!” someone shouts through the guide’s walkie-talkie. There’s another one. The guide hooks himself back up to the cable and heads out over the forest again. Meanwhile, my brother-in-law is hurriedly trying to pull himself back in. Like me, he still wants to believe that he’s in charge of his own adventure.

Thank you for reading and commenting. Please enter the Inspiration Travel Writing competition and tell your story.

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India: Walking Krisha Home from School

 

Walking Krisha Home from School

 

I walk home with Krisha from our preschool in rural India. She does not hold my hand because her 3 year old feet are more sure on the rocks than mine.

It is noon – the hottest part of another hot day. I pull my Dupatta over my head for shade and am glad for the loose Kameez and Salwar all women wear.

It is May, and the driest part of the year. Everywhere is brown and waiting. The ground is cut into steppes ready to plant rice, but now there is only dust. How much rain will the July monsoons bring to flood these fields for rice?

 

The path is a series of rocks steps and streets and trails. Dust rises with ever car and scooter and step. The teacher aid at preschool cannot believe that I have access to a ride from CCS but choose to walk. When I thought about that, it made a great deal of sense she was amazed. Along the main road there are buses. Only the men ride on buses. The motorcycles honk at every curve in the road. Only men wear motorcycle helmets. Women ride seated sideways on the back holding a child in one arm and the Dupatta in the other. On the tip of my tongue to the teacher was that walking was “good exercise,” but I realized how even more amazing the concept of “needing to exercise” would sound.

 

Krisha is quiet, not the chatterbox I know from school. We pass a cow in the middle of the road, oblivious to the traffic and completely safe from it. I point it out to Krisha, but she has seen cows before.

 

Each person we meet makes eye contact, even with the white stranger in the traditional garb guiding a familiar child home. Namste ji. We fold hands and bow. Nameste ji. No exceptions and nothing more.

 

We turn on the quieter lane with deep ruts left from wetter times, now filled with rocks and dust. Here a woman does her laundry in the trickle of a stream.

 

Krisha is intent now only on our journey. We round the corner where the women of one house gather water every day from the leak in the pipe across the road. Every day we see grandmas and girls and little girls filling buckets and pails and pans and cups. It is the only water source, that leaking pipe. They look up to see us pass.

 

Nameste ji.

 

We pass a family temple housing a god decorated with plastic flowers. Krisha and I stop and greet it. Namaste ji.

 

Down and down our path slopes. Past the chickens that peck each other so much their necks are bare of feathers. Past the garage store where the one armed man sells snacks. Namste ji.

 

Suddenly a flash of color in the endless brown and gray makes Krisha squeal and run. Intense flowing pink and sequin studded yellow lighten the surroundings and make the dust and heat fade. Mama is waiting at the gate.

 

Krisha runs crying mamamamama. She stops at her mother’s side and seizes the end of her Dupatta, rubbing it on her face. Mama and I exchange Namaste ji. Mama leads Krisha inside.

 

I continue on my way in the dust and heat.

 Thank you for reading and commenting. Please enter the Inspiration Travel Writing competition and tell your story.

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Have you had Unexpected Consequences of Love?

Have you had Unexpected Consequences of Love? I really enjoy reading Jill Mansell’s books. Sometimes a book can make me feel like I have traveled and left home. It can make me feel brave. Share your story of bravery in my travel writing competition and maybe soon I will be sharing an excerpt of your latest book! You never know what will happen next!

In this book, one character, Riley, ponders about life: “It had never bothered him before because it had never mattered, but now he was beginning to sense that it might. What would Tula think about him if she knew the truth?” Do you tell the truth? What is the truth?

This book is about: “Sophie Wells is a successful photographer with a focus on putting the past firmly behind her. When Josh Strachan returns to the seaside town of Cornwall from the States to run his family’s hotel, he can’t understand why the fun, sexy girl has zero interest in letting him—or any man for that matter—into her life. He also can’t understand how he’s been duped into employing Sophie’s impulsive friend Tula, whose crush on him is decidedly unrequited. Both girls remain mum about the reasons behind Sophie’s indifference to love. But that doesn’t mean Josh is going to quit trying…”

Excerpt from THE UNEXPECTED CONSEQUENCES OF LOVE by Jill Mansell

“Nearly done… Oh, it’s you.” Turning, she glimpsed him in the doorway and straightened up. Nodding at Griff, she said, “Have you come to get him? He’s shattered now. I’ve just finished the shoot.”

“I know, I saw the family driving off. And I am sorry. Dot did warn me about the door-opening thing,” Josh admitted. “I just forgot about it. Can I blame it on the jet lag?”

She gave him a look. “Only if you’re a complete wuss. You’ve had a whole week to get over it.”

Her eyes were bright and sparkling, silver-gray with very white whites. Her well-defined eyebrows were dark but tipped with gold and there was a smudge of mud on her left temple.

It wasn’t an expression he’d ever thought of using before, but it occurred to him that she had joie de vivre.

“True.” He dipped his head in acknowledgment. “All my own fault. So how did it go in the end?”

“Come over here and I’ll show you.” Leading the way across the room, she picked up her camera and began scrolling through the shots, starting with the half dozen or so pre-Griff originals, then on through the second stage of the shoot.

“These are great.” Josh nodded at them, genuinely impressed. “So it ended up not being such a disaster after all.”

“Thanks to me being a complete genius,” she agreed happily. He liked her attitude. “What’s your name?”

“Sophie.”

“Hi, Sophie. I’m Josh.”

“I know. Haven’t you noticed everyone whispering about you since you’ve been back?”

“Not really. Well, maybe a bit. You don’t take much notice after a while.” He paused. “Do you have a business card?”

She took one from an envelope in the side pocket of her black canvas camera case and handed it over.

Sophie Wells Photography. Portraits, Weddings, Commercial was written in silver on a black background, along with her contact details. Josh noticed that as well as the bracelets on her left wrist there was a key attached to a plain silver bangle. He reached out and touched it briefly. “What’s this for?”

“It’s the key to my secret Swiss bank account.” “Amazing. I didn’t know Swiss banks used Yale locks.”

A dimple appeared in her left cheek. “I started wearing it after I locked myself out of my flat three times in one week.”

“Look,” said Josh. “I still feel terrible about the photos.” “No need. I told Emma I’d do them for free.”

“But that means you’re losing out. Which is even worse.” Sophie shook her head. “They all like what we ended up doing instead. Emma’s still happy to pay.” “But their clothes…”

“They live on a farm. She says the mud’ll come out in a boil wash.” “But when I came back here with Griff, she was in tears.”

“I know, but you weren’t actually to blame for that. Relax,” Sophie said cheerfully. “It’s your lucky day. You’re off the hook.”

Women, he’d never understand them. Still, it was a positive result. Somewhat distracted by her eyelashes—were they also gold- tipped beneath the mascara?—Josh said, “Fine then. So long as you’re sure. Can I ask you a personal question?”

“You can try.”

He was charmed by her easy smile, playful humor, and feisty can-do attitude. Okay, and her body was pretty amazing too. “Are you single at the moment? Or seeing someone?”

If she were, he would have to say with good-natured regret, “Well, that’s a real shame,” and leave it at that.

“Me? Oh no, I’m not seeing anyone.” Sophie shook her head. “Completely and utterly single, that’s me.”

Excellent. Enjoying her honesty, Josh said, “So would you like to come out for dinner with me one evening?”

“It would have to be an evening.” Sophie nodded gravely. “Otherwise it wouldn’t be dinner; it’d be breakfast or lunch.”

“Definitely evening,” he agreed. “We could do it tonight if you like.” This is going so well.

“Oh, I can’t.”

“Yes, bit short notice. Friday, then? Or Saturday? You choose, whenever suits you best.”

But even as he was saying it, Sophie was shaking her head. “Sorry, no… I mean, thanks for asking, but I can’t meet you for dinner.”

“Right.” Taken aback, Josh said, “Not at all?” “No.”

“Okay. That’s fine.” It wasn’t remotely fine. What was going on? Did she have a small baby at home, or an elderly relative who couldn’t be left unattended? “Am I allowed to ask why?”

Her eyes sparkled. “Oh dear, are you offended?” “Of course not,” lied Josh.

Sophie gave him a who-are-you-kidding look. “I think you are. Don’t be. I’m just pretty busy right now.”

“So maybe in a couple weeks?” He couldn’t quite believe he was still asking.

“Look, thanks again, but no thanks. I just don’t really want to go out to dinner with…anyone.”

Aaaand another knock-back.

“No problem.” Josh wished he’d never started it. “Sorry.”

He managed a rueful smile. “Hey, all I need is a few months for my ego to recover. I’ll be fine.”

“It’s not you.” Sophie’s mouth was twitching. “It’s me.”

Okay, now she was making fun of him.

“Well, obviously,” said Josh.

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With over 9 million copies sold, New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Jill Mansell writes irresistible and funny romantic tales for women in the tradition of Marian Keyes and Sophie Kinsella. She worked for many years at the Burden Neurological Hospital, Bristol, and now writes full time. She lives with her partner and their children in Bristol, England.

Connect with Jill Mansell: Website | Facebook | Twitter | Goodreads

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The Island Owner`s Influence in Grenada

The Island Owner`s Influence in Grenada

I am a brave person . I live my life exactly how I want to live it. Recently I took a chance to work abroad for a few years which gave me an enormous experience. I also went on around the world trip for 3 weeks, and learnt a great deal. I feel like every year of my life counts as three years because I am brave enough to fit in so many things , which I wouldn`t have dreamt of doing before.

And my bravery in taking risks and living a full life is all thanks to this one place in the Grenadines, and to one man who inspired me ..

It was year 2007. My husband and I were looking forward to a holiday on Petit St. Vincent in the Caribbean. It was this island`s unusual atmosphere that first attracted me, the fact that the villas do not lock as there are no keys, and to ensure privacy you just need to raise a red flag outside your room to not be disturbed all day; if , on the other hand, you wanted to get a service-cocktail of your choice for example, or a pick-up by a golf buggy for a tour around the island for lazy bums, you would raise a yellow flag. The island was magical-empty beaches, hammocks around the island, boat trips , lobster dinners and breakfasts, a small sandbank called Petit St. Richardson for a Robinson Crusoe experience;  but above all there was a privacy. You would only run into other guests at dinner. However, for a true celebrity experience,  it was possible to have dinners in your villa. There was nothing else that we would have wanted there as we were having out of this world experience, until one day we have received an invite for cocktails at the owner`s villa. Owner and island manager Haze Richardson and his wife lived on the island, that’s all we knew from a brochure sent to us at the time of booking.

We arrived that evening expecting nothing more than a couple of cocktails and a chat with a few other guests. However, something extra ordinary happened. I wanted to know how Haze Richardson bought his island, and asked him. We ended up having a conversation that run well into the night, and feeling like best friends that have just met again after a long break. Haze was so easy to talk to, just an ordinary American man, he told us about his youth,  how he had a girlfriend from Kent in England while he was in the US air force, and how he was so lucky in cards he could afford to buy a boat to travel.  And as luck would have it , one day his boat was hired by a millionaire who was thinking about buying an island, and was looking for someone to turn it into a resort. Haze had no experience in building or plumbing but he said yes. That`s how the boat captain had become the island manager. He managed to build the entire resort, and turned it into something that all celebrities seek but now ordinary people can also have -secluded private holiday island at a reasonable affordable price. In the end the millionaire was so impressed he sold this island to Haze , and Haze has become the owner as well as manager . We were talking and talking, and I asked Haze to write his memoirs as his story was just as powerful as the stories of famous entrepreneurs like Richard Branson.  When it was time to say good-bye I thanked him for sharing his life`s experience with us. Later I realised it made such an impact on me that my whole life perspective has changed. I was no longer afraid to take a different path in life from the one I already planned. I started travelling more, taking risks more, and worrying less. My usual shopping sprees were forgotten and given place to a new fitness regime. I took an opportunity to work in Switzerland for a few years, and I started writing, and learning new languages. I have become brave enough to say “yes” to new interesting experiences in life and “no” to the usual routine.

Unfortunately, a few years later, I read an article mentioning that Haze Richardson died while on holiday in Costa Rica and the island was sold. The island owner has never written the memoirs. I will never go back to Petit St.Vincent , as the creator of this exclusive secluded island won`t be there, but that evening was one moment in history that has changed my perspective on life forever and has made me a brave new person embracing more and more new experiences in life.

 

 Thank you for reading and commenting. Please enter the Gratitude Travel Writing competition and tell your story.

 

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A Taste of Proper Fun: #BermudaMe

I was honored to go with Richard Bangs to Bermuda and film for Orbitz! Look what was in Nasdaq about us:  “Leading online travel company Orbitz Worldwide  has partnered with the Bermuda Tourism Authority to launch “Orbitz Originals: Bermuda – Proper Fun,” a seven-part online video series that is co-hosted by award-winning travel experts Richard Bangs and Lisa Ellen Niver and is available for viewing at Orbitz.com/Bermuda.” Enjoy these videos #BermudaMe

Like many who have survived into adulthood, I wince when I look back and recall some of the youthful antics I partook under the name of fun. Like a lad who graduates from cheap flavored whiskey to fine wine, I today prefer my fun with a dash of panache, a subtle aroma, and a delightfully delicate nose.

So, of course, it is a treat to discover Bermuda, if just for a weekend, the place that practically invented proper fun, and which now embodies it.

The demure 21-square-mile British dependency 650 miles off the North Carolina coast is less known than the more cheeky isles in the Caribbean, as it has always attracted a more sophisticated crowd, the cognoscenti tired of long, septentrional winters, a cast that likes to keep its haunts semi-secret. It is known more as the northern point in the Bermuda Triangle than for its earthly satisfactions.

The original Pan Am Clippers used to call here. I ease over on a Delta flight from Atlanta, and as we approach, from my window the islands of Bermuda look like cracks in the ocean; the sea a Crème Brûlée after the first blow of the spoon.

I take a short cab ride to the Rosewood Tucker’s Point Hotel and Spa, a sprawling 200-plus acre cliff-side resort on Castle Harbor, where I find my free-spirited, properly-travelled friend Lisa Niver in the middle of a round of golf. She is here for the week with friends; I have but the weekend, and her beam telegraphs that she has the better deal.

When she sinks the ball into a hole, a waiter appears with a glass of champagne to celebrate. That’s proper fun.

We next tuck in for afternoon tea, served promptly at 4 p.m., cucumber sandwiches, petits fours, and fresh baked apricot and fig scones served with kumquat jam and Devonshire clotted cream, all on a crisp white table cloth with silver service and fine china. Some fun traditions don’t change. It was here in Bermuda that 52 years ago Lisa’s parents took their honeymoon, and sipped tea in nuptial celebration.

But high-tea is just the prelude. We next head over to Tucker’s Bar, where Lisa’s parents once cheered, all dark-wood paneled looking more like The Explorers Club than a blue water drinkery. Here I try a dark ‘n’ stormy, rum mixed with Bermuda stone ginger beer, the signature drink of Bermuda. But Lisa cries foul, and holds up her rum swizzle, saying this is the national drink of Bermuda, and it packs a good punch to boot. But then the barkeep leans in and says, “No, no, no….the real drink here is the Yellow Bird,” and he pushes a glass filled with what looks like a Screwdriver, but instead of vodka , there are two types of rum. But then he winks and informs there are 60,000+ rum swizzle recipes, one for each resident of Bermuda, so actually, Lisa is right…the rum swizzle reigns.

It would be easy to sit and savor for hours, but it’s now dinner time. Adjacent to the bar is The Point Restaurant, wrapped in an 80-foot-long mural that looks hauntingly familiar. It turns out it is a work of art that for 45 years adorned the lobby of the Pan Am Sky Club in the Pan Am Building in New York City. Pan Am was a partner in the early days of Sobek, the adventure travel company I founded in the 70s, and I used to visit the Sky Club when passing through New York.

I walk around the room falling into memories. The mural depicts various ports-of-call of the early Pan Am Clippers, and I recognize most… Rio de Janeiro, Constantinople, Hong Kong’s Victoria Harbor, the Port of London, and Lahaina, Maui are easily identified by their inimitable surroundings. But New York Harbor, Canton Harbor, the Gloucester Seaport in Massachusetts, and Beirut Harbor stump me. The real puzzler, however, is Bermuda’s Hamilton Harbor, which it turns out was added to the canvas a couple years ago, commissioned by the current owner, Ed Trippe, yes, the son of the man who commissioned the original piece, the legendary Juan Trippe, founder of Pan American World Airways.

Of course, I have to order the famous Bermuda fish chowder, a spicy seafood-and-vegetable stew spiced with a dash of Gosling’s Black Seal rum and Outerbridge’s Original Sherry Pepper sauce. Fish, to taste right, must swim three times — in water, in butter and in black rum, and it is swimming Olympic laps here. This is the national dish, and it is delectably textured and spicy. Yes, it is a well-seasoned soup, but more so, as it ignites Sherry Pepper Sauce’s leap into immortality.

After a couple of heavenly spoonfuls I am reminded that there are so many ways to cheat on food, and there are so many places that do.

But not here. Bermuda is a promise of authenticity and proper taste. Here is a fountain of food that is home-cooked and insanely savory.

Hoppin’ John, Hash, Peas and Plenty, Mussel pie, sweet potato pudding, Paw Paw Casserole, Guinea Chick, Banana Meatloaf, Wahoo salad, tantalizing fare, wet with contour and risk. In my short visit I try them all, and smack lips with every bite.

This island may have more churches per square mile than any other country on earth, but a good Bermudan meal makes me feel more charitable toward the world than any sermon. After this meal I think I’ll sell my house and give all the money to Oxfam.

And for dessert? Bermuda honey is the mead-iator between heaven and earth.

So, at the end of the day, I would say that the food of Bermuda is so deliriously yummy that palates are not merely shattered but planets spin out of orbit, constellations unravel in starbursts, and the very fabric of space-time is shredded by the sheer euphoric energy of exquisite taste.

Okay, maybe that’s a bit of an exaggeration, but I would say the food of Bermuda…it is properly good.

I wash down the last of the meal with the proper English tropic drink, a Bombay Sapphire G&T, and then tell Lisa, who plans to head out in search of the famous Gombey dancers of Bermuda, that I have to call it a day.

A golf cart glides me to my villa, under a set of brilliant stars that bend to create bears and dippers. The room has a bathroom the size of Somerset, and a bed like a cloud. So, I awake late the next morning alive and unworn ready for what is to be a full day.

Lisa and friends are split between the Fairmont Southampton and the Elbow Beach Resort, both spectacular properties on the Southwestern part of the island. Under a glade of blue sky I sink into the backseat of the taxi, and regard in admiration the orderly English hedges and hand-stacked stone walls that line the road. If it weren’t for the wild tropical foliage that weaves through the cracks and crawls along the tops of the walls, this could be the Scottish countryside.

Thirty minutes later I meet up with Lisa and sit for breakfast, whereupon she shares some of her proper adventures so far.

There is something romantic and quaint about a place that doesn’t allow visitors to rent cars. Instead, folks scoot. In tandem with Bermudian Rachel Snowden, a former television weather woman, Lisa has been zipping around the island on a rented scooter. One glorious day she started at the Royal Navy Dockyard in the morning and ended in St. George’s by the evening, a full traverse of the main island.

St. George’s was the first permanent English settlement on the island, and is steeped in history tied to the colonization of America and its eventual independence. At the time of the American War of Independence, the town of St. George saw its gun powder stocks mysteriously disappearing. Local Bermudians were stealing the gun powder, bringing it over the hill to Tobacco Bay, where boats transported it to an American ship just offshore.

On her scoots Lisa has been scoping out the jewelry, the various forts, cafes, and restaurants, and sampling the island culture. She shows me the heart earrings and bracelet she bought from Alexandra Mosher, famous for her Pink Sand jewelry. She shows off her Windows phone pics of cliff jumping, spelunking at Smuggler’s Cave, and her hula-hooping at Elbow Beach, where she also sampled the Rum Swizzle Specialty Spa Treatment. And, of course, she went to revel with the Gombey dancers, the men who perform the flamboyant masquerade dance that is a unique blend of African, Caribbean and British cultures.

Lisa wants to show me the nearby Warwick Long Bay beach, a magnificent half mile stretch of pink sands. Bermuda, she honeys, is so romantic even the beaches blush. It is here that couples come to discuss Ugandan affairs.

Against a backdrop of low grasses and grape and juniper trees sprawls a powdery stretch of sand festooned with little coves and black rocks (revealing Bermuda’s volcanic origins). The original seafarers here called this “Devil’s Island,” partially because of the imposing black rocks, but also the screeching and snorting they heard coming from the interior (birds and wild pigs respectively). But when, 400 years ago, an English sailing vessel was shipwrecked on this mid-Atlantic archipelago, and discovered it to be a piece of paradise, the island nation of Bermuda was born.

Lisa dances around the sand for a spell, and then offers to show me the harbor side capital, Hamilton. The houses are sherbet-colored, with unique stepped limestone roofs that collect all-important rainwater, as in Bermuda there are no lakes, rivers or streams.

We pass shops selling Shetland sweaters and linen doilies, and businessmen milling about in smart casual jackets, neckties, shorts, and knee socks. Yes, the cliché is true….people really do wear Bermuda shorts here, and proudly.

Here we meet Ronald K. Maughan, director of operations for The English Sport Shop, which has been outfitting islanders since 1918. Ronald says the shorts were invented when British forces in India during WWI were suffering from the heat in their long pants. “It was too hot, so they cut their trousers into shorts.” They were baggy and without any defining style, but they were cool, and the improvised clothing followed British forces to Bermuda, where it was decided that, given the temperatures, shorts were a smart item for one’s wardrobe.

But it’s the socks that make the outfit, says Maughan. Knee socks must reach just below the knee, no more than an inch, and must be folded over. Socks should match the jackets, contrasting with the shorts. It’s all very proper, and of course, this is the attire for proper fun.

Next door is The Pickled Onion bar, one of many establishments graced with the word onion. Why the fascination with the tear-inducing vegetable? It turns out Bermuda was for many years a major supplier of onions, and these days the locals are sometimes called onions.

It’s lunch time, so we head down the road to one of the best kept local secrets in Bermuda, The Black Horse Tavern, tucked in a remote corner of St. David’s island. Many of the locals maintain this is the most authentic restaurant for original local cuisine in Bermuda.

The place has a dusty rose exterior with green shutters and a glass covered balcony in the rear that looks over Smith’s Sound. I order the wahoo fish sandwich on raisin bread (why don’t they offer this in the States?) with sweet homemade coleslaw and ginger beer. Like many so many things here, the food is just not subject to immutable destiny, but alive to wild grace.

Ashley Harris, a local guide, joins our table and offers to show us about. With bellies full we wind to the top of St. David’s lighthouse, and then down to Tom Moore’s Jungle, also called The Walsingham Nature Reserve, 12 acres of preserved, privately owned land. Tom Moore, of course, is the island-friendly shorthand for Thomas Moore, the 18th century Irish poet who, for a short time, called Bermuda home. He wrote some of his most celebrated works here while resting under Bermuda’s most famous tree, the calabash. Ashley recites some of his poetry, and we nod in reverence, and then take a proper trek through the jungle, snaking around vines and throughshafts of light penetrating the canopy. Bermuda’s tropical karst is on pocked display here, with caves and grottos winking, blind eyes the color of wet coal. Some of the dark eyes are dry, others filled with water, even tropical fish. We linger at the largest grotto in the area, and relish in the tranquility. The only sound is the drip, drip, dripping of water from the stalactites.

Our final stop for the day is at The Southlands Estate, which hosts the largest grove of rubber trees in Bermuda. The original Tarzan movies were filmed on a lake in Culver City, not far down the road from my house. The producers should have come here. Ashley demonstrates by grabbing a thin vine and swinging out over a small cliff. Soon she has the rest of us gyring about like baboons, thumping chests and letting out throaty Johnny Weissmullers at the apex of a swing.

Now, it’s off to the airport to head home. On the final stretch of roadway we pass The Swizzle Inn, where Lisa spent an evening as an anthropologist, studying proper fun with the locals. It’s a place spilling with fun, from the signage throughout (If you’re drinking to forget, please pay in advance), to their signature rum drinks, to their motto, “Swizzle Inn and Stagger Out.”

And that’s how I leave Bermuda…properly blissed, and ready to return for more.

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O sole mio, Italy

 

O sole mio, Italy

We were married in Naples in the sixties, practically penniless and with no plastic or other financial safeguards.  In the seven weeks of paperwork before we foreigners could get legally wed Patti au-paired with the rich Buonomo family while I stayed in the youth hostel on 200 lira a day, and taught English at a high school.  We finally found a tiny flat we could afford in the red light district, and got on quite well with the whores on the corner, the day staff that is, ladies who looked rather like our mums: at sunset the real girls took over.  Practically next door to us was a place that roasted coffee beans and the mighty aroma would waft up to us on the third floor

We went back to Naples at the turn of the millennium. They told us it would not be like the nineties when there were often police shoot-outs with drug gangs, it was safe now and things were greatly improved.  Plenty of graffiti and some trash on the pavements but what struck us was how docile the traffic had become. It was quiet in our old quarter, in the steep cobbled laneway across which we would fire cherrystones from our balcony with just the squidge of two fingertips.  No ladies were loitering; gone, too, was the little fruit and vegetable market.

The main street had changed its name back to Via Toledo in memory of earlier Spanish glories, and in the process had become a chic pedestrian plaza with boutiques galore.  When it was Via Roma we would see horse-drawn hearses and motocyclists roaring up the wrong way, and once three santa clauses all puffing cigarettes emerge together from a department store.  Young tourists brushed past us heading for the Caravaggio exhibition.  We looked for and found on a stall graffe, the magnificent fat sugary doughnuts of yore.

At the Anglican church the vicar was leaning a bicycle against the wall. He listened to our short story and ushered us into the vestry: there indeed in the register which had been started in the nineteenth century was our spidery entry, quite spooky really.  We checked out the nave and pews and arches, more quaint than holy and as empty as it had been that time: a surge of feeling came back, and a clutch of the hands.

In the phonebook amazingly was listed the office of the lawyer Buonomo, and in fits and starts a meeting was arranged, in a caffe with cane chairs spread out in a nearby piazza.  Along came the avvocato now in his seventies, but accompanied by a long-faced handsome young man straight out of a painting. Courteous introductions, a round of cinzanos, some recollections. Patti’s main one was of the son as a six-week old, with a very dirty bottom.

Down at the waterfront at Chiaia the bay was as breathtaking as ever.  Sun spangled the blue while Capri’s grey shape beckoned in the middle distance.  We had been there on an Easter Day when the air all over the island was heady with wisteria blossom.  Further along the waterfront at Santa Lucia we joined a small clutch of onlookers bewitched by Vesuvius, pretty as a picture across the water, and thought of the song.  On that corner there, wedged in the back of a Fiat 500, a bigger thing hurtling round the other way had missed us by a whisker, before which Enzo had unnervingly exclaimed ‘If he hits us, I get a new car.’ We had yelled but it was all over.  Now we reflected ‘See Naples and die’ and marvelled that we had survived.  We had even come back.

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A Budget for Your Wishes Like Travel!

A Budget for Your Wishes Like Travel! By Chellie Campbell

“Man has always assumed that he was more intelligent than dolphins because he had achieved so much — the wheel, New York, wars and so on — while all the dolphins had ever done was muck about in the water having a good time. But conversely, the dolphins had always believed that they were far more intelligent than man – for precisely the same reason.”—Douglas Noel Adams, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy

People always tell me they want to travel. That’s one of the first things they mention when I ask what they plan to do when they retire.

I tell them not to wait. Travel now! When I read that 29% of Americans died before reaching age 65, and then after retiring at age 65, 33% of them were dead within two years, I decided I wasn’t going to wait until I retired to have a great life. I scaled my own financial speaking/writing/workshop career to include large amounts of time off to play and to travel.

Who wants to miss seeing the world, enjoying a scrumptious dinner at the Jules Verne in the Eiffel Tower, skiing in Vail, sailing in San Francisco Bay, birding in Cancun, eating a $25 ice cream cone in Rome, or winning a poker tournament on a Card Player Cruise to the Caribbean?

I never traveled at all until I noticed I was wishing I had. Now I’ve had all the adventures listed above because I put them on my agenda—and then on my calendar—for the past 30 years. And you can, too—starting right now.

There are trips you can take to suit every budget, but travel won’t happen unless you make sure to have a travel category and put money in it.

To start, you have to make friends with the word “budget”. I say it stands for Baby-U-Deserve-Getting-Every-Thing! Then make three different budgets: low, medium, and high. Start with your medium budget which is the money you’re making right now and what you’re spending it on. Create low budget by taking out all the discretionary expenses you can, and then create high budget by adding in your dream job at your dream salary and all the expenses you’d like to have.

But in every budget—even the lowest one—have some money allocated into the travel category, and have some time blocked off in the calendar to use it.

Each budget is just for one month. Anybody can be on low budget for a month – it’s not a life sentence. You want to be sure to have a medium budget to move up to as soon as you can, and a high budget for when you’re living the life of your dreams. That will spur your creative mind to create the opportunities to make more money. Now choose some wonderful destinations you would like to travel to in each particular budget.

Where can you travel when you’re on low budget? This may mean you do a “staycation” and just have fun exploring your local haunts. Maybe there’s a theme park near you that’s reasonable, or you can visit a local Botanical Gardens, a park, a natural history museum. You can go to an art show, the art museum, or a local gallery. You can visit a petting zoo or go to the beach. Whatever you choose, you’re building the habit of travel.

When you make more money and your prospects improve, you can move up the scale to medium budget. What kind of travel can you put in that category? Cruises are wonderful, and they include lots of food and fun in the price. What country have you always wanted to visit? Search out tours that fit your budget. What are the sights you want to see while you’re there? Some can be free, some can be expensive—I suggest creating a mixture of both so you include at least one night out on the town where you spend some good money having a great time.

High budget is the budget of your dreams. Want to play roulette in Monte Carlo? Climb the Alps? Parasail in Uruguay? Sleep on the beach in Thailand? Cruise the Nile to Karnak and the Valley of the Kings in Egypt? Spend a week at the Four Seasons George V in Paris? Knock yourself out fantasizing the best vacations ever, and you’ll soon start figuring out ways to make more money so you can actualize them.

All of this is very practical, but there’s a surprising “secret sauce” to add spice to your travel budgets, and just might upgrade your adventures.

I am optimistic by nature and believe in the power of positive thinking. So among the happy affirmations I say each day is this one “I now receive free first-class travel and accommodations all around the world!”

One year, I jetted off with three of my girlfriends for a cruise on a paddlewheel steamer up the Mississippi River from New Orleans to Memphis. We were staying in New Orleans to take in the sights for a couple of days before getting on our ship.

As we waited in line at the check-in counter at the Intercontinental Hotel in New Orleans, the harried clerk apologized profusely—they were completely overbooked. The rooms we reserved weren’t available. She asked if we would mind sharing a suite instead of having separate rooms.  We said “Sure!” because we’re easygoing people, and we were on vacation and having fun. She apologized over and over, but we assured her we were fine with it.

We knew something good had happened when we had to use our key in the elevator to get to the concierge floor and passed the lovely room where they served complimentary munchies and soft-drinks.

Our collective breaths caught as we saw the black-and-white marble-tiled floor of the entryway and the full-length oil painting and large vase of flowers. This was no ordinary suite.  We dropped our bags on the floor and turned right into the living room. It was huge! Fireplace, couches, television, elegant tables and chairs, a dining table set for ten in the dining room, and a full kitchen behind that. The balcony alone was bigger than the usual hotel room. The master bedroom was huge, with a gorgeous four-poster bed, and the master bath had a whirlpool bathtub and another television. We were jumping up and down with “oohs” and “ahhs”.

We had been given a free upgrade to the Presidential Suite that goes for $2,000 a night!

Live it up! What secret goal do you want but are afraid to name because you can’t see how you would ever get it, how you would qualify for it? Want to put High-Roller Suite on your list even if you’re not a High-Roller? Or an overnight stay at Buckingham Palace, even if you’re not royalty?

Make travel a top priority, put your dreams on your budget, and you’ll create a life full of beautiful, happy memories. Bon Voyage!

Chellie Campbell is the creator of the Financial Stress Reduction® Workshops, and author, From Worry to Wealthy: A Woman’s Guide to Financial Success Without the Stress. She has been prominently quoted as a financial expert in the Los Angeles Times, Good Housekeeping, Lifetime, Essence, Woman’s World and more than 50 popular books. 

Want another way to fund your travels? Enter the We Said Go Travel Writing Competition 2015!

Share your story and have a chance at $650usd in cash prizes!

PHOTOS from Chellie Campbell:

1 Ships in the harbor at Dubrovnik

2 Black sand beach at Santorini, Greece

 3 Bobbi, Shelley and Chellie at Villa D’Este outside Rome, Italy

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Israel: Home Enough For Hummus.

“Welcome to your homeland!” Our Birthright tour guide Zvi exclaimed to my group of 40 other international Jews upon our disembarkation in Israel. We were among the few who didn’t cancel their trip during this particularly volatile time. Hamas was firing a steady barrage of rockets, most of which were intercepted by Israel’s Iron Dome defense system. Hotels were begging for business, and Tel Avivians subdued their trademark nightclubbing nature to calibrate with national somberness.

The first day greeted us with a series of gunshots drifted across The Old City skies. I was in the midst of bargaining with an enthusiastic Arab jeweler when the loud sounds cracked and my sense of security faltered. He laid out some gems on the table and cheerfully said, “Dear Jewess, don’t be afraid. If it were dangerous, I wouldn’t be here. It’s graduation time! We celebrate by firing shots in the air. ”

Zvi told me the next day. “Muslims will say, ‘how was the wedding yesterday?’ They’ll reply, ‘It was fantastic; only 3 people got shot.’ “

Then the rockets caused four israeli defense force casualties. We were taking cover in a well equipped kibbutz when Zvi rifted into a Captain Willard persona type a la Apocalypse Now. He collected cigarettes from the chatty periphery while gazing to the Golan heights’ leaky moon, so dedicatedly asking it for a mortal favors.

Birthright can make someone who once looked at the country from afar adopt patriotism so strong that he/she would put life on the line to defend a place they only visited for ten days. One of the fallen soldiers was a birthright alumni, which was very difficult news to sallow for Zvi.

Judaism isn’t very strict. It’s a big, all-inclusive (kosher catering) supermarket. There’s many aisles (Orthodox/Haredi, Traditional, Conservative/Masorti, Reformed/Progressive, Reconstructionist.)  Some people stay in one aisle, others will shop all the aisles. The only mistake one could make is skipping this very special supermarket and finding your niche of suitable beliefs.

“With our inventions, we’ve saved over 100 times as many people as we’ve had to kill in defense. They can keep throwing rockets at us. I say that because we believe no matter what, we should be a light to all nations. And you know what we say about the Palestinians. They never miss an opportunity to miss an opportunity.” That was Zvi’s final declaration to us about the triumph of Israel and the shortcomings of its neighbors.

When the rest of birthrighters boarded back to New York with a newfound connection to Israeli strife, I extended my stay and drove up to Nazareth “the Arab capital of Israel” the next day. It was during the last day of Ramadan and the roads were a bright light show with balconies flickering festively and bumper to bumper halogen headlights blinding me from seeing where the sidewalk started.  Driving closer into the center city, Hebrew signs morphed into Arabic and the pedestrian garb went from yarmulkes and shtreimels to hijabs and gurkhas.

If heroism can be simply defined as great bravery, then the perseverance of Israel and Palestine is just that. But conflicts of geographical and religious magnitude are seldom resolved with diplomatic servings of scotch in wainscot boardrooms. The hate is palpable in the media, but most civilians seem moderate. Extremism is promoted, along with the political stubbornness.

Courage and grace are in high demand and lowly stocked for the political powers that be. How can one possibly empathize when the other side’s set of metaphorical shoes needed for walking are separated by shrapnel and heavily guarded walls? The only thing left for me to do is refrain from righteousness, realize that this mess could have happened in the US, and maintain empathy for everybody.

There’s going to be plenty more bad days for these people, and no ancient text or pity treaties can excuse the turmoil on both sides. Despite all their differences, you could see all the religions sitting next to one another with their individual falafels from Nazareth nights to The Four Holy Cities at prayer time. For morale’s sake, I’ll be naive and heartily believe that first step to resolving fights and feasting alike.

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