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Entries in travel essay (170)

Tuesday
Nov042014

The Little Burmese Tout in Training 

by Amy Dapice

 

I was an easy target, strolling happily towards the temple outside Inwa, Myanmar. The little Burmese girl chose me as the unwilling object of her relentless sales pitch. Clinging to my side she chanted loudly, Lady! Lady! You buy my earrings? Buy my earrings! Lucky money! Lucky money!She recited these words over and over in exactly the same order, a mindless loop of singsong, all the while holding up a selection of cheap handmade jewelry. My polite refusals were completely ignored or perhaps she simply didnt hear me. She absentmindedly stared off into space while repeating her jingle, daydreaming of being someplace else, any place else. She was clearly bored with her job but needed the money. 

As a seasoned traveler, Id seen my share of touts. Overly aggressive to say the least, they will do just about anything to make a sale.

I learned long ago to avoid eye contact. Keep walking. Say nothing to encourage them. But from the moment my plane touched down in Burma, I felt no need for such guardedness. I walked unaccosted on the streets of Mandalay and met with nothing but curious glances and wide smiles. Cut off from the world for so long, the people still possessed a kind of cultural innocence. Respect and courtesy towards visitors still reigned. I felt welcome.

 

So the unwanted attention of this little tout-in-training threw me a bit. She was especially tenacious for one so young. I guessed her age to be no more than ten. The picture of innocence, she wore a colorful dress and a bow in her hair. I took it personally that she didnt bother to look me in the eye. It quickly became a battle of wills between us. I didn't want to be unpleasant but I also wanted it to stop.  

I knew just what to do.

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Tuesday
Oct212014

Learning to Adventure from Daddy

by Laura Hedgecock 

 

I was born with Fernweh, an ache to explore faraway places. It’s in my DNA; both of my parents had it. It was my dad, however, who taught us to pack adventure into our explorations.  

Like my mother, I’d bask in the preparations for travel. I’d research, map out itineraries, and pack well in advance. For Daddy, however, the best part of travel was the adventure—the experiences you couldn’t plan for. 

Mother and Father in Alaska.

In 1985, I was interning in Germany when Daddy was due to come over on a business trip. Since I was stressed about making a move from Köln (Cologne) to Homburg-Saar, Daddy decided we would make the move together and he would take care of the details. 

What he meant by that was that he’d leave the details to take care of themselves. 

He rented a BMW with a manual transmission. His plan was to teach me how to drive a shift as he took in the beauty along the winding road that followed the Rhine River. It would be cheaper, he said, than replacing the clutch in a car he owned if my “learning” didn’t go well. In my mind, he rented a red convertible, but I’m honestly not sure if I’m coloring the memory. 

He’d laugh and say, “Way to go kid!” when I wasn’t able to find a gear.

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Tuesday
Sep302014

Driving in France

by Aysha Griffin


On my first trip to Europe in 1978, I landed a job driving a cheese delivery truck in London. I was too young and enthusiastic to be afraid of a right-hand drive minivan with no visibility or negotiating the "other side" of the road while deciphering the phonebook-sized "A-to-Z" map of London streets to locate stores awaiting chunks of cheddar and rounds of Roquefort. After six weeks, I moved on.

It was one of those jobs I've never known if I should include on my resumé to illustrate gumption and nerve, or never mention for its irrelevance. I submit it here as evidence of my behind-the-wheel experience and competence, and also the lack of clear direction in life. 

I've often taken the "next road" because it appeared, rather than plotting and staying a course. I like to think this has made for an "adventuresome" life, which I must value or else negate the roads I've taken. It's a journey that has often required me to debunk a sense of security as "illusion," although that illusion can be mighty sweet and comforting, deserving of appreciation for as long as it lasts.

I know of no happier sight than sunflower fields, so I smiled my way from Provence to Dijon along two-lane roads dotted with sunflowers and vineyards. Caption and photo by Aysha Griffin.

I admire those born with a sense of purpose and a clear path to satisfying lifelong careers and relationships. But I've discovered they are the exception. Most of us bumble from interest to opportunity, taking wrong turns, getting lost in detours, and sometimes spending years on roads that lead to disappointment in dead ends. 

I have learned to accept that life, for me, is not a clearly marked thoroughfare but a mix of toll roads where I speed along thinking I'm getting somewhere fast and not counting the cost, freeways where the landscape of time rushes past from the comfort of my driver's seat, winding country roads that meander and demand patience, and even bumpy tracks where I'm forced to get out and consider if I have the clearance and will to press on, or good sense to know when to change course. 

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Tuesday
Aug052014

The Plague Comes Back To Life

 

The year is 1645. The most virulent strain of the Bubonic Plague has immobilized Edinburgh, Scotland, claiming the lives of more than half the city’s population. The area hardest hit: Mary King’s Close on High Street, a busy thoroughfare and lively 17th century street of pubs, shops and residences. Cries of suffering have replaced the friendly chatter, and the stench of death, the pungent aroma of tea and scones.

The place, the time, the horror have been resurrected as one of Edinburgh's most unusual attractions. Archaeologically and historically accurate, the alleys you walk upon, the rooms you visit, the stories you hear are real. This is not a recreation; it is a resurrection of what already existed so many centuries ago. 

Beneath the City Chambers on Edinburgh’s famous Royal Mile, lies Mary King’s Close, a series of narrow, winding side streets with multi-level apartment houses looming on either side, which has been hidden for many years. In 1753, the houses at the top of the buildings were knocked down to make way for the then-new building. Parts of the lower sections were used as the foundation, leaving below a number of dark and mysterious underground alleyways steeped in mystery -- and misery. 

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Tuesday
Jul082014

Would You Eat Your Lunch in a Cathedral?

Musing at Scorhill Stone Circle, England by Elyn Aviva

 

We trudged up the bleak hill, brown and barren. My husband, Gary, and I were hiking with a small group in desolate, wild Dartmoor National Park to a place we’d never been, following a faint path through the moor, a track barely visible in the water-logged, peaty soil.  Our guide informed us that people can easily lose their way on the moors—experienced hikers, skilled in reading maps, disappear, their bodies found years later. 


Clearly, we were entering a dangerous place, a place “in-between” the known and unknown worlds. Specifically, we were going to Scorhill (AKA Gidleigh) Stone Circle, one of the largest and most intact stone circles in Devon: approximately 27 meters (88’) in diameter, originally composed of between 51 to 70 upright stones. Now, only 34 remain.

I saw a knee-high standing stone next to a tiny glistening pool. “Is that an entry marker for the stone circle?” I asked and pointed. Our guide said, “No, it’s just a stone.” But I felt drawn to it. I walked over to the narrow granite slab and greeted it, centering myself for a few minutes. Suddenly my eyes filled with tears, my perception shifted, and I felt myself become a pilgrim on a journey rather than an ambler on an outing. This was puzzling but perhaps not so surprising: the moor was filled with an almost palpable primordial energy. Silently, I asked permission to continue on this path. I waited for an equally silent response.

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Tuesday
Jul012014

The World of Growing Things

by B.J. Stolbov

 

When I was 11 years old, my father took my 15-year-old-sister and me on a cross-country car trip from Tamaqua, Pennsylvania to Seattle, Washington to San Diego, California, and back in 30 days. What I remember about the trip was my father saying, “Here we are at the Space Needle (or Disneyland or the Grand Canyon or wherever), you have 10 minutes, take some pictures, I’m going to the souvenir shop to buy some pennants.”  (For some reason, we got into collecting pennants that ended up on the walls of our basement.) My father drove 10,000 miles in 30 days, and I got to see the U.S.A. at 60 miles per hour. 

Navajo Bridge over the Colorado River. Photo by robin-loo via Flickr CCL

Now, that I have journeyed many miles throughout the U.S.A. and have moved to the Philippines, I would like to tell you what I have discovered about our world of growing things.

I learned the difference between a Saguaro Cactus and a Joshua Tree. (A Saguaro looks like a thorny, bristly candelabra and a Joshua Tree looks like large scrub brushes.) I learned to distinguish between a Coconut Palm and a Date Palm.  (You have to look up, but be careful; a falling coconut can kill.) I have journeyed to see a legendary Boojum Tree, which looks like a living tree that is growing upside-down! (It should be on everyone’s must-see list.)

The more I traveled and the more I observed, the more I discovered about trees. Banana trees (technically they are not a tree; they are a grass like asparagus) can be identified by a subtle difference in the leaf shapes. (I can’t tell the difference yet.) But I can tell the difference between the taste of a Lakatan (the sweetest) and a Saba (the meatiest). Did you know that a Pineapple plant is surprisingly short (less than a meter tall)?

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