Lisa Niver's Blog: We Said Go Travel, page 342
January 1, 2015
Gra-Turk-Tude: Embracing the pain in Istanbul, Turkey
Fifteen hours – for some, it sounds like a horrendously long bus ride from Skopje, Macedonia to Istanbul, Turkey. Yet, it was the shortest bus ride during my six-month solo backpacking trip in China and Southeast-Central Europe.
Six months ago in early March this year, I quit my well-paying job in Malaysia and packed my bags to set out on a grand adventure (that was what I envisioned). To cut a long story short, I felt more alive than ever except for a few hiccups here and there along the way.
Three weeks before my flight from Istanbul to return to Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, my family and friends’ worries became reality. When it happened, all I can say was ‘Perhaps, Lady Luck ain’t smiling down’.
It wasn’t a case of getting mugged. The painful near-rape experience in Kosovo ruined my trip and became a nightmare. It happened too quickly and I was shocked.
Since I was due to return home soon, I did not want to cause trouble and left for Skopje early morning after the traumatising episode. The incident didn’t dawn on me until a few days later when I realised what happened. I hated myself because I did not lodge a police report.
Being alone on the road meant I could not share it with anyone because I felt too embarrassed. I made numerous Skype calls back home and cried secretly in the hostel.
Finally, I have to leave and travel to Istanbul for my flight back home soon. Sobbing quietly during the 15-hour bus journey, I couldn’t wait to reach my hostel in Istanbul just so I can hide and do not have to face the world. Last minute change of plans, when I found two couchsurfing hosts in Istanbul.
Just when I thought things couldn’t get worse, I was clearly wrong. Another traumatising episode happened on this Wicked Wednesday, exactly a week after the first incident. As my first host stayed far from the city centre, I had to take two buses to reach his house. On the way, as the bus that I was in, stopped some 100 metres away from a pedestrian bridge, a terrifying accident happened.
Before it happened, I was trying hard to hold back my tears in the public. As I was looking out the window to my left, I saw a truck rammed into the pedestrian bridge with a loud ‘Bang’ and it collapsed. A few people fell from the bridge.
The accident was shocking and it was the last straw that pulled me down. I started crying in the bus that caught the attention of the driver and other passengers. Some offered me bottle water and tried their best to console me. They were strangers, but their acts of sincere kindness gave me reassurance that there are Good Samaritans out there.
When I finally reached my destination, I felt depressed. It was in the outskirts and all I did was starved myself and cried. I left after two days when I sensed negative vibes from my host. I was sceptical to meet my second host after the not-so-happy encounter with the first host.
The first meeting with my second host wasn’t as smooth as I had expected. I could not control myself and started crying when he, Serkan, came over to greet me. He was afraid and concerned at the same time. Minutes later, I met another couchsurfer, Kristina from Germany, and then, we took a cab back to Serkan’s place. Again, I cried when Kristina exchanged greetings with me.
Little did I know, they changed my perception on how I viewed the traumatising incidents. As I could no longer hold back my emotions, I poured my hearts out to them. Understanding perfectly describes Kristina, while, Serkan is generous and warm-hearted.
They persuaded me to eat, to the extent of looking after me whenever they are around especially Serkan. Days after ‘torturing’ myself through starvation and self-blaming for what has happened to me, I decided to put an end to it.
Both might not realised how their simple actions can bring me tears of joy but I found peace and serenity whenever they are around. While millions throng to Istanbul for the glitzy Grand Bazaar and historically beautiful Hagia Sophia, Istanbul is different to me.
A simple act of giving me bottle water, Kristina passing me a packet of tissue and Serkan’s heart-warming words of ‘I just want to help’ meant a lot to me. If it weren’t for their unbelievable generosity, I might be crying home onboard in the flight back to Malaysia. Istanbul is the place where I broke down in front of strangers and also, learnt to accept the past.
Picture: The balcony (I cried here) overlooking other apartments in Koca Mustafa Pasa in Serkan’s house.
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Thanksgiving Refections from the Road in the USA
I left the U.S. on August 1 for a grand adventure. Many thought I was foolish. Others thought I was unique. Some told me that they were a bit jealous. And, a few saw me as just plain crazy (including myself, at times!). There have been those who support my journey and those that dismiss it. However, for me, this trip has been more than seeing amazing things and meeting incredible people—it has been a chance to remember who I am again.
Perhaps, I lost myself a bit in shuffling papers, endless meetings, and making lists of local parking garage rates for my superiors. Maybe, it was in all of the negativity that I heard from many of my “friends,” particularly on social media, about everything I worked for while in politics. It could have been some of the uncomfortable moments during which I lost respect for many of those that I should have admired and looked up to. Or, maybe it was just the days filled to the brim with things to do that were never actually accomplishing much of anything. While there were moments of me in the midst of this, I feel that they were fleeting and overpowered by everything else that swirled around me. Life seemed to become one long to do list that I never made much headway on.
Making the decision to go was not an easy one. I had what seemed to be a good job. I had real friends who I was sad to part with. I lived in a city that I loved. My family wasn’t too far away. I had built a good life for myself. But, it wasn’t enough. There were too many things that I was not satisfied with. There were too many days that I felt were wasted. There was something more than the life I was living. And, knowing this, how could I stay? Despite the difficulty in leaving, I knew that something had to change.
Flash forward four months… Life on the road has been far from life in the U.S. The longest that I’ve stayed anywhere in the past few months as been seven nights (and that only happened once) and usually it’s just two nights before I’m off to the next place. Every day is a challenge. Nothing is easy. But, life is amazing. While I don’t experience a life changing moment each day, every day I’m inspired. Some days by natural wonders. Other days by ancient ruins. And, many more, by the kindness and compassion of the people around me.
Rather than traveling to find myself, this journey has enabled me to remember who I am. I am freckle-faced dreamer who loves adventure and can’t stay in one place for too long. I love life on the road, not knowing exactly what’s going to happen next. I love photography and trying to capture just a moment of all that is wonderful (and not so wonderful) in the world. I love to be surrounded by those who are defying norms and changing the world and doing what I can to be a part of their work. I love to be “in the field”, side by side with those who are thinking of new ways to challenge poverty and injustice in our world. I love spending every day with the person I love—from sunrise to sunset, when I’m at my best and when I’m at my worst. In all of this, I remember what it is to be alive. To be a part of the human race. To be fighting for a better world for all of us.
This Thanksgiving, I am thankful for so many things and also sad that I am not with my family and friends in the U.S. who do mean so much to me. But, most of all, I’m thankful for this opportunity to travel the world and thankful that it has helped me to remember who I am.
Happy Thanksgiving from Turkey,
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Matt Goss in Beverly Hills at Spaghettini
ettini & The Dave Koz Lounge was incredible!Often, choosing a venue with great performances means you will be eating sub-par food. Or if you pick phenomenal food, then there’s no entertainment. But Los Angeles has provided a five-star solution.
In Beverly Hills, you can have your cake and eat, it too; it even comes with music at Spaghettini and the Dave Koz Lounge.
VIDEO: from his Los Angeles show Dec 18, 2014
A photo posted by Lisa Niver (@wesaidgotravel) on Dec 12, 2014 at 10:53am PST
Listening to @iammattgoss swoon @spaghettinibeverlyhills!#beverlyhills @lovebevhills
A photo posted by Lisa Niver (@wesaidgotravel) on Dec 12, 2014 at 10:18pm PST
A photo posted by Lisa Niver (@wesaidgotravel) on Dec 12, 2014 at 10:56pm PST
A photo posted by Lisa Niver (@wesaidgotravel) on Dec 12, 2014 at 5:26pm PST
A photo posted by Lisa Niver (@wesaidgotravel) on Dec 12, 2014 at 5:42pm PST
A photo posted by Lisa Niver (@wesaidgotravel) on Dec 12, 2014 at 8:12pm PST
A photo posted by Lisa Niver (@wesaidgotravel) on Dec 12, 2014 at 8:16pm PST
Matt reached international fame as a singer enjoying more than a decade of success and more than 17 million records sold Worldwide. His debut album “Push” went 7-times platinum, spawned 13 top-5 hits, and remained in the U.K. charts for an amazing 84 weeks! His record-setting video surpassed the making of Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” and he went on to sell-out the iconic Wembley Arena for 15 consecutive nights. Matt is still the youngest man to ever headline Wembley stadium! (70,000 people). He was the first since Elvis to knock himself off the number one spot in Australia, and held the number one spot in 22 countries simultaneously!
In addition to his successful recording career, in 2005 Matt released his autobiography “More than you Know”, achieving best-seller status in the coveted London Sunday Times. He has gone on to focus on songwriting, including writing the theme for the smash FOX program “So You Think You Can Dance” and the hit song “Change Me” for Keri Hilson and Akon, which is featured on Hilson’s chart-topping album “In a Perfect World”. Matt’s song “Lovely Las Vegas” was used by NASCAR to support the 2011 campaign.
Matt currently lives in Los Angeles and was recently selected by LA Confidential Magazine as one of “LA’s Most Eligible Bachelors”. He has just been named the sexiest man alive in Vegas by CBS news, and has also just finished an editorial piece for LA Confidential where he was profiled as one of six leading industry changers in Los Angeles.
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December 31, 2014
Walking the Hills of Wales, UK
It’s the same walk but every day it’s different. Yesterday the mountains were shrouded in mist and I walked in steady drizzle; today the sun is shining and the bright yellow of the beech leaves contrasts sharply with the blue of the autumn sky. It’s still damp underfoot, however, and I slip and slide as I climb the muddy mountain path.
Table Mountain. We call it a mountain but my French friends, used to higher and more imposing Alpine scenery, allow themselves a quiet laugh when I confess that our mountain stands at just 1,479ft; indeed, the highest mountain in South Wales, Pen-y-Fan, struggles to top 2,906ft. But the low altitude is deceptive. Wales’ grandiose and sometimes bleak upland landscapes certainly feel higher and more remote than they are. As I make my way across the farmland, the ground rises steadily and the old market town of Crickhowell and the lush Usk valley can be seen clearly behind me. The noise of the traffic falls away and soon I can hear no more than the occasional call of a buzzard and the sound of the wind in the trees. I am quite alone.
When we first moved to Crickhowell I was terrified of walking the hills alone, convinced that mad axemen lay around every corner and that danger lurked behind every hedgerow. But I soon realised that my need for fresh air and open landscapes far exceeded that of my husband and that if I wanted to walk every day, then occasionally I would have to set out on my own. I started with the easy footpaths which had direct access to roads and from which houses were visible and, eventually, after a few weeks of walking these and returning home unscathed, I decided I was ready for the hills.
18 years on, it’s hard to remember this fear. Being alone in the hills has become essential to my well-being and for me part of the joy of walking is experiencing the comforting, ever-changing natural landscapes around my home. I climb to the top of the last field, cross the stile and follow the rocky path under a canopy of trees, where the final few leaves of autumn cling to the stark bare branches. Yesterday’s rain has made a stream of the footpath and I’m forced to edge along the muddy bank, making my way slowly from one dry patch of land to the next. Then suddenly the footpath ends and the view opens out to the last steep rise of the mountain, the flat top of the Iron-Age hill fort which is known to locals as Table Mountain, yet marked on the map by the Welsh name which it shares with the town – Crug Hywel or Hywel’s Rock.
From here, walkers can choose a gentler ascent, skirting the base of the hill, but I prefer the shorter, steeper climb through the burnished-copper bracken, scrambling up the very last stretch of footpath across rocks and boulders, to pull myself up onto the flat summit where all is silent and grandiose. I stand still and take in the view of the mountains: directly ahead the impressive ridge of Pen Carreg Calch, a vast expanse of peat and heather grazed by semi-wild Welsh ponies and hundreds of sheep; to the north-west, the jagged outline of the Beacons; to the south-east, the distinctive cone of the Sugar Loaf which towers above Abergavenny. The sun is starting to dip now, the sharp light creating long winter shadows across the fields, and despite the effort of the climb I’m aware of the falling temperature.
I am alone, apart from the sheep and the occasional raven or buzzard. I breathe in the fresh mountain air and feel rooted, content and at home – after years of travel and residence abroad I have found a base in this beautiful part of my homeland and I feel deeply grateful to be here. And although there’s not another human being in sight, I find that I am not afraid. I have lost my fear of walking alone in the hills.
About the Author
Helen Isaacs works as a tour guide leading groups through Wales, France and Italy. She is also a professional translator who specialises in travel literature from her base in the market town of Crickhowell, in the Brecon Beacons National Park in Wales, UK.
Thank you for reading and commenting. Please enter the Gratitude Travel Writing competition and tell your story.
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Thank You Saint Anthony; Italy
“It happened again, Lu. Sally backed out of the trip just as we were to send a check.”
“What? Again?”
“I don’t know if I’ll ever get to Rome. I so wanted to be surrounded by the history of our grandparents.”
“That’s a shame.”
“Gotta go. Talk to you next week.”
As I hung up, I took out the vacuum. The phone rang again.
“Hi Ro, Tom overheard our conversation. He is willing to treat me to a trip to Rome with you! What do ya think?”
“I was just feeling sorry for myself but this is even better news. I’ll be there with my sister! Thank Tom for me!”
This was January and as we were moving closer to June we were getting more and more excited.
We were at JFK airport in New York and slowly walking to the gate. It was a night flight and we made sure we had no caffeine all day so we could sleep on the plane. The weather was warm and sunny when we landed as were our dispositions. Everyone we met was friendly and smiling.
We toured the Vatican gardens and museum and spent time in the lovely Saint Peter’s Basilica. There is something to be said for standing in a revered place and contemplating about its history and present day function. We spent lots of silent time drinking in the magnificence of the architecture and art works. The Sistine Chapel kept us in awe that day as we craned our heads to peer at each painting of Adam and God the Father, and the other figures. We did not want to leave as we were herded through after about thirty minutes, all in silence. The recordings emphasized that the moisture from our voices would affect the paintings. Thinking back keeping quiet was just what we should have done to take in the brilliance of the fresco.
I must admit that our scheduled trip to Padua did not seem so special to me until we pulled into the square (piazza). I remarked to myself that this was the prettiest of all we had seen so far because of the white marble statues lining the manicured square. Then we were told about the relics of Saint Anthony and how these were in the Church named after him. I became queasy as we were encouraged to view the relics as we moved through the Church. Then something unusual happened. As we were moving along, a Swedish woman, pushed my sister and spoke so all could hear, “You Americans are so pushy.” We were all being jostled along. I was angry that this woman said this but my sister looked at me and kept silent, as not to start a scene.
At that moment, something very strong and unusual happened inside of me. I had a compelling feeling about my youngest brother and my mother. They had had a falling out that lasted over a year and were not talking. Mom was battling cancer and my family had been praying that they would reconcile. At that moment, I knew that they would reunite. It was that strong. I had to buy a Saint Anthony medal in the gift shop, something I did not do anywhere else.
Later on I told my sister about my strong feelings. She said, “I hope you’re right, for Mom’s sake.”
When we returned home and visited with our parents, I told my mother about my experience. She wanted to know when it would happen. I just kept saying that I knew that they would reconcile and gave her the medal for safe keeping. “Give the medal back to me when it happens.”
Months later, Mom received the worst news that any cancer patient can hear. The cancer had spread to her other organs. When she called to tell me the news, I began to sob and couldn’t stop. My husband offered to call my brother. The next night we hurried dinner so we could visit with my parents. Soon after we arrived, my youngest brother and family walked in. There were hugs and smiles all around where there had been arguments. It was a joyous occasion and one that helped buoy my mother’s spirits despite the bad medical news. After that day, He was back visiting with Mom whenever he could.
After he left that night, I asked Mom if she knew where the Saint Anthony medal was. “I knew this would happen, I said.”
Then I remembered something I knew once. Saint Anthony is the patron saint of the lost. My brother was lost and then found in a small town in Italy called Padua.
Thank you for reading and commenting. Please enter the Gratitude Travel Writing competition and tell your story.
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Barton G: Celebrate in Tasty Style
Barton G: Celebrate in Tasty StyleWondering where to celebrate in Los Angeles? Bring your party to Barton G for a night of tempting tasty morsels presenting in a way you never imagined! This place will inspire you to play with your food.
Barton G arrived in Los Angeles in June 2014 and is fine dining joined with fun dining. Each meal is a memorable experience, which fulfills all the senses with enticing fragrances, extraordinary food and over-the-top presentations. After years of success on South Beach in Florida, the restaurant created by Barton G. Weiss is now also on La Cienega in Los Angeles.
Whether it is your birthday, anniversary or just a regular day, you will remember you night at Barton G!
VIDEO: Barton G: A restaurant and Theater of Food
Starting with the Electra, Jala-migo and the nitro-bar “Diamonds are forever!” Happy birthday Dad!
A photo posted by Lisa Niver (@wesaidgotravel) on Dec 12, 2014 at 7:08pm PST
Laughing bird popcorn shrimp with sriracha oil and sweet sesame dipping sauces. @barton_g_la #art is food, food is art. A photo posted by Lisa Niver (@wesaidgotravel) on Dec 12, 2014 at 7:27pm PST
A photo posted by Lisa Niver (@wesaidgotravel) on Dec 12, 2014 at 8:07pm PST
Fantastic presentation and taste: Blooming black cod: Alaskan cod with fingerling potatoes and sprouting broccoli A photo posted by Lisa Niver (@wesaidgotravel) on Dec 12, 2014 at 8:21pm PST
A photo posted by Lisa Niver (@wesaidgotravel) on Dec 12, 2014 at 8:30pm PST
Marie Antoinette’s head– Let them eat cake: over the top cotton candy surrounded by Petit Cakes #foodart @barton_g_la A photo posted by Lisa Niver (@wesaidgotravel) on Dec 12, 2014 at 9:12pm PST
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December 30, 2014
A Decade of Departure around the World
A Decade of Departures
I left home as soon as I was able. It had never been a happy place and the often violent streets of Belfast offered little respite. I therefore spent much of my childhood in my room, longing for elsewhere, learning to spell the names of countries as I leafed through my father’s well-worn hard-backed atlas.
When I was eighteen I enrolled at university and took the boat to Scotland. I was reasonably happy there, but every night before bed I would sit and gaze at the maps I had pinned on my wall. After graduation my friends all started settling into careers and communities, marriages and mortgages. I, however, made preparations for departure: crossing the sea had failed to cure me of my lust for leaving. So I divested myself of almost everything I owned, packed the remainder into a backpack, and took a train to the airport and a plane to Paris.
But even the city of light soon lost its lustre, and six months later I was standing on the platform of the Gare de Lyon waiting for a train to Geneva. Every morning for the next year I spent staring out of my chalet windows at the seven peaks of Les Dents Du Midi. At first, I found comfort in their permanence but eventually I began to resent them for hemming me in. Once again, it was time to leave. As the primroses and buttercups were starting to fade, I got on a plane bound for the New World.
New York City thrilled me. On my first evening, I walked from my lodgings on 79th St. all the way to Battery Park and back. Everything I’d heard was truer and more real than I’d ever imagined: the streets were straighter, the towers were taller, the crosswalks more crowded. But I grew restive in the restless city and once again packed my bag and boarded a westbound bus.
Some three thousand miles later and I had swum and shivered in Lake Michigan, hiked through the snow to Yellowstone hot-springs, and marvelled at Seattle’s sleepless skyline. But in no place and at no time did I consider stopping, settling.
My momentum impelled me across the Pacific to New Zealand. ‘The land of the long white cloud’ was as beautiful as everyone had said, but its beauty was wasted on me. When I wasn’t at work or out hiking the Hobbited hills, I was at the library poring over travel books and magazines – dreaming once again of elsewhere. Once I’d saved up enough, I bought a ticket to Seoul.
Maybe in Asia I would find the solace I sought.
I hated it at first, this jumble of a city with enough neon to put Vegas to shame. But eventually, I fell in love with its energy, chaos and confusion. Not to mention its food. If I think too much about it, I sometimes wonder why I left, but in the moment, restlessness was reason enough.
Within weeks, I found myself on a ferry from Vancouver to a small island with an entire population comparable to that of my apartment building in Seoul. I tended chickens and ate home-grown, home-cooked food. And even though I was actually quite content I would still wander down to the shore from time to time to think about the world beyond. And soon enough, those thoughts became too powerful to ignore.
As I packed, I took a picture of my belongings laid out on the bed: a few clothes, toothbrush and razor, water-bottle, pencil-case and notebooks. During the months and years that I had been travelling, I hadn’t taken a single photograph of the sights I had seen or the places I had been. It was in this moment that I realised, as Hermann Hesse had once written, that “a magic dwells in every new beginning”. It was not the places that had brought me solace, but the spaces between the places. It was these in-between moments – packing my possessions, closing my bag, hoisting it onto my back – which thrilled me.
And it was in such moments that I was able to hope, breathe and dream.
Thank you for reading and commenting. Please enter the Gratitude Travel Writing competition and tell your story.
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Eye on the lighthouse in South Africa
Some of the time there’s a shade of light that can’t be defined or replicated, certainly not in the Instagram picture I’m about to upload unfiltered. Often it’s the luminescence of the water that makes me stop and look, as the waves etch their white foam between the blue – or is it green… or turquoise? – blanket that covers the sand. It’s always the salty smell of the sea, the fine spray that takes me by surprise every time I round the bend on a blustery day. If I’ve braved foggier conditions, I may even be jolted out of my skin by the blast of the fog horn as I make my way around the arc where the lighthouse stands, unwavering, day in and day out, a guiding beacon of light and assurance to to whatever may be heading to shore from way out there in the vast Atlantic.
It’s when I’m walking in the early morning, the sun having just kissed the seaboard that wraps around the rocky outcrop called Lion’s Head beneath which I live, that I feel inspired, that I feel strong and hopeful, even when everything around me shouts that it should be otherwise.
Life on the southern tip of Africa
Living on the southern tip of Africa is complicated. We have a history that the whole world knows and somewhat reveres. We got rid of apartheid, the lawful segregation of and discrimination against people according to their race. We made a peaceful transition. We didn’t descend into civil war like so many other African countries have done. We are not your average African country at all. We are South Africa, and we set the example to the world that this peaceful co-existence thing can be done. Or so it should be. But of course those of us who live here know what is true. While we live surrounded by beauty, and most of the people who call this place home are good, solid, peace-loving people, our government is riddled with corruption and there is some very real danger out there. Just ask our national soccer captain Senzo Meyiwa . Right. You can’t. He was shot and killed near Johannesburg, apparently over a cell phone.
However we are not designed to live in despair, and it’s not fair to say we are going about our daily lives as if we were in the “Wild West” although you would be forgiven for sometimes believing it should you stay tuned to the news.
Magic of Cape Town
Life in Cape Town defies the doomsayers and casts its spell. You feel a sense of deep gratitude for having as a stage this naturally beautiful landscape.
It’s when I walk, mostly at a brisk pace, along the Sea Point promenade, characterised by its lighthouse and green spaces, that I’m inclined to slow down now and again just to take it all in, to breathe in lungfuls of the ocean air, and to feel thankful for being part of this great big scheme of things.
I am reminded that we are small, but significant sparks in the greater light of this universe. We each have a purpose – it is our journey to find it. And so we keep walking, searching, day in and day out, wherever the road leads.
As I make my way along the paved seafront I feel the heels and soles of my feet connect firmly to the ground as my soul reaches up to the unknown, where all is good and as it should be, where we all connect and are whole. Some of the time it’s a glimpse of refracted light through the water sprinklers showering the green lawns, or it may be the shock of an explosion of sea spray on my face that turns on my gratitude sensor, and reminds me to keep my eye on that red and white lighthouse, that beacon of hope that is there, always there, no matter the weather or mood, to show me the way.
Thank you for reading and commenting. Please enter the Gratitude Travel Writing competition and tell your story.
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Happy Nearly New Year: Dec News 2014
Lisa Niver at Sofitel Hotel December 2014
2014 has been a roller-coaster year for me. I was listed as a top Travel Tweeter for 2015, one of the Sexiest Female Travelers Alive 2014 and I came home from Asia alone.
I joined and performed with one of 10-time world champion Cristian Oviedo’s salsa teams and was the host of an Orbitz special in Bermuda. I was lead teacher for Nickelodeon’s brand new show, “Bella and the Bulldogs.”
Dave Koz and Lisa Niver at Gerald Albright Show at Spaghettinis December 26 2014
I signed to freelance with USA Today 10best as a Los Angeles Expert and have been writing for Wharton Business Magazine. One of my articles was the most popular post for 7 days and another one had a twitter reach of 4.1 million.
I met the British Ambassador, cooked with several top hotel chefs at the Beverly Hills Hotel and Luxe Sunset Boulevard Hotel, went to dinner at Dave Koz’s house and met his friends, Matt Goss and Eric Benet as well went to the amazing Gerald Albright show at Spaghettini Beverly Hills.
We Said Go Travel and Ken Budd recieved a Gold SATW award for Budd’s article, Kenya: Holding Elijah. This award is considered the Pulitzer prize of Travel Writing.
I had the sixth writing contest (Fall 2014 Gratitude Travel Writing Contest the entries are being published and winners will be announced in 2015.) And the Winter 2015 Inspiration Travel Writing Contest will open January 2, 2015! I hope you will share a story.
Thank you for all your support this year!
Connect with me on Facebook, Google+, Instagram, LinkedIn, Pinterest, SlideShare, Twitter, and YouTube.
Happy New Year! Lisa
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Are you ready for “The Divorce Diet?”
Enjoy this excerpt from Ellen Hawley’s new book: The Divorce Diet !
This is from a few pages into the first chapter of The Divorce Diet. Abigail’s making a birthday dinner for her husband and a diet dinner for herself.
I drop Rosie off at the neighbor’s and carry my groceries in. It feels odd not to have Rosie in one arm—kind of lonely and off balance.
It also feels free. Light. As if I’ve lost weight already. I’ve been planning this dinner all week and want to give it my full attention.
Step one, then: the cake.
In the double boiler, I melt bittersweet chocolate imported from Belgium, which I’ve been saving for a special occasion. When the last island of solid chocolate gives itself over helplessly to a liquid state, I stir in unsalted butter and they wrap around each other like lovers. I would drown in them willingly.
More than willingly: ecstatically.
I pour in crème de cassis. I’ve never used this before and it’s gorgeous stuff, jewel red and glowing as if it was made of light.
I add egg yolks, espresso powder, flour, thick shavings of white chocolate. When I fold in the egg whites I’ve beaten with salt and sugar, the batter looks like velvet.
Or like sex.
Okay, not exactly like sex, but it does make me think about sex.
Everything makes me think about sex.
Which shouldn’t surprise me, really. It’s been a while.
I set the cake in the oven, melt semisweet chocolate and brush it onto some small, perfect leaves I picked in the back yard, and I balance them in the freezer. I melt more chocolate for the frosting, stir in more butter, and watch them wrap around each other like—can’t I think about anything else this afternoon?—lovers. I stir in the sugar, the cream, the vanilla, and imagine painting Thad’s belly with it even though he doesn’t go for that sort of thing.
I cover the frosting so it won’t harden while I run across the street to pick up Rosie.
She flaps her arms at me and coos.
I pick her up and say, “Are you Mama’s gorgeous baby?”
She says, “Mmm ba ba ba ba.”
“And I missed you too.”
I thank my neighbor and carry Rosie to my kitchen, where I put a fingerful of frosting on her tongue and one on my own. . . .
I take the cake out of the oven and put Thad’s potato in, and I nurse Rosie and wash Rosie and walk Rosie and lower Rosie into her crib. I put clean sheets on the bed, turn down the corner on Thad’s side, and arrange candles in a romantic configuration on the bedside table.
By the time I’m done, I’ve completely seduced myself. How could he not feel the same way? . . .
At seven-thirty I light the candles on the dining room table so they’ll be burning when Thad walks in. He’s had to work late a lot recently; it’s no wonder he’s been cranky. Starting today, I will be more understanding.
By eight I’ve blown the candles out so they won’t burn down too far.
When he gets home at nearly eight-thirty, I relight them.
Dinner: For me, marinated skinless chicken breast that may or may not weigh 3 ounces; salad with no dressing; slice of cake no bigger across than the width of my thumb because it would be rude to make Thad eat birthday cake by himself, and besides, I don’t want to insult the cook. For Thad, chicken breast with sour cream gravy; baked potato; sort-of Caesar salad with homemade dressing; French bread with unsalted butter; slice of cake.
I pick at my chicken breast, which tastes . . . like industrial residue. . . .
Ellen Hawley
By contrast, the bare-naked lettuce tastes great.
Thad looks miserable and picks at his food. . . .
Keeping my voice casual, I ask, “Is something wrong?”
He shrugs dismally.
Okay, this isn’t the time for casual. I lean forward and say, “Thad, tell me. What is it?” I sound so understanding that it’s a wonder I have to ask. I would tell me anything.
He mashes cake into the plate with his fork and looks into the mess he’s made. He looks at his napkin, his coffee spoon, his watchband. They’re all easier to look at than I am.
“Sweetheart,” I say. “Whatever it is—”
I can’t seem to find the end of my sentence.
“It’s not you,” he says. “Really. It’s me.”
I have a very bad feeling about this.
He looks up. He says, “Okay, I’m going to come right out and say this, okay? I’m just going to say this. It’s this whole marriage thing. It doesn’t work for me.”
. . . I know things aren’t perfect, but there is no way this can possibly mean what it means.
I stare at Thad blankly. My mind shuts down and my body stands up. It walks to the window and looks out. The tree outside has leaves. Each leaf is separate and perfect. I have never seen leaves as purely as I see them at this instant. I never knew they were so beautiful.
I turn around and see Thad, who is separate but not perfect and who has chocolate smeared on the corner of his mouth.
I have to say something. My marriage depends on me saying something.
I say, “But why?”
Which is not the thing I need to say. I know that.
“It’s not you,” Thad says again.
I say, “What do you mean it’s not me?” and I know this isn’t the right thing either but it says itself. The words coming out of my mouth have nothing more to do with me than the way Thad feels about this marriage thing. They wandered in from the conversation every couple in the country have when they split up, tagging behind It’s not you, it’s me like a pesky little sister.
Any minute now, he’ll ask if we can’t still be friends.
Except that we can’t be splitting up. Other people do that. The two of us, we’ll be fine.
“It’s just—. I’m having trouble with the whole idea of marriage,” Thad says.
Oh. Well. Of course. Imagine my relief.
Thad’s staring at the table. At the dishes, actually, so I snatch them away and hustle them off to the kitchen as if all of this was their fault.
I set them down harder than I meant to.
It’s okay, I tell myself. None of this is really happening.
Thad’s plate is thick with mashed-up cake and I scrape a finger through it.
Snack: Mashed-up cake Thad didn’t eat.
Exercise: I tell myself to go back out there and fight for him.
I wipe my fingers on the dishrag, blow my nose and march into the living room, ready for battle.
Thad’s turned on the TV.
“You can’t just end the marriage and not tell me what’s wrong,” I say.
“Nothing’s wrong. It’s me. It’s all me.”
“Please,” I say, “just tell me. Whatever it is, I’d rather know.”
He stares at the floor. Somebody on the TV laughs.
“Will you talk to me?” I say. “Don’t you owe me that much?”
He tells me again that it’s all his fault. I’m sure he’s right about this, but it’s not the point.
I stomp into the kitchen and wash dishes, then stomp back to the living room.
“What about Rosie?” I say. “You can’t leave Rosie.”
He tells me what a shit he is.
I don’t try to convince him that he isn’t.
I stalk back to the kitchen and cut myself a slice of cake. . . .
By the time I get back to the living room, Thad’s making a bed on the couch. The TV’s still on.
“You’re better off without me,” he says. “It hasn’t been much fun for either of us lately.”
“It hasn’t?” I say, sounding as if this was news to me, which in a way it is. Yes, we’ve been snappish and critical and less than ecstatically happy, but that happens to people. It doesn’t mean we have to end our marriage thing.
I take the cake out of the oven.
Snack: 1 slice of cake the width of my palm.
Exercise: I double wrap what’s left of the cake and hide it in the laundry hamper, where even if I do think to look for it I’d never eat it, and I take myself to bed.
The empty side of the bed stretches out beside me like the Gobi Desert. Even in the dark I can make out the unlit candles on the bedside table.
He could at least have told me what a nice meal I made before he said he was leaving, I think.
Abigail Marie, I think, you are such an idiot.
He can’t leave me, I think. He has the only income.
I roll over and try to stop thinking.
I am twenty-five years old, I think, and my world is ending.
I lie awake for a long time, wishing I was asleep, and at some point either I wake up or else I stop trying to sleep, I can’t tell which, and I walk to the living room, where I listen to Thad snore.
He’s sleeping, I think.
I’m not sleeping, I think.
That is so not fair, I think.
I cut a slice of cake the width of my foot and drop it on his face.
He flails around, then sits up, yelling, “You bitch! You want to know why I want out of our marriage? This is why I want out our marriage.”
I stand in the dark and listen to him yell but he might as well be someone else’s husband yelling somewhere down the street.
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