Lisa Niver's Blog: We Said Go Travel, page 391

Balloons Over Cappadocia, Turkey

Maybe you never should have trusted a hot air balloon company whose name translates as Balloon Balloons. Maybe you should have backed out when the sunrise tour became the brunch tour. “Everybody in the basket,” the mustached Turk claps his hands. You and your best friend beeline for the balloon, trying to get a “window” seat. You congratulate yourselves on a successful mission and then wind punches the balloon in the gut and the basket starts to tip towards Earth. All available Turkish men grab on, trying to right the ship, but there’s no stopping it. “Everybody out” claps the mustache again, “Out, out, get out!”

You jump out of harms way as the balloon collapses on the sand, knocks over the basket and spreads primary colors across the pink landscape. The Turks work tirelessly, igniting the enormous rocket flame, begging the balloon to inflate. Men walk inside, pushing nylon canvas up to help it catch hot air. Others walk the perimeter, spreading out kinks and keeping the nylon from snagging on the wild terrain.

Lonely Planet tells you ancient volcanic eruptions created Cappadocia: layers of ash mud and lava formed soft rocks and centuries of rain and wind erosion carved those rocks into isolated pillars with hard tops and soft bottoms. These formations, called “fairy chimneys,” are pinnacle-shaped geologic wonders (on UNESCO’s World Heritage List) that brought you to Göreme National Park in the first place. You confirm this with an attractive Australian whose face helps pass time and ease nervousness as other companies enjoy successful lift-offs, balloon after balloon. Finally, hot air fills enough of your balloon to right the basket and the mustache claps his hands, “Everybody in.”

Only two people fill the corner pocket while four are expected to fill the central ones. So you sprint for the corner and win. Another successful mission! And you’re next to the Australian – double win! You peer into the balloon, watch the flame blast upward, feel the heat on your scalp. You inspect the carabineers and question Middle Eastern safety regulations. But before you ask, another gust of wind repositions the basket and everyone lets out a little scream. “Is this safe?” you ask the mustache. More wind and the balloon dives towards the Earth. The mustache screams “Everybody out” again and you jump to safety, again.

The Turks choose a new launch and third time’s a charm so what the heck, you’re already here. You eat an energy bar and continue flirting with the Australian while they drag the basket down the hill. You are on vacation, why are you worried about whether you signed a waiver or whether death and dismemberment is part of your lousy health insurance? You decide death won’t be so bad in this implausible landscape next to a dashing hunk and your best friend. Plus, the new launch is working and the balloon is righting itself, the only soft curve against a horizon of jagged edges.

You don’t wait for the hand-clapping Turk. You claim the corner pocket and once the basket’s full you feel magical. This is it. You can feel it. The basket lifts off and you decide that no, this probably isn’t safe. However, it’s far smoother than expected. As the balloon swiftly rises above the absurdly phenomenal landscape, the pilot says, “Don’t worry, I’ve been doing this for fifteen years.”

And you certainly hope that’s true because the wind is strong and you’re leaving the valley in a hurry. You snap pictures of other hot air balloons soaring over hoodoos, rising from the red and white canyon like quills on a sun burnt porcupine. You capture what you can but soon you’re over farmland. It doesn’t matter though, because you’re floating in a big wicker basket under a giant rainbow balloon and that is awesome. You also haven’t died yet, which is pretty awesome too. The pilot radios your location to the ground crew and you spot a pickup truck with a trailer racing across the green palate.

The balloon descends with ease but after some back-and-forth radio traffic you realize the pilot and crew are up to something. Indeed, you are correct. The pilot plans to land on the trailer attached to the moving pickup truck. You appreciate Turkish efficiency but start to worry you have jinxed yourself about not having died yet and there is so much left to explore. But that’s a silly way to spend your last moments. So, you pull out your camera and document the impressive feat because, no matter the outcome, you hope someone else can witness this moment: these few seconds, when you’re both floating in a balloon and riding in a trailer, when your basket hovers while the truck scoots under, when you feel like you are between worlds.

 

About the Author: Whitney Mackman runs, writes, and adventures in New Orleans. Her work has been published online and in print. In a past life, she was a very awkward giraffe or a three-legged labrador. She dreams of living in a tree house and mountain biking all over the world.

Thank you for reading and commenting. Please enter our next Travel Writing competition and tell your story.

The post Balloons Over Cappadocia, Turkey appeared first on We Said Go Travel.

Bangkok in the Raw

There’s no real reason to explain why I lost my mind one sunny afternoon in Bangkok.

Maybe it was a vitamin deficiency, a desperate plea for action, or perhaps just a deep longing to get under the tough skin of Thailand’s capital city.

Much like a scabby mosquito bite, Bangkok is an itch you already know shouldn’t be scratched. But digging in with dirty nails is just too tantalizing. Many travelers turn their backs on the city before they find the gold beneath the grime. Maybe because they’re clawing in the wrong places.

One of Bangkok’s motorcycle taxi drivers was lounging against his bike, smoking a cigarette. He was a young man, but like many drivers in Thailand, early wrinkles betrayed far too many hours of dodging death’s polluted tentacles in the madness that is Bangkok traffic.

I first spotted him while walking aimlessly along a street, like any other in Bangkok, strewn with cracked dreams and crushed cigarettes. Why I chose this friendly young man in the faltering afternoon light, I still don’t know. Chaos often comes swiftly and unexpectedly in Bangkok, sometimes without clear reason.

“How fast can you get me to the train station?”

The driver pondered my question for a moment, glanced at the clogged intersection where a masked traffic cop was futilely trying to cull chaos into movement, then answered:

“30 minutes. Traffic. 150 baht.”

He braced for the typical show of disgust at the first price offered; a negotiation was expected to ensue. On the contrary, I actually thought the price was more than fair for the amount of stress I was about to drop on this poor, unsuspecting soul.

“I’ll pay you double if you can get me there in 10 minutes.”

Now, technically, I didn’t lie to the young fellow. He could only assume that because I was in such a hurry that there was a rumbling train and one empty seat waiting to carry me somewhere – but that wasn’t the case. The only ticket I held was for a completely unjustified, potentially wild ride into the toothy maw of a machine that spits out more traffic-related casualties than any other city in the world; an optional tour of Bangkok’s most clogged arteries at high speed.

The driver’s half-finished cigarette bounced in a shower of orange sparks on the pavement. There was no need to verbally answer my dire offer. An expert kick sputtered our scooter to life.

I was barely seated before a throttle twist sent us careening into a vortex of rush-hour traffic. Horns honked and worried faces flashed by in near-disaster swerves. Without hesitation, the driver pointed our front tire at the sidewalk.

Much like the streets, the sidewalk was far from empty. Loose tiles hiding the horrors of Bangkok’s sewers clanked and rattled beneath us. Our horn was never silent. Businessmen fumbled mobile phones to dive for cover; dogs scurried. All sentient beings made way for whatever crazed mission we were pursuing. But no one shouted or complained. No curses or obscene gestures followed in our wake. In true Thai fashion, people even began helping us by urging pedestrians and carts out of the way upon our approach.

For a precious moment, Bangkok pulled aside the heavy curtains and allowed a peek into the hearts of the residents.

My driver was more exhilarated than scared. I caught a sly grin rather than a grimace in one of our mirrors. He was actually enjoying this. Our ride was no longer about the money or the mission. In a blurred, fast-moving microcosm, we were experiencing Bangkok in the raw. Our arrival was dreaded. Two human beings – complete strangers – were locked in an intentional struggle for survival; a dance with dire forces that gave us both a new appreciation for life in this juggernaut of a city.

We slammed to a stop at the entrance of the train station. Unable to give away the thrill just yet, the driver revved the engine with one bonus twist of his gloved right hand. At that moment, he was no longer just another faceless entity among Bangkok’s horde of drivers. No, this 20-something was a legend who had proven that he could indeed dance with the City of Angels and live to tell.

With trembling hands, I tipped the young man well. No words were spoken. Before speeding off, the driver – a stranger with whom I now felt a bond – gave only a helmeted nod and a crazed, burning look from two brown eyes that I’ll never forget.

It was the look of a man who is alive.

About the Author: In 2006, Greg Rodgers climbed out of the Rat Race and hit the open road.

Thank you for reading and commenting. Please enter our next Travel Writing competition and tell your story.

The post Bangkok in the Raw appeared first on We Said Go Travel.

Guatemala: The Beautiful

Guatemala is a beautiful and lovely place whether you are going as a place of tourism or if you are going to work with the young children of the isolated villages. I first was able to experience this mountainous country when I was in the 5th grade. The first place I encountered was an orphanage for children named Casa Aleluya located in San Bartolomé Milpas Altas, Guatemala, where two of my siblings happen to be adopted from.

I have visited the country six times after, but not always to the orphanage. Other place I also visited include: the beautiful artisan markets of Antigua, hiked the incredible volcano Pacaya, visited Chichicastenango, been to Lake Atitlan and visited the village of San Mateo. The city of Antigua was quite loud and complicated, because of the number of people and cars, with many intricate streets lined with shops and restaurants. Antigua also stands in the wake of the shadow of dormant volcano Agua.

From Antigua one can see the views of two other volcanos, which are very active and sometimes emit smoke. The volcano Pacaya was large and difficult to hike as an 11-year old, but turned out enjoyable and exciting, especially feeling as if you’re on top of the world. The trip up the volcano was done horseback, or on foot if you dared, and was around 7,000 feet of a hike. The market city of Chichicastenango was another boisterous and obnoxious city with lots of people shopping.

When I went I had blonde hair and that was seen as a rarity to the Guatemalans and they allowed themselves to feel my hair whenever they pleased because they had not seen it. It was a peculiar thing for me, being 11 years old and having people I didn’t know touch my hair. Lake Atitlan was one of the most beautiful and scariest places I have ever been. When I first went I was deathly afraid of boats, which was seen when we had one take us across the lake to our hotel and it began storming during the boat ride. When we did finally arrive at the hotel we had to hike up 400 steep, curvy steps with only the lights of cell phones (it was nighttime) as the only light source, with a group of 10.

One of the first nights of being at the hotel we actually were able to see a volcano across the lake explode with flowing lava and smoke, which was beautiful at night. We then ventured across the lake to a city, Santiago Atitlan, where there were more markets and many churches, with one hutch that contained the heart of a priest in a box.

The next time I was able to visit Guatemala I was 14 years old, July of two years ago, and my cousins were living in Guatemala working with Clubhouse Guatemala. When I went for two weeks I was able to go with them to the village of San Mateo where we worked with children, providing them with food, games and also candy for their enjoyment. The team also worked with the farmers and cooks of the village, providing them with new stoves that properly disposed of smoke, since most of their previous stoves caused them lung damage.

Going to Guatemala is incredible because of the many features of the country, with beautiful black sand beaches on the Pacific, with the artisan markets and shops of Antigua, with the many volcanoes that are accessible to tourists, and with the many villages where working with the villagers is a privilege.

About the Author: Griffin Dirrim- I am a 16 year old male from Atlanta, GA who enjoys soccer and traveling to Guatemala. I have 4 siblings, three adopted from Guatemala and one biological.

Thank you for reading and commenting. Please enter our next Travel Writing competition and tell your story.

The post Guatemala: The Beautiful appeared first on We Said Go Travel.

A Perfect Place to Mourn in Spain

A Perfect Place to Mourn

She was 8 and here. Always in between the line of life and death but with enough presence to make you forget her status. One day, she crossed the line while no one watched.

New York City is not a decent consoler. Despite the pangs of pain that bombarded my chest and the knot that would not let go of my throat, the city threw memories of her at me. They clung on to my open wounds and burned into them like salt. NYC continued with its obnoxious volume, its heavy odor and its MTA hierarchy. All around, skyscrapers battled to reach the sky. The city does not respect nature, neither does it feelings. My place of birth was not the place to mourn.

Galicia, Spain. I was driven to A Insua upon arrival. The constellations of stars were the only sources of light. They provided just enough to sketch out the thousands of Eucalyptus trees that guarded the sky. While I slept under layers of wool blankets, the Sun rose and fell many times. Sometimes I would get up only to feel the coolness of the tiles at the bottom of my feet. Other times, to cover the cracks of light that made it through the stone walls. On my fourth day, I stepped out into the patio, much bigger than the cottage. The light brought groups of emotionless tears down my cheeks. At the highest point in the sky was the Sun. I laid down on the grass and closed my eyes. The rays of light slept on my skin. Warmth from the soil evaporated into my back. Behind my eyelids, yellow, red, and orange figures danced furiously, and then they came together into one single image. Her. From what I gather now, I got up, walked outside, closed my eyes and watched for over a week. On my 10th day, the ritual would not stick. The screen behind my eyes only reflected figures; it would not give me the image of her. On the grass and under the Sun, I wailed. Echoes of cries were sent back to me by the trees. The vibration of my pain went up my head and down to my toes. In about ten days, the Galician Sun had given her back and took her away. I opened my eyes, ready to confront the sky, to demand it not play with humans in that way. Four mountains stood within the same range without compromising the other. The Sun was gloriously in its place, but it did not opaque. It’s light allowed the beauty of its surroundings to be seen. The clouds stood purposely in their space. It hit me then, that I was in the middle of a beautiful place allowing grief to overpower the current opportunity. I saw that the light had been trying to tell me something from the moment I stepped into the cottage, but I continued to dodge its message. My little sister is everywhere because we are all everything. I can’t see her anymore, but in the quietest of places, when the beauty in nature is so much that it hurts, she’s there. Even complicated grief cannot stop that from happening.

That is how Galicia inspired me to live. That Summer I traveled down Spain and into Morocco solo but not lonely.

About the Author:  Lorraine Avila: A 22 year old Bronx bred girl, who reads for fun, writes to think, travels to learn and recently graduated college…most importantly, she teaches a group of four year old geniuses!

Thank you for reading and commenting. Please enter our next Travel Writing competition and tell your story.

The post A Perfect Place to Mourn in Spain appeared first on We Said Go Travel.

Anthem of the Sea

What has the capacity to carry over 4,000 passengers as well as over 1,600 crew members?  What will offer many first-of-its kind activities at sea, such as a sky-diving simulator, an observation pod with 360 degree views at 300 feet above the ocean and interconnecting rooms with virtual balconies?  If you answered the Anthem of the Sea, you’re right!

The Anthem of the Sea is one of the most anticipated ships to be launched and is already beginning to sell out.  The first destinations that the Anthem of the Sea will visit include Florida, France, Spain, The Mediterranean and the Canary Islands.  As time goes by, more and more destinations will be added.  In order to get the best deals on one of the first cruises, Cruise1st is offering the best deals on the internet.

The Anthem of the Sea is the 2nd of 3 ships in the “Quantum” class by Royal Caribbean currently being built in Papenburg, Germany. When finished in 2015, it will be approximately 350 meters in length.  To put that into perspective, that is about the length of 11 full length American Football fields!   Along with the sky-diving simulator, observation pod and interconnecting rooms mentioned above, the ship will offer a 24 hour spa offering facials and massages, a fitness center fully loaded with the latest weight systems and cardio equipment with fitness classes available, a zip line suspended nine decks in the air, an outdoor pool with a 220 foot movie screen, an indoor pool with a retractable roof and whirlpool, a 40 foot long surf simulator with stadium seating, a 40 foot high rock climbing wall, as well as a casino with slot machines and table games.

Finally the cuisine options available on board The Anthem of the Sea is astounding.  Unlike other cruises available on the market, guests will have the opportunity to control when, where and whom they dine with every night of their cruise vacation; they can even decide how they’d like to dress.  In the past, many cruise lines have had a set time with dinner as well as a dress code.  No more of that.  This is referred to as “dynamic dining”.  Guests will also have the option of choosing from five different restaurants.  Dining options will include an American grill featuring America’s favorite food, an upscale restaurant with nothing but the freshest ingredients served, an exotic Pan-Asian eatery that is inspired by the spice trade route to India and the Far East, a formal dining room with dress code serving classics, and finally, a coastal kitchen that fuses Mediterranean influences with the riches of California’s bountiful farmlands.

Obviously, the Anthem of the Sea cruise ship is a sight to behold and a getaway that anyone young or elderly will appreciate.  With more activities on board and dining options to match than any other cruise ship, there is certainly an experience for everyone.  From honeymooners and families; to singles and retirees, a cruise on the Anthem of the Seat is an undertaking everyone should experience at least once in their lifetime.

The post Anthem of the Sea appeared first on We Said Go Travel.

Dance of the Dawn on the Ganges, India

He is pleased to see me. From the toothy grin that melts across his weathered face and the way he clasps his hands together in front of his heart before opening his arms to welcome me, that much is clear. I smile back, delighting for the umpteenth time in the so-called language barrier between us, knowing that it functions more as a filter for catching all those forms of communication unnecessary to share truth, to share love. It is just before 7 a.m. in Rishikesh, and a smile from this swami is all I need to feel warm and welcome in the windy November dawn.

I’ve been here before, to this modest room above the Third Eye restaurant in Laxman Jhula. I’d come with friends a couple days ago, curious about the man in the maroon robes who dances with the grace and reckless abandon of a child that not only sees the world as a sphere of swirling magic but seems to breathe and move within it as a naturally integral part. That first afternoon we’d sat with our eyes closed and our thumbs in our ears and hummed like bees for thirty minutes before resting quietly in meditation and finally curling up on our sides and falling asleep on the scratchy green carpet. I’d woken up when laughter bubbled up from spaces inside me I didn’t know were there and my whole body wracked with these foreign guttural sounds of light, of joy. It was then that the Swami insisted I come back, and I knew I must.

I place my bag in the corner and stroll around the room, rolling my head this way and that, clasping my hands behind my back and stretching my arms as long as they can go. I am full of wonder at how deeply I can breathe when my chest is open. When my heart is open. The swami crouches over an old laptop, pecking at the same key over and over as the audio cd he’s placed in the drive refuses to play.

“Can I help?” I ask with an encouraging smile. I crouch beside him, ejecting the CD and inserting it again.

This time the track begins to play: a primal overlay of drums and bells and electronic rhythms. His eyes grow wide and he motions for me to get up and move to the center of the room. I turn to face the windows and the gusts are whipping over the water as the searing orange Indian sun rises over the Ganges. The swami dances a few feet away, slowly at first, closing his eyes and snaking his arms to the sounds, and as the beats grow louder and faster he begins whipping his long-haired head back and forth, losing himself: a bona fide rock star of the soul. I close my eyes then, too, letting my limbs twist and turn with the tempos and the drums beat themselves into my belly as I too lose myself in the bliss of the conscious present. And in the moment before total surrender, I see them: parents, and brothers, and sisters, and lovers, and strangers: laughing, crying, dancing, smiling. And I know on a level much deeper than the intellect that this is the truth, of this place and of all places: that everything is love. Everything is love.

About the Author: Alexa Owen is an avid traveler, writer, photographer, and skier. She enjoys good books, good food, good company and, of course, dancing to good music. She splits her time between Jackson Hole, Wyoming and The World.

Thank you for reading and commenting. Please enter our next Travel Writing competition and tell your story.

The post Dance of the Dawn on the Ganges, India appeared first on We Said Go Travel.

Memories Regarding Virginia

Humble prayers were made on our corner of Highpoint Drive and Windfall Lane. A family of nine, a van in neutral, coasted out of the driveway to save on gas before rolling any further past the red stop sign at the street’s end, paused momentarily in the dark. This is how I remember beginning vacations. Grey, Midwestern mornings, door handles wet, tears of dew dripping from tinted windows on our blue Chevy G30 12 seater. My dad jokingly called it, “rusted, busted, ugly, and depressing.” The taste of off-brand Dramamine and smell of Folgers coffee gave me more a headache than the car ride itself. I had two brothers and four sisters, then. Daniel, my younger by two years, as all my siblings were separated by (save Robert born in ’81 and Virginia in ’85, both now in California), he and I had a row to ourselves, as we were too “difficult” anywhere else. I remember Ginny’s infuriation once, when I agreed to sleep on the floor between the rows, while Dan, being no taller than five feet, laid out over three whole of those sticky, vinyl-upholstered seats. I slept well; a pillow between my ear and the metal frame of the car, the humming vibrations from tires rotating over road, the rhythmic bumping from rubber strips on the highway.

NPR was our guide as we followed 89.7FM’s frequencies towards its origin. We were on an Oregon Trail of our own, bound under providence towards our nation’s yolk, Virginia. I’d never seen the faces of Linda Wertheimer nor Garrison Keillor, but I knew their voices. Adventures in Odyssey had good Hal Smith before he passed in ’94. Books on tape only paused at public highway rest stops. “Take off your shoes,” we put them in Buehler’s grocery bags before getting in the van, “public restrooms are disgusting.” All those strangers and people lined up for Sbarro pizza slices and Cinnabons. Were we 9 any stranger? Once to my eyes, Breezewood, PA, “Traveler’s Oasis,” had magic, but as I see now, it’s nothing more than Best Westerns, Taco Hockey Sticks, and concrete. Looking back, I suppose it’s all for the best I never got to go to that strange Dinosaur Land near Winchester.

What was the comfort of traveling in that old van during those long days? With two canoes and a kayak on top. Bound to the road, munching on a bag of gorp, drinking some Gatorades. Glacier Freeze was my favorite. On Mt. Stoney Man and Old Rag, I never wanted anything more than to be driving again to GMB’s (grandmother Brazier’s) in Luray.

She died a few years back. That’s been the last time since I’ve seen my uncles and aunts together. Some live in London, others Montreal. My aunt’s in Florida, my cousins now in Kansas City. I don’t know if that’s Missouri, or Kansas City, Kansas. I do remember that stomach-gripping guilt I felt, though, arguing with my cousin Alex over the Nintendo Entertainment System during pre-auction claiming. I’d never had a videogame system before, and my cousins must’ve had them all. I think I knew then, though, I only really wanted it for sentimental reasons, as I’d never return to my grandmother’s house. That side was my dad’s family.

I remember racing through Virginia’s countryside last year with Rob to pick up and bring back Nana, my other grandmother, and aunt Cathy. Bunkle had been moved into a nursing home near our house in Ohio after an Alzheimer’s diagnosis. Things had taken a turn for the worse unprecedentedly quickly. The gravity of nearing death hung in the air of that packed Subaru. Outside, Virginia was frail in late autumn. Red, orange, and yellow shades of a late summer’s harvest hung on the hills, like the horn of a Thanksgiving cornucopia.

And I once found a pocketknife in the summertime mud banks of the rolling Shenandoah. At Harper’s Ferry in Jefferson County, the river meets the Potomac at Maryland’s border, flowing to our capital, Washington D.C. When GMB died, I heard a sermon from some pastor that really affected me. The same night, we visited National Mall and saw the Washington Monument, the Korean and Vietnam War Memorials.

To my father, Virginia is the heartland. I understand that. My family’s veins pulse from that heart, as my country’s stems shoot from the roots of Virginia’s soil. Across from the Lincoln Memorial there’s a bridge over the Potomac, and across that bridge, my father’s father is buried into the earth of Arlington cemetery. Further now are the branches that have spread from him. When we used to go hiking in the Blue Ridge Mountains, dad would say, “take only memories, leave only footprints.” As I return to these places from time to time, I remember these things.

About the Author:  Written by Michael Brazier, which is all I have to say currently.

Thank you for reading and commenting. Please enter our next Travel Writing competition and tell your story.

The post Memories Regarding Virginia appeared first on We Said Go Travel.

To Travel is to Live & Learn-Denmark

I have been a dreamer my entire life, whether that’s a blessing or a curse I’m still not sure. When I was in high school I found it hard to focus on homework because my mind had such a strong tendency to wander.

Instead of concentrating on y=mx+b, I would be daydreaming about becoming like Henry David Thoreau, living in isolated self-sufficiency; or finding love; or traveling the world—especially Europe.

Conveniently enough, my senior year I became great friends with our Danish foreign exchange student. Her name was Signe. After graduation we kept in touch via a combination of phone calls and snail mail, and we talked a lot about the possibility of me coming to stay with her and her family someday. I wound up getting a job at a local café and saved up enough money to make that possibility a reality. On my nineteenth birthday, I flew the 4,700 miles from Tampa, FL to Billund, DNK.

Denmark had everything from rolling hills covered in blue cornflowers, to thatched roof cottages, to regal castles which looked like they belonged in fairytales. It had cities, rural scenery, and quaint towns which managed to possess the qualities of both of the above.

Denmark is rich in history, and I could feel its importance through the traditions kept alive throughout the generations. A very fond memory of mine was when Signe and I went to her Grandmother Ruth’s house for afternoon tea. She spoke very little English, so in order for her and me to have a conversation Signe had to serve as our translator. I warmly remember Ruth telling me, through Signe, stories about her family member’s travels to and from America, showing me historical family keepsakes, and allowing me to explore the exquisite garden in her backyard—it looked like a wonderland.

Another staple memory of my trip is all the time Signe and I spent riding motorized bicycles through their rural town, listening to Fleet Foxes through the stereo which we attached to the back of her bike as we wandered through the hills of the Danish countryside. The warm sun shone down on us and a tender breeze blew through the fields of wheat around us; sounds slightly mawkish, but it felt like something out of a film.

When Signe’s older sister would visit, she would drive the two of us around for day and weekend trips. One trip the three of us took was to Copenhagen. We visited Amalienborg (the royal family’s winter home), Rosenborg Castle and the Danish Crown Jewels, Freetown Christiania, Tivoli Gardens, and of course, the Little Mermaid statue. It was during that trip that I experienced perhaps my favorite moment of the entire visit. We were on a double-decker bus (the top floor, naturally) on our way back to the hotel room from sightseeing. As we entered what felt like the heart of the city near the train station, I looked up at the clear blue sky and the regal statues of some of Denmark’s famous figures, and it dawned on me that I was in the midst of actually living a moment I had been dreaming about for years. I excused myself from the girls for a moment, pulled out my iPod, and turned on Bittersweet Symphony by The Verve. As the violins began to play as we drove through this beautiful European city, the magnitude of this surrealistic experience flooded through me. I had only ever lived this out in fantasy, and at that moment it transitioned from dream to reality, and it was a feeling I hope I never forget.

After my month and a half in Denmark I had enough European memories to last me a good long while; and to be honest, one of my favorite parts about traveling is coming home again. I learned to appreciate things that I usually wouldn’t think twice about, like my native tongue and a general sense of belonging. It was so good to see my family again. I haven’t forgotten my Danish friends, though; Signe and I Skype every Sunday.

So, why do we travel? We travel because of those “double-decker bus” moments; soul quenching moments where we feel the vastness of the world and the opportunities it has to offer. It’s a chance to meet new people, to learn about their history and traditions, and to learn a lot about yourself. If we as people really do learn something new every day even while we’re in our comfort zones, surrounded by familiarity, imagine the things we could learn while exploring new territory. In my opinion, not regretting the time spent traveling has just as much to do with the traveler as it does with the place. Of course, visiting somewhere you’ve always dreamed of never hurts.

About the Author: After graduating nearly three years ago, Amy Shull traveled to Washington State, where she had a seasonal job at a lodge in the temperate rainforest. About nine months after returning home, she made the trip over to Denmark. She currently resides in Florida.

Thank you for reading and commenting. Please enter our next Travel Writing competition and tell your story.

The post To Travel is to Live & Learn-Denmark appeared first on We Said Go Travel.

Beneath the Skies of Switzerland

Carry-ons only, one per passenger. The two-hour flight from Rome to Zurich was roughly the price of a tank of gas back home in the States. People complained about the price of fuel, we held on for dear life as we braced for the worst on this ‘budget airline’.

Beneath the Zurich airport lies the railway station, delivering us just outside the bustling downtown of this frigid city. A waitress in a nearby diner tells us she is originally Czech, but came here for employment. Her English is thickly-accented, almost guttural, beautiful in the right places. She gives us pointers, dividing her advice into two portions: where tourists go, and where the locals visit. During her explanation, it begins to snow lightly. The large windows of the diner, floor-to-ceiling, open to a large town plaza, practically empty. Rails and wires turn the city into a Picasso-esque checkerboard from above. Using coins the size of small scones, we pay our bill and head into the biting frost of Switzerland.

Outside the diner with the pretty waitress, we zigzag over the rails and traverse the sloped bridge leading to downtown Zurich. The shopping center. The banking centre of the world. Bahnhofstrasse, Zurich, Switzerland, commonly known as the most expensive street on the planet. Two trolleys run back and forth like high-speed shuttles on a loom. The effect is such that anything viewed from the opposing side of the street is cut like clockwork into split-second movie frames. Through the camera’s shutter, the credits roll: Armani, Gucci, Rolex, Givenchy. Several prominent Swiss bankers head their quarters above these shops. On my side, outdoor vendors take advantage of the chilled temperature. Hot pretzels, sandwiches, and crepes. Waffles in thirty seconds. Fill your backpack with grapes for three francs. The snow still falls, steady and enduring.

Through a currency-conversion mistake on my behalf, I end up purchasing a ninety-dollar hat in the basement of an H&M. The hat looks good, my friends tell me. We fumble with our pretzels to tip a man dressed in lederhosen, blowing furiously into an alphorn nearby. Strings of light criss-cross the street, stories above, setting the illusion of bringing the spangled night sky so much closer.

Most of my group spends their next day at the nearby museums to our hostel, being primarily medical-science students. I wake late, and buy a coffee and a beer at a nearby Irish pub. The bartender and I split a sandwich, and he gives me a to-go cup, telling me how he knows how expensive things can be for young people. No charge.

The snow falls without regard. I finish my coffee within the confines of an antique German bookstore, whose surly shopkeep hurls the occasional dagger from his eyes into my direction. The room smells of must and pipe tobacco. Taking the hint, I follow serendipitously down the street, and find my way into a used musical instrument shop, talking brass in broken Swiss-Italian with the proprietor.

Emerging from their heated sanctuaries on the hill, I meet my group once again. We each try to convey our experiences to one another with frantic hand gestures, trying to allow each other so much more than a sneak peek through the keyholes of our days’ perception. We settle for photos over the river, poised on top of the hill where each museum sits, committed to an eternal staring competition across the street from one another. We stay here, perched, for several hours as the Viking sky turns to a blackish-silver. We feel like natives here, young and healthy, on top of the world.

About the Authro:  Jonathan Flemington, 24, writing student (when I can afford both tuition and the attention span). I spend my time reading, writing, traveling and running.

Thank you for reading and commenting. Please enter our next Travel Writing competition and tell your story.

The post Beneath the Skies of Switzerland appeared first on We Said Go Travel.

ON THE BANKS OF RIVER GANGES

ON THE BANKS OF RIVER GANGES

Rishikesh is a religious place at the foothills of the Himalayas in northern India. The great river Ganga (Ganges) flows through Rishikesh. Hindus worship the Ganga and believe that its water is blessed. They also believe that taking a bath in the river Ganga can wash away all their sins. You can find several people filling empty bottles and cans with Ganga water to take back with them to their homes.

Although the single most important feature of Rishikesh is the river Ganga, the place is also popular for several other reasons. Rishikesh is the gateway to Kedarnath and Badrinath, which are popular religious places of Hindus. Rishikesh is also famous for adventure sports, as it has several adventure camps that conduct river rafting, bungee jumping, and rock climbing along the banks of the Ganga.

I have visited Rishikesh a number of times, as it happens to be one of the favorite vacation destinations of my family. Every year, I visit Rishikesh at least twice, if not more. In 2013 also, I visited Rishikesh twice. I enjoy the long walks along the river, bathing in it, and then lying on the white sand on the banks of the Ganga. I also love the evening prayer in front of the Parmartha Niketan, a famous ashram with a huge statue of Lord Shiva in the middle of the river. After the prayer is over, many people light small earthen lamps or diyas, place them along with flowers on big leaves that they set afloat in the river.

Though I love doing all this, my favorite pastime in Rishikesh is to sit silently on the rocks by the side of the Ganga, with my legs dipped in the cold water, and listen to the sound of the river. Its music seems more beautiful to me than the sound of a guitar. When I am sit there and watch the river flow by, I feel at peace and feel inspired to do the best that I can.

The river Ganga inspires me because I think its journey is similar to our life. Ganga originates from the Gangotri glacier in Uttarakhand and flows thousands of kilometers to finally merge with the Bay of Bengal. In this long journey, the flow of the river keeps changing. At times, the flow is very fast, and at times it is very slow. The journey of our life is also very long. In this long journey of life, we face many problems and we overcome most of them. But some problems seem hard to face. When the obstructions of the river increase, the river has barely any flow. However, the river does not stop. It continues to flow through whatever space it finds and overcomes the obstructions drop by drop. We also have to do the same thing. Step by step, we can finally overcome our problems, however big they might be.

With change in season, the water level in the Ganga sometimes becomes very low while at other times, during and after the monsoons, the river is flooded. Similarly, in our life also, we sometimes feel down and depressed, whereas in some other times, we feel happy and blessed. The river Ganga finally reaches its delta and we finally reach the end of life’s journey. We all know that one day we have to face death but we don’t know what happens after death. Indian mythology says that all of us have to go through a cycle of birth and death and then rebirth. If a person has done good things in life, then after death he or she becomes free from this cycle and simply merges with God. Just as the river Ganga finally merges with the sea.

Rishikesh is religious and sacred for many people, but for me it is much more than that. Rishikesh, and especially the river Ganga, is like a Guru to me that helps me understand the purpose of life and inspires me to live life in a meaningful manner.

About the Author:  My name is Aakash Pandey and I study in class 7 in Presidium Indirapuram. I have previously won a competition arranged by Pratham Books(The Chuskit Contest) in 2010. Writing is my hobby and I love to write.

Thank you for reading and commenting. Please enter our next Travel Writing competition and tell your story.

The post ON THE BANKS OF RIVER GANGES appeared first on We Said Go Travel.