Lisa Niver's Blog: We Said Go Travel, page 476

France: A Princess for a Day

Once upon a time, Joan was a Princess for a day, in a country called France.

Standing by the window, inside her castle, Joan could see the roses,
nestled together in the garden below her.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath;
it was the sweet scent of the roses.
Oh, it was a beautiful afternoon with nothing
to do but dream.
It was a freedom she seldom allowed herself.

She thought, out loud, what I would do in such a 
beautiful castle,in the Loire Valley of France ?

The castle was situated at
the end of a forest with the tallest and densest of trees.
As far as she could see, there were vineyards, all around.

She was alone.
Completely alone and it felt good.

No sounds of people’s voices
or music playing in the background.

Just silence.

She was free and that was an amazing feeling.

Joan had turned her iPhone to the off position.
Her office could not reach her now,
but she didn’t have a
care about the office.

They would do just fine without her for ten days.
This was her vacation
and she had planned for it,for over a year.

This is what freedom feels like.

I wish I could stay here forever and be the princess of this castle.

Looking out the window, again, Joan saw a horse
and a rider coming from the forest beyond.

“Who goes there?” Joan shouted.

“It is your Prince,” answered the handsome man.

“But, I don’t have a Prince, do I?”

“I heard your wish, so, I came at once, to grant you,
your wish.”

“Do you have a name, Mr. Prince?”

“Most of my subjects call me, Albert, Prince Albert .”

“Well, Prince Albert , it’s nice to meet you, but I must say,
you made me laugh out loud with your comment, “my subjects.”
Where do you reign with your subjects?”

“Oh, Princess, I come from this Valley in France .
Do you know about the folklore of the Loire Valley ?

“I am only visiting France for a few days, then I go on to visit
my cousin Victoria, who lives in Italy .”

“Then, I must educate you in our traditions and customs here in France .
Look around you, my Princess.
The Loire Valley is referred to as the Cradle of the French Language, and the Garden of France because of the many of vineyards, fruit orchards and artichoke and asparagus fields, which line the banks of the river.
There is so much for me to show you.
But, first I need to know your name.”

“Oh, so sorry, I forgot my manners. I’m Joan from America ,” she said shaking the Princes’ hand and bowing at the same time.

“Nice to meet you, Princess Joan,” as the Prince kissed her hand.

“But, I’m not a Princess,” stated Joan.

“Oh, but you are a Princess for a day.

“We are going on an adventure to a small village,
not far from here, called Chinon.

You can ride with me, on my horse. Ready? Let’s go.”

Joan was not sure that this was a good idea,
but what else did she have
on her agenda today?

Nothing, nothing at all.

Besides she wanted to be a Princess.

A Princess for a day.
 
The women back at her office will not
believe her good fortune.
They told her to go to France and
experience the culture and the food.
Have fun, shop.
Be free.
They didn’t say anything about what
would happen to her,
if she met a Prince.

“I’m ready, my Prince,” announced Joan.

The Prince and the newly named Princess rode off together
for an adventure to find their own French Renaissance.
Joan was smiling, as her hair was flying in the wind and
the soft breezes touched her cheeks.

A true sense of Freedom.

Joan could only hear the buzzing of her alarm clock,
on the table, next to her big bed. Opening her eyes, slowly, she stared
at the clock, it’s only 7 a.m. It’s too early, she thought. I want to go
back to my dream of being a Princess for a day and riding with the Prince through the forest to Chinon.

“Well, it looks like I’m not Princess, after all,” Joan said out loud.

“I better get up and shower and get dressed. I can’t miss the train back to Paris . I promised my cousin, Victoria, I would be in Italy in three days.”

Joan climbed out of bed and shut off the alarm.
Looking around and stretching her arms
she saw a red rose on the bistro table by the window.
Joan walked over to the table and picked up
the red rose and saw there was a note.

A rose and a note.

Who left these?

Joan read the note:

My Dearest Princess Joan,

 I had a marvelous time showing
 my favorite French village, Chinon, yesterday.
Please feel free to visit me, again,
in my castle, after your trip
to Italy .

Your Royal Prince, Albert
 
The End

Author’s note: This story is based on my own trip to the Loire Valley in France, many years ago. I bicycled through Valley by myself and stay in a small inn in Chinon. As I cycled through the area,  I daydreamed about this fantasy that I wrote for my FREEDOM Story. I have a special place in my heart for France, it’s people, the food and my experiences while visiting.

About the Author: Barbara KisKis is an author and storyteller, who lives, by the beach, in San Diego. She loves to travel and tells her stories to “anyone who listens”. She writes children’s stories for her granddaughter, Sahara and Sahara’s cousins. Barbara is a proud owner of her rescue dog, Kobe, a Pomeranian.

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Running Away to Vienna

The week before I left the States for Vienna, I cried a lot.

It all started when a professor came into my spring term class at university and said the German summer study abroad program was short on students. And he was providing scholarships.

Next thing I knew I had dropped out of school for the semester. I got a job on the campus grounds crew and started attending a class to prepare for living abroad.

The thing was, I was less interested in going to Vienna and more interested in getting away from university, which was stressing me out.

Okay.

“Stressing me out” is too kind.

I was a vocal performance major and cruelly, I had developed debilitating stage fright. Having to perform weekly was agonizing. I felt trapped. I was there on a scholarship, and I had been singing all my life. But the high pressure of university was sucking all the joy I had out of performing. I wasn’t even sure I wanted to be an opera singer. Yet I had no idea what else to study. I’d never thought to do anything but sing.

So, I was “running away” more than “going to”. Fair enough.

As the day approached to leave for Europe, I was scared and tearful. This time, of the unknown. At least the school program would be there to meet me at the airport.

Except they weren’t.

I couldn’t find them anywhere. I didn’t know the name of the hotel we were staying as a group that night. I could barely speak German. And I had two massive, 50-pound-each suitcases with me. What to do next?

It seemed to me the hotel might have had the name “Christina” in it. I got a hotel directory from the help desk. Well, there was a Pension Christina. I wrote down the address. Then, I got on the bus into downtown.

I got off at the recommended station and then I started walking. I was dragging the two huge suitcases behind me. The streets were empty and everything was closed because it was the first of May, a holiday.

I was lost and wandering the streets of a foreign city alone without even knowing the hotel I was supposed to be at or the language to ask anyone for help.

And strangely…

I was loving it.

A little bubble of joy was filling my heart as I flipped through my German dictionary. Vienna was stunning. The beautiful old buildings. The gorgeous green expanses. I felt happier than I had in months (years?).

A man in his 50s stopped and asked if I needed help. In my broken German, I showed him the hotel address and the map I’d picked up from the airport. He and I started wandering the streets together looking for it. Eventually, he found it for me.

I’ll never forget his name. He wrote it on a card: Dieter Jakob. And his address. He told me to contact him if I ever needed help again. Although I never did, I have often reflected gratefully on his act of kindness.

When I asked, the hotel reception said that yes, this was the hotel where the study abroad group was staying. I promptly went into my room and fell asleep in direct disregard to the advice about staying awake to avoid jet lag.

It felt like the first day of the rest of my life.

Vienna breathed new hope into me. Every day was an adventure. My mind was being forced open as it grasped a whole world it didn’t even know existed. Austria is a land of elegance, refinement, and order. I woke up ready and happy for the day instead of having to drag myself out of bed. I was learning, changing, living the dream I didn’t even know I had.

I had broken out of the trap I had unwittingly fallen into at university, the trap that said there was only one way to live life even if that way made you unhappy, and I was free. When I returned to school in the fall, I had found new inner strength to face my fears and to finish my degree.

Though I had returned to the States, I was permanently hooked. I no longer was interested to stay in one place again, because that freedom—that ability to see the world in a new way —forever changed me. I now travel the world as a permanent nomad with my husband and son, and have many favorite places, but Austria will always be special.

About the Author: Kalli Hiller blogs about motherhood and earning money on the move at http://www.portableprofessionals.com.

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Freedom Trekking Aussie Style

I just bought the ticket. Australia had been a life long dream, peppered with tales of wonder from all the Aussies I knew. A ten-day excursion did not seem right. Traveling half way around the world, anyone in his or her right mind should stay for an extended length of time. Personally, I had all the time in the world. My nine to five job was gone. My best friend had passed away from liver cancer. My focus was gone and I was bored. Against advice from every soul around me, I cashed in my 401K and purchased the ticket. I was going to Australia.

I had no agenda. I didn’t want to burden myself with wish lists of touristy traps. My life had been on schedule for as long as I could remember. I made the commitment to step off the grid, carrying one bag, my fountain pen with refills, and a journal. I would greet each day, with a blank page, filling the sheet with experiences no matter how big or small.

Although I had travelled extensively in the States, showing horses from coast to coast, Australia tapped into my explorer spirit. The hospitality of Australians is unsurpassed. My first day in Sydney CBD, a very kind man, curious as to why I was eating hummus for breakfast, offered advice on historical buildings to photograph. He quizzed me as to where I was from, where I was going and how long I would be travelling. When he applauded me for travelling solo, I felt honored. A total stranger, an angel, gave me the best gift – a sense of pride for being strong enough to make this journey alone and step outside of my comfort zone.

As I wandered from Sydney to Uluru, aimlessly, absorbing the culture, the topography of the area struck me, not so much as odd, but empowering. Camping with a hodgepodge group from around the world, I would listen to their hopes and their fears, as we trekked through the Outback. At night, I gazed out into the universe from another hemisphere. I missed my Stargazer app, but felt humbled under the blanket of stars.

Uluru, a monadnock of strength, stands majestically for the world to see, not as a lump of sandstone jutting from the earth, but as sacred Aborigine ground. I opted not to climb. I was physically prepared to make the hike on this particular clear and windless day. However, I could not, having become so emotionally connected to the Aborigine culture. I would not violate their hallowed ground. Uluru is truly magical.

Zigzagging back to the coast, Brisbane gives surfers a paradise. What Brisbane gave to me was more. I had only one goal. I wanted to see the zoo Steve Irwin built. The Australian Zoo, his legacy to his passion of all creatures, maybe just another tourist stop. I understand that passion. I had that passion, with my horses many years ago and wanted to rekindle it. How many zoo animals exude love and affection? I truly believe each one of those animals was smiling, happy to be ambassadors to the world. Even the crocs seemed content. You could feel Steve’s energy everywhere.

I found Melbourne charming. My last stop before heading back to the states, the city has a thriving art and theatre community. My creative juices stirred. Able to spend hour on end, in the mist of the café culture, I wrote until my heart was content. The architecture was eclectic; old school energy holding on in the urban hipness. I had no agenda – just giving into the whim of what food I wanted to explore on that day. How could I leave? Better yet, how could I bring this attitude back with me to the States?

Upon my return, I deleted unread email acquired while I was away. I didn’t answer my voicemail messages. I didn’t re-connect with colleagues that did not understand why I needed to take this journey. Trekking through Australia changed my life. I fell in love with the woman that emerged while on that journey. Everyday I focus on keeping that love in my heart alive.

About the Author: Sabrina Zackery is an award winning author, director and photographer based in Reno, Nevada. Ms. Zackery left the corporate world over five years ago and made the commitment, to pursue a life long dream of writing. Five awards and two books later, her production company, Mz3, focuses on family and moral based projects. Recently returned from an extended stay in Australia, Ms. Zackery is working on her first fiction trilogy novel.

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Bermuda: Same Ocean, Different Shore

Bermuda: Same Ocean, Different Shore

            Cruising down the wrong side of a foreign road, I searched for any indication of an approaching shoreline. Having spent the last three days peering over the top deck of a cruise ship, watching the massive boat slice through the Atlantic Ocean, I was eager to finally plunge into that welcoming water myself. With the thick tropical heat filtering into our oversized taxi, my family members aimed their cameras to the open windows, all hoping to capture the perfect image of the Bermuda scenery.

Palm trees, cloudless skies, and florescent houses provided an ideal backdrop for our journey down the narrow roads, as speeding cars barely scraped by us on the opposite side. As a native to the island, our taxi driver also acted as a tour guide along the way. From the most elite mansions to each quaint little cottage, he supplied information on nearly every type of building lining our path. Eventually, to my excitement, the surrounding houses grew sparser and the sandy coast came into view.

Having spent that same morning exploring Hamilton, Bermuda’s capital, with my family, I had already seen Horseshoe Bay, our destination, on nearly every postcard in every shop. I had marveled at the scenic photos, but when we finally arrived at our greatly anticipated retreat, I realized that a postcard was no competition for the real thing. No printed picture of the rose-colored sand could capture its cool satin texture like the touch of bare feet. With each sinking step, the salty ocean breeze nudged me toward the horizon, where the already crowded waters begged for more company.

Being accustomed to the frigid New England water back home, I braced myself for the chilling tide to wash over my ankles, only to be met with the same warmth as the summer air. Now I understood why so many people were able to just dive in with such ease—it was like entering a Jacuzzi with an unlimited capacity. I waded in to join everyone else, taking my place amongst the hundreds of beach-goers enjoying their day under the blazing August sun.

Floating in the clear turquoise water, the ocean and I became one body. The waves surged with a rhythmic pulse, matching my sighs of peaceful satisfaction. Cradling my body, the sea made me feel safe even in my most vulnerable state. The licks of water washed away the sand’s remnants, and the calming motion cleansed my mind of all thought. As the surf caressed the blushing shore, I drifted along with a quiet indulgence.

I had no concept of time, and it didn’t matter. Using only the changing shadows to keep track of time, I soon realized that the passing minutes had turned to hours. I never wanted to leave, and I noticed no one else did either. For as long as I stayed, the crowd never wavered. Kids were laughing, friends were throwing Frisbees, and families were having picnics under their giant umbrellas. They were free from worry, free from care, free from life’s stresses, and I had officially joined them.

About the Author: Nicole Gariepy: I am a student at Salem State University, currently pursuing a degree in English with a minor in dance. In addition to writing, I enjoy doing ballet, playing music, and spending time with family and friends. Find me on Facebook.

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Tunisia – International Festival of Sousse

Tunisia hasn’t exactly had a lot of positive press lately, and for understandable reasons. The country’s disposal of its less than democratic ruler triggered revolutions across the Middle East and North Africa, which became known as the Arab Spring. Yet, what you likely haven’t heard is that unlike neighboring Libya and fellow countries on the block Egypt and Syria, Tunisia has made huge strides towards democracy, and is no longer embroiled in the conflict it found itself in back in 2011. Now once again safe for tourists to visit, this country that sits perched at the top of North Africa has a lot to offer tourists, and one event that’s certainly open for visitors is the month-long International Festival of Sousse, which runs from July 16th all the way through until August 16th.

Sousse is situated 140 kilometres south of Tunis, the capital of Tunisia, and enjoys an enviable climate, with an average temperature of twenty four degrees Celsius, meaning that those seeking out some sunshine would be wise to head to the North African nation, especially as cheap flights to Tunisia are easy to come by from destinations all over Europe. Sousse has a lot going for it, and visitors often find themselves becoming spellbound, and subsequently lost, in the maze-like alleys of the city’s souks. The Medina of Sousse is a UNESCO World Heritage site, ascending to its current status in 1988, and tombs dating back to when the city state of Carthage dominated the region. And it goes without saying that there’s a whole lot of fresh produce to satisfy food lovers, with olives, dates and couscous just waiting to be delved into.

The International Festival of Sousse serves to add even more to the mix, and this year marks the 47th edition of the festival. Tunisian musicians and artists dominate the lineup at the festival, and performers from neighboring countries as well as Romania, Italy, Belgium, Syria and Lebanon add their artistic stylings into the mix, and Russia is also sending its Symphonic Orchestra across to Tunisia. Music isn’t the only focus of the festival though, with screenings of feature films and animations also happening all across the city.

The diversity of Tunisian culture and history is celebrated at the International Festival of Sousse, and for a country nestled among the African giants of Libya and Algeria, Tunisia’s history sure is an impressive one. Before gaining independence in 1956, Tunisia changed hands many times over the course of history, with the Romans, Ottomans and the French being in charge of the country, not to mention the Galactic Empire. That’s right, Star Wars fans – scenes involving Tatooine, Luke Skywalker’s home planet, were filmed in Tunisia, with set locations not being too far away from Sousse.

Lodging during the festival shouldn’t pose too much of a problem, as Sousse is a city that welcomes tourists with open arms, with hotels catering to tourists arriving from the nearby airport in Monastir. Tunisia’s third largest city, Sousse has the tourist infrastructure necessary to both handle and welcome the influx of people who come to experience and be immersed in true Tunisian culture.

Don’t let the media fool you into thinking Tunisia is a country to be avoided – when was the last time you heard about a country successfully getting back on its feet again in the news? Exactly. Tunisia is back open for business, and there’s no better place to get a taster for one of the African continent’s most accessible countries than at the International Festival of Sousse, with its world-class lineup taking place in the height of summer.

However, with only 2 weeks still to go, if you are interested in attending the festival, you’ll have to act quickly! Luckily, First Choice have some great deals to Tunisia for you to take advantage of.

 About the Author: Terrance Richardson is a keen writer, explorer and musician. He is particularly interested in music in different cultures but is also a big food lover.

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Wind in Ushuaia

Travelling is a question of time. Freedom is also a question of time. Where these two intersect, you realize self-autonomy.

It is late March, austral fall, and I find myself returning to what I thought I left behind in Canada, winter. I’m in Ushuaia, the capital and main port city of Argentina’s Tierra del Fuego. I’m not the first one to ever have arrived in this remote part of the world, in fact, far from it.

Most people head to the south in the Austral summer, but having never been much of a planner, I ended up here by accident, both in time and place. I happened to find a cheap bus ticket all the way down, so I took it, the freedom of no itinerary. With no plan, perhaps just vague direction, you open yourself to true travel, which in turn opens you to happenstance, life.

I quickly learned backpacking here, that if I wanted to meet travellers and regular Argentines, I had to avoid the more commercial hostels, and find less expensive ones. Instead of bright reds and yellows, shiny floors and trendy sofas, I discover a rather elongated wooden cabin, a hostel, but more rustic.

There I meet a young Belgian fellow, Antony, an archaeologist. He would like to travel across the Beagle Channel to Puerto Williams, the main town on Chile’s, Isla Navarino. There lives the last traditional Yamana woman and he wishes to meet her. What were his plans become mine and we soon find ourselves making several rounds to the wharf of the Ushuaia Yacht Club to ask if anyone can give us a lift.

After numerous awkward inquiries we encounter an American climatologist and his field assistant. He has a small Catalina. For a bottle of Malbec, they’ll take us across.

It’s autumn. Beautiful reds and yellows blanket the southern Andes. Here, the peaks are not nearly as high as they are further north, but they are jagged and forlorn. The first snows cover their bowls and crests.

We cross the channel, sailing east over the grey choppy seas. The mountains of the great island, blue-green-white, draped with waves of clouds as if they were spread with a spatula.

We arrive in Puerto Williams. There is an immediate transition from the relative bustle of Ushuaia, and Argentine culture to the quiet solitude of Chile. Puerto Williams may attract a handful of tourists in the warm summer months, but at this time we’re the only ones.

It’s late afternoon, a prolonged autumn twilight. We walk down the nearly empty streets. The ubiquitous barking dogs break the silence, of a landscape that could swallow you in its incessant winds, constant unsettledness, and utter wildness. A low layer of smoke hangs over the houses and streets, as it does in all Patagonian towns. Wood smoke. It colors the mood, making the twilight orange and ethereal. Almost every house down here has one, if not two great wood stoves, battling to keep Patagonia at bay.

We find a hospedaje, with great homey food and dark cozy warmth.

The days pass and sometimes we explore together and other times we go off on our own.

I walk up behind the town one morning; on a paved road that soon becomes dirt and then just a trail. I slowly enter the Fuegian biome. The Lenga Beech trees fill in around me. There is a rich earthy smell; damp, rotting wood, but also of clean cool air. Air from far away. The yellows and reds of fall dapple with the evergreens. There is utter silence. I become conscious of twigs cracking underfoot and branches scraping over my nylon clothing. Not a bark, not a bird, not a sound. It’s a strange feeling walking through a silent forest, as if the silence itself is conscious of your intrusion. You’ve entered and this Fuegian spirit knows. But I’m not afraid. There are no bears or wolves, and even pumas don’t make it this far south.

The forest opens up now and again and eventually the path wanders into a meadow. There are low, bare, rounded mountains to my left and right. Sharply, they contrast with the blue sky. Thin clouds are riding past on the upper air currents. There is a sound: wind.

The cobalt sky, the breeze, the dying orange and yellow. I don’t know why, but when I’m down here I feel a melancholy, a serene melancholy. My whole heart aches, but with an ache you don’t want to stop. It’s a feeling of spirituality without churches or mosques or interpretation, a spirituality of connection to raw, beautiful nature. And it fills me. I lie down on the spongy meadow, making my form, swallowed in the mosses, look up at the sky, at the travelling clouds, and I am complete.

About the Author: Nicholas Engelmann is a Canadian living in Cordoba, Argentina. After backpacking in Latin America and Argentina and Chile in 2008 and 2009 he met his Argentine love and stayed. Since then he has travelled all over the country. When he’s not in Argentina he works on vessels as a biologist in disparate parts of the world.

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Colorado: An Afternoon in the Sun

An Afternoon in the Sun in Colorado

I’ve spent many a summer in London. I’ve enjoyed a spring or two in Paris. I’ve had the pleasure of a few overnights in Cabo San Lucas, San Diego, Rapid City, Grand Canyon, and Disney World.

Of all the places my feet have walked, I am always happiest on my mini-vacations, my afternoons in the sun, at the ballpark; specifically, Coors Field. The only place I feel truly free.

Seriously, it’s personal. The ballpark is the one place that gives me permission to abandon all the things “grown-ups” need to worry about on a daily basis and be a kid again – blatantly discarding even dietary regulations – even if only for a few hours. It starts with the singing of the National Anthem. Standing proud with hand over heart, “…o’er the land of the free…” a smattering of applause, whoops and cheers, “…and the home of the brave.” Full tilt merriment, clapping and the announcer declares, “Play ball!”

I sit with my husband and my children, 10 rows up, third base side behind the visiting team dugout; sun beaming out from behind the occasional cloud, a comfortable 80 degrees, water bottle in one hand, and hot dog in the other. Thousands of people sit here on this balmy afternoon, united in spirit for one common goal. I take a deep breath in, elated. I am free from the windows that need washing at home, the clients that need calling at work, the oil needing changing in my car, the electric bill due, the laundry needing to be done, the dishes filling the sink. All of it is forgotten for one beautiful afternoon watching the boys of summer.

Top of the first, we get our first look at today’s starting pitcher and that basically sets the tone for the whole game. At this point, for me, win or lose is irrelevant. Just being here, smelling the acrid flavor of buttered popcorn, the pungent aroma of spilled beer, the dust, the chalk, I feel exhilarated. Peanut and sunflower seed shells are dropped like confetti up and down the aisles, the music plays between each batter, fight songs and “make some noise” orders splash across all the neon signs. The whole row of seats in front of us remains empty; perfect ottoman for my feet. Settle in, game on.

By the middle of the 7th, I realize my daughters have not uttered one single complaint. They have been celebrating the small victories and booing the little losses all the way though with me. They may not as interested in the outcome as my husband and I but they are on board and content none-the-less. “Please rise for the performance of God Bless America by Mrs. Johnson’s sixth grade class.” Thirty little people with pressboard perfect smiles nervously assemble in left field, harmonizing the classic while every spectator sings along using the words displaying on the jumbo-tron. “…from the mountains…” a small eruption of cheers as we happen to be nestled snuggly at the base of the Rocky Mountains here in Denver. “…to the oceans white with foam…” another small eruption as we are playing a sea side resident team. Tears fill my eyes with pride and love every time I hear that song, this time is no different.

“Take me out to the ballgame…” starts without missing a beat, we sway back and forth, belting this one out with little regard for the fact none of us can sing. We have spent the afternoon indulging in hot dogs, pretzels with cheese, handfuls of peanuts, but when the snow cone guy comes around, we figure the damage is already done so we spring for the treat for the girls but choose to wait for the cotton candy guy for ourselves.

The sun has descended to a comfortable low behind the giant stadium walls casting a cool shadow upon us. Slight breeze, noticing a slight sunburn on my thighs; I remembered the sunscreen for the girls but obviously forgot myself. Top of the ninth, our team leads by three, two outs, full count, thousands of people remain united, standing for the final out. Pitch, swing and a miss, game. The cheering crowd applauds the home team, gathers belongings and forms the lines up the cement stairs towards the exits

Holding hands, single file, up the stairs, through the gates, out to the streets back to the car, the little realities of life start creeping back into my thoughts. As soon as we get home, I will throw a load of laundry in, unload and load the dishwasher, makes lunches for tomorrow making sure it is something healthy after the piles of junk food we had today, check the schedule for the mechanic tomorrow to drop off the car on the way to work; the list seems endless. Freedom. It was lovely while it lasted.

About the Author: Working as a Tax Accountant in Golden, Colorado, Sheryl Ricigliano enjoys spending her free time with her husband and children, traveling America on summer roadtrips and writing. In November 2012, one of Sheryl’s short stories placed 7th in the ‘Mainstream/Literary Short Story’ category of the Writer’s Digest 81st Annual Writing Contest and in January 2013, one of Sheryl’s non-fiction works will appear in the publication of ‘Chicken Soup for the Soul: Angels Among Us’.

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Vietnam: You Never Want to Leave

Vietnam: Once You get there you never want to leave

Everyone told me that Halong Bay is a must seen in Vietnam. But as I’m travelling on a shoestring budget, I’m not a big fan of organized trips. This time I made an exception as I met some friendly guys from Belgium in my hostel who convinced me to go with them.

The first day we spent on the boat. The agenda was nothing really special: visit to the caves, Cat Ba- overrated and touristic island. There were so many people on the beach,  that you couldn’t even move. So after the first day I was quite disappointed but everything changed when they took us to the secret beach on a private island in Halong Bay. The beach was called Cove Beach and it was hidden between the rocks. There were only 7 bungalows and the whole island was exclusively for us. It looked like from the movie- Beach. Now I see how the Maya bay in Thailand looked like before all the tourists made their way and destroyed the beautiful picture it used to have.

But this beach was secluded, quiet, no ladies trying to sell you something, no motorbikes, no tourists. There were kayaks to our disposal so were the tubes. My bungalow was right on the beach and the view on the bay from my balcony was magical. This is without any doubt the most amazing beach I ever stayed on- was my first thought. After lunch we took kayaks and went around the island and later we went rock climbing, which by the way – was not as easy as I expected to be. Unfortunately I failed miserably and landed it water after my three attempts. Everybody was really tired after long day of activities so we went to bed really early. Falling asleep I was watching the moon from my bed.

The next day we had to pack as the boat was picking us up at 8am but when  I saw people getting on I just felt I’m not ready to go back to crazy Hanoi where you have to fight for your life when you are crossing the street so I run to my guide and desperately asked If I can stay one more night. He laughed and agreed for me to stay. When the group left it was just me and two other girls on the island and of course the staff.  Surrounded by silence that was broken only by waves I sat on my balcony and read my book. For the first time since I started travelling a month ago I felt like I’m relaxing, not rushing anywhere and just being alone with myself.   It was a perfect place where I could gather my thoughts, get inspiration for my next blog articles and just be happy .Those who know me think no, that’s not possible she can’t just stay in one place doing nothing but apparently I can and I did. The time stopped on this magical island where I felt most peaceful in the whole world.

About the Author: Ewelina Kawczynska: I am a journalist and currently travelling by myself around Southeast Asia and I absolutely love it. I’m from Poland but I lived in Austria, UK, Spain, Kazakhstan, Belgium and Thailand. I love exploring new cultures and getting to know new people. Visit my website.

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From Thailand with a Book

From Thailand with a Book
Hello from Ao Nang, Thailand! Newsletter #31 August 6, 2013

After over two months on Lamai Beach, Koh Samui, we finished editing our memoir, Traveling in Sin, and traveled a bit more of Thailand. We went to Koh Phanghan, Tanote Beach in Koh Tao, Ranong, Little Koh Chang, Krabi and Ao Nang.

One of the best things has been seeing old friends and meeting new ones. We were able to visit with our friends, Taryn and Andrew who we traveled with in Borneo in 2009 and we wrote about in our memoir! Spending time with them in Koh Samui and Koh Tao was great. We look forward to a visit this week with Jeremy who was with us in Fiji when George asked me to go on the first sabbatical and we saw in the Fall in Hua Hin and who was in our wedding!

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. We are participating in travel events in Kuala Lumpur, Manila, Guam, Oahu and Los Angeles! More news about all of them soon! Connect with us on Facebook, Google+, LinkedIn, Pinterest ,  SlideShare,  Twitter, and YouTube.

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

Recent posts to enjoy: Lisa’s review of “Zen Under Fire” is in the August/September issue of Whole Life Magazine. It is in print and available in Los Angeles or click here and go to page 39!

New movies on our site from Myanmar: Day Three in Bagan, and Day Four with Bikes in Bagan.

About our book, Lisa was interviewed for the site Diets in Review as a True Weight Loss Story.

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New Zealand: 134 Meters of Fear

When the wind rushes over the gorge, our metal box shakes like dice in the hand of a desperate gambler. Nervous, antsy.

The constant jostling, suspended 134 meters (439 feet) above the craggy ravine of the Nevis Bluff, is forcing a similar emotion in my intestines.

Should have used the toilet, I lament. But there had not been time; someone sounded sick in one of the stalls, and before I could whisper assurances, commanding voices dragged me out of that porcelain haven.

Another gust shakes us easily. New Zealand is still on the edges of winter, a grey sky veiling the thorns of the Matagouri that grows wild on the surrounding hillsides.

“Are you panicking yet?” asks Kelli, companion in this misadventure. My half smile and quivering palms answer.

One thin wire supports the pulley on which our box is slowly moving. If I stare at it, bouncing in the weather, I will cry. Focusing on my feet is equally terrifying: the metal grill they’re glued to only accentuates our height above the Nevis River.

We would hold hands for support, but the other travelers in the box are watching anxiously. A British couple, one Indian lad with raven curls and us, two apprehensive Americans. All trapped in a tiny container by this morning’s ill-conceived decision to jump the country’s biggest bungy.

Thunk. “Everybody out!” The AJ Hackett jump crew grab our harnesses and insert us into the sturdier jumping platform. Glancing down, I still see the river’s freezing rapids – the floor is a glass window – and my feet begin to twitch.

“Good spirit, you’ve got to get into the moment of anticipation,” the Indian applauds. He’s mistaken my involuntary dancing for enthusiasm. Throwing his head back, he also starts to tap around. “This is my fourth jump, what about you guys?” The British girl, I’m quite sure, is now crying. Woolen mittens hide her eyes but not the sound of upset sniffles.

“She’s not going to make it,” Kelli predicts.

Neither am I, I worry. “An Adult’s Playground,” the travel companies call New Zealand. For every quaint café featuring scones with locally-made fruit jams, there are thirty more outdoor opportunities to push the inner wimp. Trek up a glacier, body surf the rapids, snorkel with dolphins. Of all the physical challenges I’ve agreed to, none haunt me like this. I’m torn between admiration for the pioneering, hardy Kiwis who settled these parts; and, not for the first time, begrudging annoyance for their apparent lack of doubt or fear.

More than that, I’m aggravated by myself and Kelli. Is an “I survived!” bungy t-shirt any more proof (than a Queenstown postcard) of where we’ve been?

At this moment, when the AJ Hackett crewmember with the neck tattoo invites “Who’s first?,” I feel liberated by a decision to give up. Ignore the see-through floor and remove my harness with the maturity of someone who understands her limitations.

But then Kelli raises her hand. “Take a leap of faith tonight,” she hums to me, quoting the lyrics of Midnight Youth, a popular Kiwi band. This is the place that never sleeps, where your dreams are brought to life….

It all slips away from me like melted butter: Kelli’s ankles are strapped into red cords and linked to the bungy; she’s distracted by casual questions from the crew, chatting amicably about our two-month trip; smiling boldly and suddenly disappearing over the ravine.

Thunk. Blonde hair flying from the descent, Kelli is helped back onto the platform by the crewmen.

If she offers words of advice, I’m not listening. My heart is frozen, my legs turned into licorice sticks as I’m seated and ankle-sheathed. No light-hearted conversation, just positive reinforcements from the crew. “Stand up? You won’t regret it – move forward please – there we are. Ready to go?”

New Zealand’s South Island, even under dismal clouds, is stunning. Its clash of snowy peaks and golden hills a welcome distraction from the scene underneath me.

“Take a deep breath, you’ll be right.” A crewman has his hand on my spine, preventing me from shuffling backward. For the last time, I observe my feet. Mere centimeters separate white rubber soles from the open abyss.

It’s impossible. I can’t do it.

Or can I? A leap of faith – is that not the placement of your belief over the clatter of your distrust? Willingly choosing to step beyond daily boundaries for places yet unknown? Travel, in all its entirety?

Maybe it’s just the 8.5 second ground rush of a hysterical American tourist shrieking “Sh******” as she releases herself into the blustery effects of gravity for the first time.

Independent of weight or direction, arms hanging like tentacles and bladder bursting, my freedom is a choice. Nothing to hold me back but a length of elastic.

About the Author: Kelli Mutchler left a small, Midwest American town to prove that Yanks can, and do, chose alternative lifestyles. On the road for six years now, Kelli has tried news reporting and waitressing, bungy jumping and English teaching. After recently working with Burmese refugees in Thailand, she hopes to pursue a MA in Global Development. Opportunities and scenes for international travel are encouraged on her blog, Too Much for Words.

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