Lisa Niver's Blog: We Said Go Travel, page 429

Traveling in Thailand

Our latest news: Traveling in Thailand

Hello from Koh Samui, Thailand. We spent two months here in 2013 and edited our memoir! It seems fitting to be here working on the paperback edition of Traveling in Sin. A year ago we had just begun our first travel-writing contest. Now we are in the midst of contest #4 and in 2013 over five hundred writers from over fifty countries participated! We hope you will share a story with us!

Our recent travels in Thailand have taken us to Koh Lipe which is where we got engaged five years ago. It was lovely to return to our favorite spot on Sunrise Beach and to explore Sunset beach for the first time. We stayed for three nights at the Regent Phuket Cape Panwa and enjoyed a luxurious Pool Villa, dined in the Grill and had drinks to celebrate January 18, which was the date we met seven years ago in Santa Monica. While we were there, we were invited to be on the KPNW Radio show with Robb Holloway to talk about life on the road. He read George’s five part series in the Huffington Post on “Is Panama truly a Retirement Haven?” and wanted to chat with us!

Did you see this month’s Prevention Magazine? Check out my interview below on a two-page photo of Nepal and a new review of our memoir in Huffington Post Travel!

Our Inspiration Travel Writing Contest is now open. Enter by February 14 with your “Place of Inspiration.” First prize is now $1,000usd. Share your story! We are continuing to publish the Gratitude Contest entries and expect to announce the winners the end of January.

We appreciate all of you who read our newsletters, articles, website and BOOK! Thank you to everyone for your support of our journey and all our writing. Connect with us on  Facebook,  Google+, Instagram, LinkedIn, Pinterest,  SlideShare,  Twitter, and YouTube.

Lisa and George (Click here to sign up for this newsletter. )

Traveling in Sin: News from this Memoir’s First week! from Lisa Niver Rajna

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Goddess of The North

It was mercilessly cold. The Night Sky was hopefully clear. (Yes, that is the correct usage of the word “hopefully”). This was the moment of truth: tripods, cameras, warm gloves, a fire going strong, hot soup and patience. Lots of it. We had no idea how we would react on seeing one of the most spectacular sights that Mother Nature has to offer. A most magnificent show in cahoots with the Sun, which has bewildered humans for centuries.

We have grown and evolved in a world where we anticipate a sound after a flash – we anticipate “thunder” after a bolt of lightning, and “bang and boom” after a firecracker goes off in the distance. As a greenish, un-eartlhy light began emanating from the frozen mountains we gaped at it – silently it grew and grew and enveloped the sky – until it reached a point where you could not see all of it without turning around in each direction. No sound at all. It passed as silently as it had come. The Goddess of the North, The Aurora Borealis, had left us stunned. Little wonder the Auroras were associated with Gods and Demons by the early Natives.

At “just” eleven degrees of separation from the North Pole, Tromso is by and large a subnivean town. There are more under-snow tunnels, than roads. You won’t be lost for words and friendly people in Tromso though, considering that it has over 100 nationalities living in it! You can vacation here as a tourist or absorb all the culture as a traveller, Tromso has something to offer to everyone.

We started off after a relaxed breakfast in the Radisson Blu, calmly packed our thermos flasks with freshly brewed tea and got in the tour bus. Today, we had an appointment with the Auroras! The conditions to see the Auroras have to be more than “just right”. There needs to be significant solar activity, no clouds and the skies must be free from light pollution. As we were en-route to the remote island which was to be our observation point, we could see promising shades of light green in the sky – on the one hand we wished they would get stronger, on the other we were afraid that it might be the only show for us tonight. We reached our camp – the fire was lit, soup was served and then the wait started. Waiting for the Auroras is like watching the hour hand of a clock turn. You watch it, but you never know if you really saw it move. Faintly from the North East corner of the sky a glow started to emerge – snap happy tourists eagerly set their tripods in the right direction – but nothing could have prepared them for what came next. A very bright display of green flares spirally from an unknown center-point in the sky. Some of us were so awed by the spectacle that we forgot to click our cameras. When the display finally turned faint we gathered around the campfire to listen to the Sami natives telling us about the various legends and stories about the Auroras. Natives in earlier times were both scared and awed by the Auroras; the explanations ranged from the Arctic Fox touching the clouds with its fur to Souls of the Dead seeking vengeance. If you were near the North Pole two thousand years ago, and saw the Auroras, what would your story be? Listening to these stories and having witnessed the phenomenon ourselves, we felt like time had stopped. Like we could sit there forever waiting for and watching the Auroras every night, with each colour translating to a new story. The stories that were woven thousands of years ago, were still reminisced by the locals today.

Time had no meaning in a cold, rich, colourful place like this. On the surface, Tromso seems like a small city – cold in winters, not-so-cold in summers. Why would you want to live in a place like this? You know why? Because time stops here. For the Gods too.

About the Author: Arnav Sud: I have travelled the World as a Marine Engineer onboard ships – travelled much more than I have time to blog about. I like photography, adrenaline rushes and meeting interesting people!

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

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La France Profond

At the moment my traveling is in South West France – think of roses still on the bushes in December, sunshine even on the coldest day, unexpected views of chateaus with fairy tale turrets, empty roads and a village seemingly growing out of the chestnut earth, houses leaning one on another under the trees, supporting and supportive of communal life.

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! The bread van in a village without public transport, and many miles from a shop. The bread van races through the village- a lot of miles to cover. You wonder why she doesn’t stop. But that was just the warning shots – giving people time to get their purses and come down into the village street – just time to greet a neighbour, then the van is back. The doors open and the people crowd round eager to get their daily fix of crisp French bread. Josette is served first. Not the stylish French lady one sees in glossy magazines – she is over eighty and does daily battle with a wood stove and a herd of goats – so it is a wrap round apron, wrinkly stockings and a smile of triumph as she tucks her loaf under her arm.

The only apparently new thing in this village is the sign advertising the local rugby team – but look a little closer inside one of those houses – the ones with the satellite dish on their wavy roofs – wavy because the timbers were green oak which has warped with the years – yet sound all the same. Smoke curls upwards- most people prefer to use wood burners, but almost all move with the times and salons have large television sets and kitchens large fridges alongside the quaint jugs and the jars of dried herbs. The barn may be falling down , but the tools inside will include modern power tools as well as ancient scythes and saws handed down the generations.

There are not many young people in these villages . They all moved to the city where work is easier to find. I met an elderly lady, Edith’ outside the Brocante – the junk shop. She had lived here all her life. In the window was a page form a 1945 newspaper telling of the death of Hitler. We read it together, but doing so obviously upset her and she struggled to keep back the tears.

“It was my birthday. My 21st birthday, and that man spoilt it. Everyone was happy to know they were rid of him, but no one was bothered about my birthday. I was forgotten in the crowd. Horrible man!”

Just for a moment I saw beside me not the old lady in her winter coat, with grey hair and a face which so easily betrayed her age . Instead I saw the young woman she once was –tall and fair, in her best green dress made from some old curtains. The gateau made of flour and sugar saved over many months. And then all forgotten in the excitement of the news from Berlin. Who had brought the news? – the bread lady in those days also brought the newspapers.

Next week I leave this wonderful land, just for a little while, but I will be back, so ‘No regrets’.

About the Author: I am English born with very mixed genes and have travelled widely. I have been a Francophile all my adult life.

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

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Morocco: Saha صحة

Perched upon sky blue stools that match the wooden square tables and painted archways of this small upstairs café. Hunched over sketchbooks, our backs resting on the propped open balcony doors that overlook the grandiose palace Mohammed Sixth. Men sing funeral hymns below, carrying a small wooden coffin the size of a child. Walking the streets of the medina with their grave load.

One never sees women at these cafes. Last evening this place was so full and warm with bodies, that we almost left, for at first glance, there seemed no place to sit in the three chambered café. Men in the center chamber, crowded around one of the square tables ushered us over, moving aside to show there is space enough for the both of us.

Brushing knees as we pass, sitting down we entered into a serious realm of the game Dominoes. They played in teams of two, four to a game. At various points of the game tension would mount and pieces would be cast down with a loud snap on the table, the pace quickening. One of the players seated facing us had deep-set sullen eyes, with his back to the bar and doorway of the café. All of them were nearly shouting at one another, half in Spanish, half in Arabic. This man spoke with a grave sternness and deep intensity until after several rapid turns and fervent slap down, he spread his long nosed, sullen-eyed face into a wide grin, laughing a deep guttural chuckle of victory.

Behind him, two men small in stature, like gnomes, work at the bar with their beanies towering high on their onion bulb heads. Here a copper urn sits above a cave of coal embers, glowing the color of an African sunset. Tea and coffee bubbles and froths in copper pots resting on the embers. National guards stand uniformed below our balcony, guarding the empty palace infinitely. Apparently, the king comes here for his annual vacation. Today a game of futbol plays on one of two television sets in café. Chelsea vs. Liverpool, Liverpool scores one point in the first minute of the game. On the other television screen a classic Spanish/Arabic drama is broadcasted. Looking around the place, around half the men wear western clothing and the other half, traditional djellabas.

The café is roughly six or seven strides from the entrance of Hotel Africa. Nordine, King of Hotel Africa, speaks French, German, English, Spanish, and Arabic. His frequent vocal outbursts are jovial, resonating profoundly within his throat “Bravo!! Salam alikom!!, Saha.” He sits upon his African throne, a green plastic chair, on the second floor balcony that overlooks the intricate tiled lobby of the hotel. There is a three hundred year old fountain in this lobby, the water sourced from the majestic Rif Mountains. Towering giants in the distance, they provide the skyline of Tetouan.

Two daily meals are served here around 2pm and midnight. Always cooked in a tagine, slow cooked tuna, squash, chicken, sweet potato, couscous, sardines, potatoes, vegetables, everything beautifully spiced and frequently served with hot peppers and lime. Flat bread serves as cutlery. 10-12 people sit around a four-person card table covered with clear plastic that also serves as a lobby desk where paperwork is filed and passports handed over. Everyone sat comfortably round this small squat plastic table, the green chairs moved down from the balcony for the meal. We all eat from the same tagine, respectful in portions and execution of fitting a mouthful onto a small piece of flat bread, torn for the occasion of each bite. The men in the cafes seem to be permanent fixtures and they get to know us well.

As unmoving as the blue back dropped photo realistic representations of daises in vases framed and hung on the café wall. And what of the dead child? Why is it only men carrying the body, walking the streets singing? A man wearing a grey djellaba helps another smaller man, wearing a beanie, stuff a small television into a peach plastic bag while the beanie man holds the remote in his left hand. The operation is complete and he sets it down on a stool in the cafe, it is unclear why. I admire the way death is met by the living here. Harmonic cries in the ancient knowledge of song, everyone falling into natural harmonies. Drawn to the sound, I stumble upon a small room above a hotel nearby. Banging on tabletops in furious rhythmic beating, a room full of young teenage men boys, raucously singing and banging beats of death in an air of mourning but not of great sadness, passionate creation of remembrance.

About the Author: Californian musician artist vagabond, this piece was written in Tetouan after spending 10 days hitching from Berlin to Morocco. Living in each moment, simply and freely.

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

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Aotearoa, New Zealand: The Land of the Long White Cloud

It’s a panorama of rolling hills against blue skies, too. That is New Zealand in a photograph for you. Also known as Aotearoa, the land of the long white cloud, one couldn’t help but gush at the amazing sceneries this country offers to unwary travelers.

I was thrilled to visit this beautiful country with my best friend between the winter and spring of 2013. It wasn’t totally unplanned. A trip to a wonderful place like NZ had to be planned to make sure we made the most of every day we spent there. But it was the kind of trip that held so much significance to us, being the wandering souls that we were (and still are), primarily because the past year did not necessarily start on a high note for both of us. We each had our own life transitions to deal with; going for the trip became the perfect escape, albeit transient, as we had to return to our daily routine after three fun weeks. Taking three weeks off for the trip meant giving up some time for going back home (we are based in Singapore, but our families are in the Philippines). But it was all worth the experience; besides, we both managed to get extra days to spend with our families later on.

The whole NZ experience made me realize how life means so much more than going about the daily grind. There is a world to discover out there. And so little time on our hands. Time, being a limited resource, should be spent on things that add meaning to our lives. Experiencing the people and the laid back culture in NZ inspired me to re-examine my priorities and appreciate parts of my life that really matter.

This realization struck me in one of the highlights of this trip. It was during a hike to the summit of the highest volcano in Auckland, Mt Eden. Yes, a volcano sitting in the middle of a city adds a unique charm to this place. At high noon, we managed to reach one of Mt Eden’s craters. Right there, we enjoyed a 360-degree view of the city. In one of the benches along the sides of the crater, sat a man in his business suit. My friend and I were amazed to see someone taking his time to sit back and enjoy the breathtaking sights surrounding him – in the middle of a workday. Here was a man who knows how to spend his time wisely, without much care of hurrying back to work or catching the train to some other place. He was in the moment, taking in as much of what the place was giving him at that very moment.

It has been four months since that trip, but the memories of the time I spent there with my best friend has changed how I see things today and how I embrace life with all the uncertainties that it hurls my way like curve balls in the field. I would love to go back and spend more time, perhaps even live and bring my family there. And if that time comes, I will always be grateful for choosing to take that three-week break which made all the difference.

About the Author: Mary Ann Bautista is a graduate student of public health. She quit her job to pursue further studies a few weeks after she came back from this trip. She loves traveling and writing but these interests have often taken a backseat when she’s too preoccupied with being in the daily grind.

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

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Treasure Hunt in the Golden Mountains of Altai

It was a fine day in May in the Altai Republic: a region of breathtaking beauty in the southwest corner of Siberia Russia. From our windows we saw swaths of dark coniferous forest; and rising majestically behind, faint blue peaks capped with snow. This is the rugged and remote land of the Altaians: a distinct Asian people with their own language. They are perfectly at home in the Altai Mountains, a name based on a Turkic-Mongolian word meaning “golden”.

It has been a few years my wife and I learned Russian Sign-Language and began visiting sign-language fellowships and small group of Christians who are deaf. In this country, more than 100 ethnic groups and 70 distinct cultures share one common spoken language, Russian. The deaf among us use yet another language, Russian Sign-Language.

In the city of Gorno-Altaisk, we learned of a few deaf ones who live in a small village 155 miles away. We wonder about these deaf Altaians and decided to drive out to find them. Our enthusiasm excites Yury and Tatyana, a deaf couple who agree to come with us. We loaded a minivan with sign-language publications on DVD and a DVD player. We also packed sandwiches and some water. Finally, we sprayed ourselves, our clothes and our shoes thoroughly with a tick repellent, as tick-borne encephalitis is common in the area.

The road we were traveling winds through spectacular mountain scenery. The air is thick with the fragrance of jasmine and lilac. We were thrilled to see a herd of Siberian deer calmly munching on the grass. Altaian settlements are clusters of wooden houses with neat metal roofs. Next to many of the houses are wooden dwellings called “ayyl”, usually six-cornered houses with a conical roof. Some resemble tepees covered with tree bark. Many Altaian families live in the “ayyl” from May to September and move into the house for the fall and winter.

We were warmly welcomed in the village by local Christians, who led us to the home of a deaf Altaian couple. They were delighted to see us and were curious about where we were from and what we were doing. It turned out that they had a computer, so when we pulled out a DVD, they insisted on playing it. Immediately, all conversation ceased; it was as if we were not there. Their eyes glued to the monitor, they occasionally copied the signs they saw and nodded in appreciation. With difficulty, we got their attention so we could stop the DVD and return to opening scenes, which depict a beautiful picture of God’s kingdom. Pausing on one scene, we discussed what God will do for mankind and what kind of people will make it to His kingdom. We were heartened by their interest, and at the end of the visit, they told us about another deaf couple living a few hours away in another village.

Setting off again, we crossed a spectacular rocky pass cut deep into the mountain and followed the serpentine road to a much smaller village. There we found the deaf family: the husband, the wife, the couple’s small son, and the wife’s mother: who were delighted to have unexpected company. We entered the door of their small “ayyl”, which smells pleasant of wood and butter-milk. It has a round hole on top of its cone-shaped roof, which lets the light in. A whitewashed brick oven and stove stands in one corner, and cherry red rugs carpeted the walls. The couple treated us to an Altaic dish: small fried doughnuts and tea in little Asian-style bowls. We asked them if they have ever considered it being possible to be God’s friend. They ponder on the question. The wife’s mother told us that as child, she once took some food to a place in the mountains as an offering to the gods. “What that meant, I did not know”. She shrugged and smiled. “It is our custom”.

We showed them a DVD on this subject and their faces lighted up. They became eager to continue the discussion; but how? Although text messages usually makes it easy to keep in touch with deaf ones, there is not one single mobile-phone antenna in the area. So we promised to keep in touch by letter.

The sun is already setting as we parted affectionately and set off on the long road back to Gorno-Altaisk, tired but content. We later learned that every other week, the husband travels to a larger town where he studies the bible and attends fellowships with the help of a local sister who knows sign language. How happy we were that our effort bore fruit.

With a time wisely spent, our search for honest-heart people can be compared to looking for treasures hidden deep in the mountains. Long hours of searching are rewarded when we find a stray jewel, seemingly by accident. For us, the mountains of Altai will always be golden, reminding us of the sincere ones we met between the rugged peaks.

About the Author: Fortune Obiagbor is a writer and a youth conference speaker. He was once an instructor years back. He enjoys sports generally especially football, sprinting and table tennis.

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

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Southern Discovery in New Zealand

An unexpected journey to say the least,

Traveling to the land of kiwi, off my bucket list,

With the land of majestic, natural, reserved beauty,

It brought tears in eyes, how little we actually see.

I recalled us taking the much needed time out,

From our hectic, bustling life, enough to constantly make us shout,

Our passports are ready, the bags are packed,

We said go travel, together, that was our pact.

Charting a 6 hours flight from Kuala Lumpur, our home,

We embraced the excitement, like a traveling gnome.

Landing to New Zealand, Christchurch to be precise,

First impression? It was a trip that was worth us being enticed.

A road trip was what we opted for ultimately,

A four wheel drive, GPS, and us in the journey.

The drive was surreal, polar opposite to the city roads,

Along the way, scenic landscapes we would gladly stay and make an abode.

The crystal clear lakes mirrors the mountain standing tall with pride,

The beauty it offers, South Island has nothing to hide.

From Lake Tekapo, the quiet attraction oh so impossible not to endear,

I immersed myself to the tranquility of the nature here.

Though short, but definitely sweet, we continued our adventure,

Knowing what lies ahead, is mesmerizing for sure.

Queenstown, we arrived, with immeasurable excitement,

Smiles on our faces are clearly not absent,

The breathtaking resort town of pure relaxation,

And extreme adventure for adrenaline pumping entertainment.

This is where, I took my maiden bungy plunge,

Conquering my fears, the jump was accomplished with a punch,

We also experienced a rustic winery along a fine vineyard,

A wine lover myself, cherished this moment locked in my heart.

The Milford Sound, reminded us how little we are,

To this world heritage, a majestic fjord and a nature wonder,

Seeing how untouched beauties like this, is actually isn’t really that far,

Inspired us to travel more, enlighten us to what the world has to offer,

What is traveling, without experiencing one’s different culture,

The Haka of Maori heritage was what we needed as a cultural understanding overture,

The war outcry, the dance, the patterns of the tattoos,

Enriched our experience, while temporary being one of them too.

A travel to us, is incomplete without having to savor their local food,

From local fruits, famous burgers and ice cream that are oh so good.

The crisp weather of autumn we enjoyed, of walking and sightseeing,

Had us hooked and don’t really feel like leaving.

The road journey from Queenstown back to the Christchurch airport,

Left me in tears really, and some unflattering snort.

Along the journey, we took the moment to stop around,

Immortalizing the moments, in pictures, to keep safe and sound,

The country views along is what I would never forget,

I would gladly move here when I retire, I said,

But after all is said and done, and experienced too

Home is where my heart is, where we were headed to.

The trip we had, opened my eyes to allow myself to reach emancipation,

To have a view on what the world has to give, in its glory and jubilation.

A Southern Discovery, is what I truly meant,

An unexpected journey, but I would think it is God sent,

This is what inspires me, and keeps me on the move,

I would like to think, I am on a traveling groove.

“We said, go travel”. Take our advice,

For the life changing experience, that to me, is truly unpriced.

About the Author: Ivan Chan

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

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Huffington Post Travel: Traveling in Sin

As seen on Huffington Post Travel: A Review of Traveling in Sin:

I love reading travel books; memoirs are enjoyable and well-written accounts make me feel like I’m truly present in another part of the world. For this reason I was looking forward to reading Traveling In Sin, a memoir about an adventurous couple from the United States who spent a year traveling abroad, primarily in Southeast Asia. Their story is most unusual: after a fairly short dating period, George invited Lisa to join him on the journey of a lifetime. She swallowed all her fears, quit her job, and the couple departed to travel abroad together. During their travels, Lisa lost 60 pounds, George proposed, and they both learned much about resilience and partnership. All things considered, it was a very successful trip!

Traveling In Sin is full of useful tidbits and tips about travel in Asia such as how to successfully get along in a variety of foreign cultures, as they navigate outside of their comfort zones. Written in a highly unusual narrative style, it pops between “he said” and “she said” with the authors each penning part of every chapter as they traverse a dozen countries. My hat is absolutely off to Lisa; after working as “Julie the Cruise Director” on Princess Cruises for several years — traveling the world on a luxury ocean liner, she gave up every semblance of pampering to travel on a strict budget that often meant staying in hostels or one-star budget motels.

 WATCH: Traveling in Sin: Video Book Trailer

More of the REVIEW:

As you can imagine, the author’s styles of writing are very different, so their voices shine through. Lisa’s writing is more emotional and carries the narrative of their snowballing relationship, while George focuses more on the specifics of the logistics and his observations about the places they visit. Occasionally, he steps into storytelling mode.

If you’re traveling to this part of the world, especially independently, Traveling In Sin is a wonderful resource — like a personalized version of Lonely Planet — while also being a very entertaining read. If you enjoy living vicariously through travel memoirs, Traveling In Sinmakes makes you feel as if you’ve covered all of Southeast Asia.

Read the full review by Halle Eavelyn: Click here
Buy the book, Traveling in Sin,  on Amazon!

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Quebec City, Canada: Flipping the Coin of Fate

I’m sitting at a square wooden table in the Brûlerie of Quebec City’s St. Roch – my neighborhood since December 2012. My ears will NOT defrost. I once read that Canada “is a country much too cold for good sense.” It’s -28°C outside. -38°C felt. I can only agree. A soya latte is slowly warming me up as I laugh at stories of New Yorkers whining over their winter weather. – 16°C, pfff…

A year ago, I quit my corporate job in Rome, my beloved home. I put my apartment for rent, and blindly followed love. Was I out of my mind? Probably.

With my French and US passports, five languages, numerous diplomas and certificates from good enough schools in hand, I thought it was going to be so easy to find a job – while my boyfriend wrapped up his studies at the Université Laval. I had managed to find work on my way from Prague (Czech Republic) to Santo Domingo de los Colorados (Ecuador); there would be no reasons for me to struggle in Québec City. Except I had missed out on an important point: Canada is a serious country – my first serious country. Rules are rules here. Period.

Since my Italian residency didn’t match either of my citizenships, I immediately had to forget about the Working Holiday Visa as an option to stay in Québec. So in March 2013, I applied for a Canadian Permanent Residency. Regardless of the many forms I sent with my name properly typed upon each of them (I do know how to spell my name), Immigration Canada managed to call me Julie “BARETTA” instead of “BERETTA”. How? I don’t understand. Point is, this slowed down a process that already seemed endless.

For a hyperactive people-person, raised Catholic, months with no label or tracks to follow made me feel guilty and afraid – unauthorized to take part in even an unpaid internship, I was suddenly living a long vacation I didn’t deserve. I was a 25-year-old leading the life of a retired woman – without having worked hard enough for it. And when people innocently asked, “What is it you do all day?” or repeated, “You’re so lucky!” I just wanted to punch them in the face.

Of course I was lucky. I was neither sick nor stuck in a war zone; I was in love, and money was not my problem. Still, I was unhappy. Despite the 11 a.m. Zumba classes, my housewife lifestyle didn’t suit me. Like most men and women my age, I wanted to start building a decent career. Have a title. Meet people. Fit in. Feel useful. And Québec’s laws prevented me from doing so.

Too often, my boyfriend would find me curled up on the bathroom floor, crying like I was seriously gonna die tomorrow. But he never judged my tears. He let me live my existential crisis fully, positive that I would find an exit. He was right.

Eventually tired of all the hours available to me, I got involved as a volunteer in the Mois Multi, an Art International Festival. There, I first heard of Kinomada, a Short-Film Workshop. I signed up as an actress (we’re all actors in the end, aren’t we?) and this is how I met the young director Felipe Martinez. I totally improvised my acting for his 999/1 movie, we somehow became friends, and he encouraged me to buy my year’s wisest investment: a Canon 60D.

After he returned to Cali (Colombia), I took a few shots of my cage with its golden bars and, inspired, wrote about Québec based on my photographs. The ghost town suddenly gained another dimension and I realized I liked doing this – shooting and writing. So I moved back into my past, and filled pages with my adventures in Venezuela, Mexico, Argentina, Israel… Through writing, I travelled again.

On August 15th 2013, I stumbled upon Matador – a network of travel writers, photographers, and filmmakers. I was no longer alone. Soon, life in Québec became filled with a kaleidoscope of words and images that pulled me out of my drama and put a smile back on my face.

Today, it is January 2nd 2014 and I’m still a tourist in Canada. Fear and guilt do catch up with me a little sometimes. Yet as Eckhart Tolle says, “the primary cause of unhappiness is never the situation but your thoughts about it”. In reality, Québec has inspired me to use time to explore my passions and I suspect that when I’ll look back in a couple of years on this time, I shall have no regrets. Québec isn’t a parenthesis in my life; it is the beginning of a new path – I just needed to flip the coin.

About the Author: With her multicultural French, American and Italian origins, Julie Beretta has always been a dedicated traveler. Since she discovered the sharing of her stories enabled her to travel some more, she also became a passionate writer – who now mainly strives to travel so she can write; and write so she can travel more.

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

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Traipsing Around Paris

I had to go to Paris because I’m going somewhere else. Yes, I needed a Schengen Visa and (they say,) the easiest way to get a multiple-entry visa is via the French embassy. And so the Paris trip happened. Honestly, I never really thought it would be a good idea to be roaming around Paris, which is known to be “The City of Light” or some say “The City of Love”, ALONE. But I had no choice; so I went to Paris all by myself.

This trip was sort of a come-back trip, after my hiatus. For a while, I battled against my wanderlust because (1) I needed to save money for grandeur trips and (2) work has consumed most of my time, that I just wanted to be on comatose during weekends.

I was a little unprepared—I packed my things and read my itinerary a few hours before my flight. I barely slept days before this trip because of my crazy work-related to-do-list. But thankfully I still had the energy to traipse around Paris, for two days (just catching some sleep while on the train, whenever I could!).

As I am geographically-challenged, I got lost quite a number of times, which is normal for me though. I hopped on trains, buses, and tram, but most of the time, I walked–unmindful of the midday sun; and due to what seemed to be an endless walk, I needed to buy that I-love-Paris slippers when my feet couldn’t stand my flats anymore.

I searched for The Louvre, but I found Musee d’Orsay. So I hopped on random buses, presenting my old tickets, and prayed for free rides, until I got to the right museum. It was exhausting so I grabbed some croissant (because I am in France!) and water after realizing that I haven’t had any meal the entire day!

I stared, in awe and envy, at the works of art that filled the walls and the halls of the Louvre, thinking that I could never do a painting or a sculpture of such class and artistry. And in that moment, I realized that my dream of becoming an artist would never come true.

Then, I decided to head to the hostel after Louvre to check-in, get some nice shower and take a rest before seeing the Eiffel Tower—only to realize upon reaching Arty Paris, that yeah, I am sharing the room with three other strangers! I totally forgot that I booked for a shared room! So I just did a quick fix and off I went to see Eiffel.

The first time that I saw the lighted Eiffel, I felt like crying. Probably because of the thought that no one’s going to take a photo of me with the tower!

I went looking for the carousel that Hannah had on her photo diary–I wanted the same shot because I really think ’twas just superb! And so I found the carousel but I had my own version of the Eiffel and the Carousel shot.

I spent the rest of the night roaming around the tower. I stared, losing myself with the lovely lights; people-watched in amusement—until I realized that I am Cinderella, and I needed to catch the last train before midnight to get back to the hostel.

The next day, I said hello again to Eiffel again (because I wanted a morning shot) before heading to Montmartre. The weird me made the Eiffel Tower a wishing tower—and I asked a random stranger to take a photo of me while I whispered my secret little wish.

And I arrived at Montmartre. After paying a short visit at the Basilica, I traipsed along one of the streets in Montmartre, stopped, and “gambled”—and in such a short span of time, I gave away some Euros! It was heart-breaking!

I felt my knees weaken as I hurriedly got out of that street (before losing all my travel funds), and I hopped on the train and went to see Moulin Rouge. I was surprised at what I saw in Moulin Rouge, but my heart was just too heavy to be amused at things like that. I really can’t get the thought of losing in a street game off my head! But then on a positive note, I was convinced that such incident is better than being victimized by pickpockets in those crowded touristy streets; at least I had the chance to win (I just blew it!).

Well, Paris caught (the unprepared) me by surprise. But then, overall, Paris is still a good idea. And I’ll be coming back, with a vengeance!

About the Author: I am Simercita “Psymer” Cabasag, 29 years old. I was born and raised in the Philippines, but currently residing at Reading, United Kingdom. I am an auditor by profession but traveller by heart.

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