I never imagined anyone would ever see my feet photos, but here they are.

Labels: photography, travel

Tom and I have been in Galveston the past couple of days. We loved it.

We did note how much our respective families-of-origin—-mine from Manhattan, his hardcore Chicago--would hate the tacky, ramshackle, moist and not particularly lovely island city. This is no place for sophisticates or poseurs.

The beaches on the Gulf of Mexico are not breathtaking. The water is warm and gentle but murky and brown and surf warning flags include one for “venomous organisms” in the water—mostly jellyfish.


And Galveston evidently lacks zoning laws, like Houston, so the collection of buildings lining busy Seawall Boulevard is a cockamamie hodgepodge with no attempt at beauty, unless you count the fake volcano on top of the Rainforest Café, which spews fire on an unpredictable schedule. It scared the crap out of me one night as I lounged on our hotel room balcony.

Once a wealthy port city to rival San Francisco, Galveston was all but wiped out in 1900 by a giant hurricane—a natural disaster unrivaled in our nation until Katrina blew through. Galveston rebuilt, but the Houston Ship Channel, which went through various stages of widening and deepening, siphoned off much of Galveston’s ship traffic and therefore wealth over the decades.

Galveston floundered through decades of casinos and crime and decay in the moist sea air, and then, in the 1980s, when Texas was shaking off the meltdown of the oil industry by investing in tourism, the island revived and now it’s a popular family vacation destination (it appears no one visits the island in summer with fewer than four children) and cruise port.


The last time I visited Galveston was the mid 1990s and I expected to see it changed, riding the wave of prosperity that has luxurified everything it washed over. But from the looks of it, new hotel development along Galveston’s seawall (built to protect the city from a repeat of the 1900 disaster) ended around 1989, unless you count the prefab chain hotels popping up here and there. Residential development is somewhat more robust, with high-end developments such as Beachtown, rising from the sands. (Beachtown is designed by the same folks, and along the same lines, as the planned communities Seaside and Rosemary Beach in Florida.) We’ll see what happens now that the bottom has dropped out of our crazy housing market.


Across the narrow island, on Galveston Bay, The Strand (modeled after London’s Strand) survived the storm and now the lovely iron-front buildings house souvenir stores of the most craptacular nature. Put down the elephant made of seashells and walk away. Nobody needs it, nobody wants it. Streets of surrounding neighborhoods are studded with spectacular Victorian historic homes and mansions, some open for touring.

We mostly bummed around the beach side. Our hotel, the San Luis Resort, has a crazy pool with grottos and waterfalls and a slide and a cool bar--poolside and swim-up--and enough children to populate one of the smaller nearby islands. We spent some time there, some time walking the long beaches, some time eating greasy seafood and more time than we intended in a semi-ersatz biker bar with a view of the beach and some of the most godawful loud cheezepop music we’ve ever suffered through. We stopped in for a quick drink and snack and hours later had new friends and a fuzzy view of things.

Galveston is hot and humid and it has many smells, among them the whang of eccentricity. It is island people and beach people and Texans and historians (the Galveston Historical Foundation is strong and motivated), all iconoclasts. It’s an urban beach town, a ripe concoction of seaside and industry. It's a tourist destination but without the sheen that has polished the authenticity right off a lot of places. (Think about Antiques Roadshow--when you strip the original finish and redo a piece of furniture, it might look prettier in a superficial sense but it loses much of its soul.)


Galveston reeks of soul. I might could live there. I might be just eccentric enough.

P.S. Good luck getting the song out of your head.

Labels: galveston, texas, travel

Here I am.

So, the trip was good. A quick recap for my favorite readers.


The hiking and mountain biking with Santa Fe Mountain Adventures were great and the outdoor cooking class with Santa Fe School of Cooking was a highlight of a highlightful trip.





Chef Rocky Durham is charming and entertaining. He’s been on the teevee and everything.








Mmm, paella and homemade tortillas.

We got recipe books from the class. Tom made the paella tonight on our grill and it's fanfriggingtastic. I got a paella pan for my wedding and never realized you could put it on the grill. I thought it was just for serving. The angels sang over that pan tonight.

This was a very convivial event. Those are two of our guides. Laura's full-time job is as a jewelry designer for a shop she has with her dad. Nice stuff. The other guide's name is Georges and he's French. Yeah, I know.




The food rocked very hard and the rain held out for us. We had glorious, drenching storms every night all week. Locals were equal parts delighted and confused.







Check out that peach cobbler in the Dutch oven. Man oh man. I’ll be trying that recipe soon.


I also had a deluxe treatment at Absolute Nirvana spa. It was absolute nirvana. The treatment room is small and sunny and perfectly spare with sensual touches of rich color. I was oiled and rubbed and sprinkled with spices like a warm donut and gently scrubbed and then left to shower. It ended with a soak in a hot tub thickly strewn with rose petals. This was accompanied by a pot of spicy ginger tea, sweetened with honey, and nibbles of fresh fruit and chocolate.

The proper response to that description is, “Rough life.”

Yup. Take note: I do a lot of spa treatments. I’m very fortunate that way. And this one was exceptional. Expensive and exceptional. If it’s the kind of thing you can afford, it is worth the dough.

I spent some time at the very excellent International Folk Art Museum looking at chairs. Loved it. This is one of my favorite museums anywhere and definitely in Santa Fe.

And then I went to Sunrise Springs resort. I’ve been before and wanted to return. I took classes in various meditative arts. I want to calm my monkey mind. It's all about calming my monkey mind.

I did a yoga class, of course. Always yoga, and it was a very good class, better than the average resort.

Then I had a session of private coaching in meditation that was so profound, I have to think about it before I write about it. The coach, Donna Thomson, suggested a number of visualizations to help me accept my bizzy buzzy mind and still find a peaceful center.

I took a class in Asian brushwork, learning how to paint pictures of bamboo. For this, you have to find a balance between fluidity and intention. The strokes look like they are done quickly, but you can’t get too loose or they lose their grace. The teacher gave me an example to copy and I did it over and over, then picked my favorite to mount.

Each of these classes, plus a strange combo spa treatment, Sound Healing (with tuning forks) and Polarity Therapy require turning energy inwards. Both treatments were soothing and incomprehensible.

Yeah, by the end of the weekend, I’d gone all airy-fairy and was talking about energy a lot.

The spa director at Sunrise Springs pointed out that I put out a lot of energy. Especially last week. I was on all week—lots of being charming for strangers, talking to people who want for me to write about whatever it is they do, trying new things and keeping my mind and senses open.

Between the physical activity at the beginning of the week and the psychic activity at the end, I spent all my energy. And I became aware of that in a new way this weekend while thinking about all this meditation stuff.

On the shuttle bus to the Albuquerque airport, my fellow passengers--all strangers--got into deep conversation about religion and politics. One woman was a cantor from Buffalo. Another young man was born in Iran, lived in Sweden and spoke five languages. One woman, who spoke only occasionally, was a tax attorney.

I listened--the conversation was interesting--but just sat silently, looking out the window. It felt strange and selfish not to contribute, like I was whithholding. But one of the good things I learned about energy is that I am not obligated to give it away.

I got home yesterday afternoon. Tom had band rehearsal last night. Mad Men is on On Demand TV and I watched six consecutive episodes. That’s six hours of lying around watching TV.

And today, I am full of energy. I still don’t have energy for other people but I have been purging my office and rearranging and clean sweeping.

I was simultaneously exhausted and recharged in Santa Fe. It was an excellent trip.

Labels: santa fe, travel

Oy, am I tired.

I’m in Santa Fe this week doing a soft adventure trip. Except it’s only soft if you let it be soft and cain’t say no.

Yesterday was soft. We took a trail ride at Bishop’s Lodge-- long pleasant plod--then I had a two hour and spa treatment at Absolute Nirvana (and it was that—truly exceptional) then dinner. Easy cheesy.

Today, started with mountain biking. I’m not a big fan of mountain biking but I do what I’m told. We were supposed to bike for about three hours but because of our own dilly-dallying, we ended up short on time. We managed to bike from the parking lot to the beginning of the main trail, do a couple of roller-coaster hills on the proper trail, then bike back.

The trail leading to the proper trail was all loose, rutted gravel and the ride was tough for me, especially with my sea-level lungs. Oy, was I tired. It’s sad, because once we hit the good, hard-packed hilly trail, it was lots of fun—-much more fun than I expected since I’m a nervous biker. But alas, alas, most of our biking was on the gravel. At least going back was easier than going out. We didn’t even realize that the ride out was a long, slow climb until we headed back and it was a long, pleasant coast.

But oy, was I tired.

Then, we went to Bandolier National Monument, spectacular ruins of ancient Pueblo dwellings. (See here.)

It was an hour drive there, we hiked of maybe 30-40 minutes to see some of the ruins and climb up into some of the cave dwellings, then an hour drive back. Worth the effort, must go back with more time. Make a note…

The day ended with a hike and outdoor cooking class (a nifty joint production of the Santa Fe School of Cooking and Santa Fe Mountain Adventures).

The hike, in the Santa Fe National Forest was lovely but long after a long day. And then, when much of the group decided they were tired and wanted to turn back, my machisma kicked in and I decided I would stick with the self-described Type A woman and her lovely teenage daughter (and a guide) who wanted to speed walk to the end of the trail and back.

Big, big mistake. When I say I don’t know my own strength, I mean I’m not as strong as I think. Especially at altitude. The hike down to the end of the trail was easy enough and ended at a pretty river.

The hike back…

All uphill.

Oy, am I tired.

I fell far behind, which irked the crap out of me. And every time I saw the other three take a switchback and continue climbing, I cursed my own ego. I had to stop frequently and gasp for air. My heart was pounding so hard I suspect my head was visibly throbbing. Every time the others stopped to wait for me, I felt ashamed. (Shame. It’s what’s for dinner.)

I was never so glad to see a trail’s end in my life.

Why didn’t I just turn around with the rest of them? Why was I compelled to keep going? What did I have to prove?

It’s like a canoeing trip I took in Canada a few years ago. We canoed about seven miles a day, for three days. I got all tough-bitch about and kept up, feeling like a big-ass studette. Then I got home and my shoulder locked into a painful spasm for weeks. I was on painkillers and muscle relaxants and it still woke me up in the middle of the night. Finally I went to a masseuse, the talented Laura Heubner, who found one small knot and pressed down on it until every hair on my body was standing on end and I was shrieking in pain. And then I was better.

You would think that would have taught me a lesson. Today, when I heard myself say, “I’ll keep going.” I should have slapped myself. But no.

Oh well. I did make it--gasping and sweating and hurting. The outdoor cooking class was a blast. I made a tortilla. Dinner was paella, grilled shrimp and peach cobbler cooked in a Dutch over. Outstanding.

And now, I’ve had a hot shower and I’m in bed, listening to rain on the roof. (We lucked out there—we were on the road just as the rain moved in.)

I’m so happy not to still be on that trail, watching those other three women climb while I fight for breath.

I’m probably going to hurt tomorrow.

Labels: personal growth, santa fe, travel

My story about the ranch where I spent my birthday. I love this place.

The Wildcatter Ranch: Hill Country without the crowds

The Texas hills range beyond the increasingly congested and action-packed triangle of Austin, San Antonio and Fredericksburg. While the popular epicenter gets all the attention, beyond that bustling region, the hills relax into broad tranquil vistas perfect for a weekend of unwinding.

The Wildcatter Ranch & Resort sits on 1,500 acres in Graham, Texas, about 100 miles northwest of Fort Worth—an area that local residents are calling the North Texas Hill County. Here the land studded with mesquite, oak and juniper begins stretching out to plains and the Brazos River is a grand golden ribbon winding through loosely laid hills.

The land on which the Wildcatter sits was first owned by Colonel E.S. Graham, founder of the namesake town, and now belongs to two of his great-grandchildren: Glenn Street and his sister Anne Street Skipper, who has a large home on the property with her husband, Broadway producer Mike Skipper--whose most recent project, In The Heights, was just nominated for 13 Tony awards.

Opened in 2005, the family-owned Wildcatter is high-end romantic getaway, with 12 suites, an infinity pool and hot tub overlooking Texas’ infinite horizon, and a lively steakhouse and bar. The Wildcatter also is a family-friendly resort, with activities such as horseback riding on miles of trails, ATV tours, canoeing on placid Connor Creek, skeet shooting, archery and a hand-operated mechanical bull named Mighty Buckey. (Because he’s hand-operated, he’s not as rambunctious as the mechanical bull famously featured in the movie Urban Cowboy.)

The swath of North Texas in which the Wildcatter sits is steeped in history. The iconic Goodnight-Loving Trail started about 20 miles from the ranch and some of Oliver Loving’s descendants still live in the area.(Representing the other side of the equation, the resort keeps a resident herd of longhorns, including Big Boy, who has the third largest spread—horn length—in Texas.) The Elm Creek Raid of 1864, in which Comanche killed 12 people, kidnapped women and children and stole 10,000 head of cattle occurred nearby. “The Searchers,” starring John Wayne, was based on this raid.

Keeping with the area’s rich history, each suite at the Wildcatter is themed to a significant person, place or event and decorated in pretty, sturdy and comfortable Western style, with locally made furniture and historic photographs. You can stay in the unromantically named Cattle Raisers Association Room, (the organization’s accomplishments include eradicating screw worm in the Southwest and promoting cattle-raising across Texas), the Brazos Indian Reservation room, the Warren Wagon Train room or the Marlow Brothers room. (“The Sons of Katie Elder,” another John Wayne films was based on the Marlow Brothers’ story. You can borrow the film, or other classic Westerns, from the ranch library to watch in your room.)

Many of the suites sleep four people and all open out to a long back porch, properly equipped with rocking chairs and the aforementioned endless horizon.



An expansion scheduled to open in October will add more hotel rooms and 10,000 square feet of conference space. The Wildcatter already offers “Signature Series Workshops” in native plants and Texas-style home décor, and it can accommodate team building activities for small groups. (Consider it during fall branding, suggests Anne Skipper. “Just getting the calves separated from their mamas can be more challenging than a ropes course,” she says.)

Nearby, downtown Graham is an untaxing couple of hours should you decide to tear yourself away from the Wildcatter’s tranquility. The town wears its history modestly. It has the nation’s largest town square, although still lacking much of the ye olde teddy bears bustle of many Texas town squares.

Alongside the new Young County courthouse, which is a good-looking circa 1932 limestone Moderne-style limestone monolith, stands an old stone arch, the remains of the 1884 courthouse. Across from that, the Old Post Office Museum and Art Center has changing exhibits. You also can tour the restored buildings of Fort Belknap, founded 1851 and abandoned in 1857.

For nightlife, however, head back to the Wildcatter, where resort guests, weekenders with homes at nearby Possum Kingdom, and locals gather at the Blowout Saloon and Wildcatter Steakhouse. The evening begins with a daily happy hour (membership to the private club is $5 a year), then move to the dining room. Chef Bob Bratcher cuts his own steaks and makes his own rubs and sauces, and start the evening’s indulgence with “Texas Toothpicks”—fried jalapeno and onion strips. A local band plays on the porch every Thursday night, happy hour to close, and on Fridays when the resort is full, and two-stepping is encouraged. (Or whatever kind of dancing you can manage—visiting dudes have been known to improvise.)

The Wildcatter Ranch is a hill country getaway close to home (if home is the Dallas-Fort Worth metroplex) and its hills are lovely too. And not as crowded.

Wildcatter Ranch, 6062 Hwy. 16 South, Graham, TX 76450; 940-549-3500; 888 GO2WCRR (888 462 9277); www.wildcatterranch.com Rates are $239 per night Sunday-Thursday, $399 Friday and $369 Saturday. Activities such as horseback riding, canoeing, archery, skeet shooting and ATV tours are available at an extra charge.

The ranch also offers “Signature Series Workshops,” including a workshop on Designing the Texas Home September 10-11. For more information or reservations for the limited-space workshops, call 940-549-3500 or e-mail travel@wildcatterranch.com.

The Steakhouse is open to the public Wednesday through Saturday for dinner and Sunday for lunch from 11-2. Other times, it is open to resort guests only, breakfast, lunch and dinner.

Labels: guest ranch, resort, texas, travel

We spent it at the wonderful Wildcatter Ranch in Graham Texas. I’ve written about this place in the past and will pass along that article in a separate post because if you live in North Texas then this is a place you want to get away to. To which you want to get away. Currently it has just 12 rooms but a new hotel with more rooms is under construction, which is kind of a pity but a ranch has gotta do what a ranch has gotta do.

My friend Diana and her exceedingly smart and handsome boys, Francisco and Eamon, came down for the festivities. Helen and John from Austin dropped by for lunch on Sunday. Nancy and Sarah and Jenny and Mary and Chuck and Michelle helped me usher in the new decade. And my Tommy, of course.

Mostly what we did was hang out by the beautiful pool, which has a long view of rolling hills. Hawks make lazy circles in the sky. The scent of sage perfumes the air. And other applicable cliches.



Beer and wine and champagne were liberally imbibed. My new summer drink is the Miller Chill. I don’t care for beer but this limey brew is yum. Enormous meals were eaten. Much laughter occurred. I hardly even noticed the aging process, I was so busy having fun. On Saturday night, a huge lightning storm moved through and we sat in rockers on the porch and watched the distant light show. It was one of those forever memories.

For my birthday dinner, I ate most of this frighteningly enormous chicken fried steak.



I’m ashamed but I did it anyway. (The fabulous birthday tiara was from my friend Jenny, who made a party out of my birthday dinner, with poppers and confetti and party favors and a tiara. XOXOX, Jenny!) Then, I somehow managed to eat a slice of Nancy's homemade pecan pie, the best pecan pie EVER.

The weekend was so damn warm and fuzzy I can hardly complain about my age. I mean, if this represents my life so far, what do I have to complain about?

Thanks everyone who came to party and all my dear virtual friends who sent their greetings. It was one helluva birthday. Now, I start counting backwards.

WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! IT'S ALL ABOUT MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!


I'll resume regular programming tomorrow.

Labels: dude ranch, guest ranch, midlife, resort, texas, travel

I really like this story about Belfast but I have never managed to place it. Those of you who have been hanging around with my blog since MySpace might remember the trip.

Here is a link to a slideshow. The was before I bought my shmancy new camera so the photos don't thrill me, but they are documentation of a sort.

Happy Days

I was 10 years old in 1968, the year a two-day riot in the town of Derry was the first stone thrown in what came to be known as The Troubles in Northern Ireland. The Troubles went on for 30 years. For nearly all my life, my mental image of Northern Ireland has been grainy newspaper photographs of people standing in rubble, throwing things. To me, Belfast was a mysteriously angry, dangerous place.

The first thing I did upon arriving in Belfast was take a Black Taxi Tour. My guide, Ken Harper, took me along busy streets lined with small shops in the blue-collar neighborhoods where some of those newspaper photographs were taken. The rubble was gone. The rebuilt streets bustled with the mild business of day-to-day life. Ken pointed out locations of bombings, riots and assassinations, informatively but with a whiff of reluctance. “I call this the ‘gloom and doom’ tour,'” he said with a self-conscious chuckle.

We stopped in a quiet Shankill neighborhood of two-story buildings painted with some of Belfast’s famous political murals. I got out of the car and walked across an emerald lawn to stand beneath the most startling of the bunch. It depicted, against a cerulean background, a man in camouflage clothes and black hood holding a machine gun pointed directly at me. Beneath him were the Union Jack-festooned coats of arms for the Nationalist Ulster Defense Union and Ulster Defense Organization.

Those old newspaper photographs started coming into focus.

These murals remain a constant reminder of emotions that run deep and murky, even as Northern Ireland emerges from its Troubles. The Northern Ireland Office has been dangling financial incentives to paint over the most aggressive with cheerier scenes but many murals remain as compelling documents of a complicated history, as does the so-called Peace Line between the Protestant Shankill and the Catholic Falls Road neighborhoods. The Peace Line is being made higher because, Ken said, kids still throw stones at each other. The best hope for the future, he added, is integrated schools, which still are rare.

But the city really has changed since the times when any day could bring bloodshed in the city. “Happy days,” Ken repeated again and again. “My life is improved.”

Ken didn’t limit our tour to gloom and doom; he also showed me the brighter tomorrow. We drove past the dockyards, where the Titanic was built (OK, that’s a little gloomy but it is among Belfast’s claims to fame). The area is being developed into an entertainment complex and the Titanic Signature Project—a Titanic visitor attraction-- is on the drawing board with a projected opening date of 2012, the centenary of the ship’s disastrous sailing. And the port is seeing new life. In 1999, two cruise ships called on Belfast; in 2006, that number was up to 23.

Ken pointed out Malmaison, one of a UK hipster hotel chain, opened in late 2004, adding to what is now about 2,500 hotel rooms in the city, up from just 900 in 1999. Currently, only about 21 percent of tourists to Ireland come to Northern Ireland but the country is girding for a change. Then he dropped me at my hotel, the pleasantly efficient Europa, famous as the most bombed hotel in Europe and also where President Clinton stayed during his 1995 visit to Belfast. “He was treated like a film star,” recalled Ken.

Clinton even flipped the switch on the municipal Christmas tree, I learned from a small plaque outside Belfast’s massive City Hall the day after my tour with Ken. City Hall is one of Belfast’s sights to see, an elaborate 100-year-old Victorian concoction designed by a young man who won a competition for the privilege.

A City Hall tour includes a stop in the imposing oak and royal red council chambers, where we were invited to sit in council chairs. I plopped into the seat of Alex Maskey, Sinn Fein’s longest-serving councilman. I still struggle to wrap my mind around the idea of Sinn Fein as part of a bureaucracy instead of throwing bombs. Perhaps this is why, unlike the rest of Ireland, which is marketed mostly to older Americans, tourism officials in Belfast are interested in reaching young travelers who might not carry memories of the gloom and doom days.

Because whatever its past, today one could easily just focus only on the pleasures of noodling around this compact and low-key European capital of red brick buildings and pleasant pastimes. The city is easily walkable, the locals are friendly and thrilled to welcome tourists. In a few days’ meandering, I puttered in the tony little shops of Lisburn Road, walked among students near Queens College, sat and watched a young couple and two large hounds frolic in the Botanic Gardens. I visited galleries in the historic Cathedral Quarter, pausing to read neighborhood histories on new street-corner interpretive signs.

At the Ormeau Baths Gallery I stumbled upon a well-attended lecture about jewelry design before wandering up to a particularly nice exhibit of modern Korean ceramics. I braved bellowing music to look at faux vintage t-shirts at Cult, a UK chain store for the young and trendy. I ate fish and chips at John Long’s, a classic fish and chips shop of the agreeably ambience-free variety. I peered at yet more grainy photographs of Belfast rubble in the ragtag but absorbing World War II Memorial museum. Northern Ireland is the back door to England and Ireland and Belfast was heavily bombed in the war. Thousands of people were injured or killed, tens of thousands lost their homes. Poor Belfast, bombed from inside and out.

The famous Crown Saloon, across the street from the Europa, also is a survivor of multiple bombings but has been beautifully restored to its gilded glory. Friends and Belfast locals who took me there explained that although it’s a tourist spot, the Crown is known for pouring a good pint of Guinness so I had my first-ever there and found I liked the bitter, creamy brew. I’m told it tastes better in Ireland, although the Irish don’t drink as much Guinness they once did. They’ve gone all wine bar.

At the elaborate Royal Opera House, I saw a popular black comedy, “The History of The Troubles According to My Da.” The show is hilarious, I know, because the audience was rollicking, but I understood only every 17th word through the chewy accents. Still, I gleaned a plot of one ordinary man’s life tangling with the IRA, with prison, with thugs who beat his son to death--all told with humor that, a local explained, bothers some people, who think it’s still too soon to laugh.

One night I went with friends for dinner at Cayenne, a chic restaurant owned by celebrity chefs Paul and Jean Rankin. Over beautifully prepared entrees of duck and venison, we talked about this and that and The Troubles. My friends are both in their ‘30s and grew up knowing nothing but. Things really are different now, they assured me. It’s not just a front for tourists. Their lives are changed.

But I noticed an older man at a nearby table who was listening to our conversation, his brow furrowed with obvious discomfort over our discussion. I realized that troubles running so deep may never be completely aired out. It ain’t over ‘til it’s over.

Still, my image of Belfast has come into sharper focus and it’s a much prettier picture. Happy days. I fervently hope they remain.


The Troubles in brief

What were those Troubles about? It’s not an easy tale to tell, but in brief:

Northern Ireland’s volatile mix of politics, civil rights and religion had Catholic Nationalists fighting Protestant Unionists for civil rights and Irish independence from the British crown. The first riot started when Catholics in Derry marched for fair housing and voting rights.

The Troubles spread to Belfast and escalated with an alphabet soup of ugliness. Paramilitary groups such as the IRA (Irish Republican Army) and UVF (Ulster Volunteer Force) waged terrorist warfare. Bombings, riots and assassinations became commonplace.

In 1972, British troops fired on protesters in Derry; 13 died that day and one died of his wounds later. This was Bloody Sunday and the events of that day are still under investigation. Nationalists were jailed without trial, hunger strikers, including Bobby Sands, starved themselves to death in prison. Walls were erected between Catholic and Protestant neighborhoods.

After years of closed-door talks, the lumbering descent to hell started turning around with the Good Friday or Belfast Agreement of 1998, helped along by the diplomatic efforts of Bill Clinton. Political power was officially if uneasily divided. In 2005, the IRA formalized a ceasefire.

While troubles linger in Northern Ireland and political turf is still being staked, the recent cordial meeting between Sinn Fein’s Gerry Adams and the Unionist party’s Ian Paisley was a watershed moment. Northern Ireland is hopefully truly moving past its Troubles.

For more information about traveling to Belfast: Discover Northern Ireland and http://www.gotobelfast.com/ (Which for some reason won't accept a link so you'll have to cut and paste. It's a complicated place...)

Labels: belfast, history, ireland, news, the troubles, travel

Now that the price of flying is skyrocketing, will the world start getting larger again?

Will travel become less egalitarian than it has become in recent decades, as fewer people can afford to do it?

And would that be, necessarily, a bad thing?

Obviously, I’m a big advocate for travel and all its mind-broadening qualities. Nothing more effectively shows us our place in the world, nothing more effectively creates hands across the water than sending entire bodies across the water.

Theoretically.

But since travel got inexpensive and more and more people started seeing the world, it seems that rather than crossing the road to see what’s there, we have started expecting other places to provide amusements. With tourism one of the most powerful industries in the world, “destinations” (as we call them in the biz—a horrible word) are knocking themselves out to provide sights and experiences they think tourists want or need.

You know—lots of shopping. Luxury hotels. Spas. Theme parks.

The kind of stuff you can easily do close to home.

According to research by Amadeus, a travel technology firm, globalization is among the most important trends driving the hotel industry. Although smart companies respect cultural differences, consistency across brands will be key to customer loyalty.

In other words, we want to travel to see the world, but we don’t want things to be too different from what we know.

And according to the Travel Industry of America, the number one pastime for domestic travelers in America is…shopping.

In other words, never too many t-shirts, cheap sunglasses and tsotske.

I’m not entirely above it all. In India recently, I didn’t object to the familiar and solid comfort of a Marriott in Hyderabad. The bed was divine, the shower had pressure. All very nice. But still, not nearly as memorable as two Indian resorts at which I stayed, where the beds were hard and showering involved a bucket.

My souvenir t-shirt celebrating the world’s largest wind damper in Taipei 101, at the moment the world’s tallest building, is a prized possession. As is my Liberace refrigerator magnet. I’m a sucker for tourist gift shops and take pride in seeking out the cheesiest souvenirs I can find.

I’m also not above popping into what some might call tourist traps—I have fond memories of the live mermaid show Weeki Watchee Springs in Florida.

Again, however, I am a kitsch-seeking missile. I’m not interested in the Mall of America—unless I can get a Mall of America t-shirt.

Mostly, when I travel, it’s just to be someplace new and to see what’s there. Sometimes I am hard-pressed to sightsee because when I’m in a new place, the place itself is the sight I want to see. Supermarkets can be as fun as museums, parks as interesting as churches, people-watching as absorbing as photo taking.

I remember a meeting with Taiwanese tourism officials in which one talked about a place (I forget where) that was developing something (I forget what) to attract tourists. When I expressed an interest in seeing the place anyway, she shook her head. “There is nothing there for tourists,” she said.

Eh? If a place exists, there is something there for tourists. There is the place.

That is why I travel, anyway. To see different places for what they are.

With all due respect to the restless masses, I think it takes a sophisticated traveler to fully appreciate the there of somewhere else. And I wonder—if travel becomes harder to do, will traveling dabblers give up the effort and stick to their own malls, allowing the world to just be what it is instead of encouraging it--with dollars, yen and euros—to become what they want it to be?

Labels: air travel, elitism, tourism, travel

I’m tired of words so here is a random selection of photos from Mexico City.

One of the best things about Mexico City is that, as my mother-in-law-says, "There's a treasure around every corner." I don’t know what church this is and didn’t bother finding out but it’s a stumbled-upon treasure.



The Pyramids of Teotihuacan are the remnants of a civilization that predates the Aztecs, who found this former metropolis already in ruins. The pyramids were spectacular, although we did spend somewhat more time there than I would have liked, what with everything else the city has to offer.



Our guide was knowledgeable and meticulous and had a lot to say about the pyramids.



Random artsy-fartsiness.



The Aztec dog, the xoloescuintle, is a little odd looking, with those big ears and hairless skin like a lizard. These dogs are endangered but we met this one by the pyramids.



This little pack of xoloescuintles (dunno how to pronounce it) lives at the Museo Doloros Olmedo, which I loved.



Dolores Olmedo was friend, lover, patron and sometime model of Diego Rivera. Her collection is housed in her former home, a lovely hacienda surrounded by lawns and gardens. Art ranges from pre-Columbian forward, including numerous artworks by Rivera and his wife Frida Kahlo, and the collection is stunning.

However, I was mesmerized by numerous photos and portraits of Dolores herself—so glamorous, so fabulous. In one photo that appears to be from the 1950s (I looked for a postcard in the museum shop but alas, there were none), she crosses a tarmac from a small plane wearing a pencil skirt with a fur stole around her shoulders, flanked by slender dark-haired men in suits and sunglasses. I have a new role model.

Random artsy-fartsy photo of the museum courtyard.



The gardens are home to a flock of peacocks and the boys were randy this day, showing their stuff.



A different view, in case you wondered.



We also visited the Frida Kahlo Museum, in her former home in the town of Coyoacan. I’m sure it’s lovely but it was so crowded I got woozy and tore through it. I’ll have to return someday. Nevertheless, here’s a photo of her garden.



And in conclusion, another random artsy-fartsy photo from the Frida Kahlo museum.




That is all. And it took forfrigginever to post.

Labels: dogs, Mexico, mexico city, photography, travel

A reader of my column in Chicago sent me this photo insisting it is real. I say Photoshop. (To which she responded "...sorry you can't accept the truth.") Shouldn't there be water streaming from the whale? Wouldn't the woman standing there be a wee bit startled? ("Her name is Dianna...")

What say you?

Labels: photography, photoshop, travel, whale

OK, I’m back from Mexico City and ready to stop milling around for a while—I need to hunker down and make some money.

I, of course, have read and heard much about how big Mexico City is but nothing prepared me for the sight of it from the airplane window. (“View from the airplane window”—travel writing cliché #237...) It’s breathtaking, a blanket of city draped over the valley and climbing the mountains. It just goes on and on and on.

I didn’t get to see nearly as much as I would like to in this whirlwind weekend but I saw enough to know the city bears a repeat visit or three. Unfortunately, it’s a tough sell. When I told one editor I was going, he said, “We wouldn’t send our readers there—too dangerous.”

I never felt the least bit threatened, but I didn’t go out alone at night and evidently my companion and I lucked out when we hopped into a cab on the outsized Zocalo—our driver didn’t know where our hotel was but he studied our map carefully and took us directly there without robbing or raping us. Generally, though, tourists are advised not to jump into any old taxi, since taxi crime is a big problem.

This companion was convinced that the city’s reputation was simply Hollywood hyperbole, but a quick Lexis-Nexis search confirms the city’s rep. The U.S. State Department website also warns about street crime ranging from pickpockets to kidnapping.

OK … forewarned, but it’s still a cool city—bustling and metropolitan, as European-feeling as Latin American, chock full o’ art and culture and history and fine dining.

I contend that the greatest danger in travel is not necessarily because one place is more dangerous than another (although of course, in reality, this is true) but that we don’t always recognize danger in new-to-us cultures.

During our first days of a two-week trip to Thailand, my companion and I felt perfectly OK walking around Bangkok at night. Call me racist, but the men were mostly slender and so pretty, we couldn’t imagine that they were capable of doing us any harm. When we returned to the city at the end of our trip, more accustomed to the country and less starry-eyed, we realized that a city with a huge sex tourism industry—which Bangkok has--couldn’t be half as benign as we imagined. We exercised more caution on those last days than we had at first.

I have been mostly fortunate in my travels and can think of few places I wouldn’t go because of crime. However, I am cautious and, when traveling alone in some places, dine early and don’t traipse around at night. It’s kind of a bummer. I’ve often said that the only time I wish I were a man is when traveling alone. Sometimes I’d love to just pop into a bar for a nightcap but in many cases, that’s not wise.

(I said this once among a group of travel writers and a gigantic Southern dude insisted I was being silly. “I took my girlfriend to a rough backwoods bar once and within minutes she was surrounded by barflies having a GREAT time,” he said. “She wasn’t afraid.”

“Yeah,” I said. “You were right there, keeping an eye on her.”

He looked startled. “I never thought of that,” he said. Der.)

Anyway, Mexico City’s crime problem may be a sad reality—but the happy reality is that it’s one hell of a city. I’d go back, crime or not.

Labels: crime, Mexico, travel

I'm not even good with social hugs. Now this.

Labels: culture, etiquette, horrifying developments, travel

My most recent Wandering Mind column, in which a knucklehead act leads to joy, peace of mind and kumbaya. You know, my usual theme.

And looky, once more I'm on-trend.

Labels: Mexico, photography, puerto vallarta, travel

I got a slip in my PO box about a package I needed to claim because I guess it didn't fit in the box. It's taken me weeks to find the time to claim the package because post offices are so slow. I've tried a couple of times but I had places to go and couldn't wait it out.

Finally today, I carved out time to wait, however long it took. My post office has a "Quick Window" for such non-cash transactions. "Quick" is used loosely. In fact, I could have waited on line for the slow window and gotten there about the same time someone moseyed up to the quick window and helped me. OK, it was maybe 5 minutes, but I rang and knocked several times and the clerks behind the counter, who could see me standing there, carefully avoided making eye contact with me.

I finally got the package.

So, what was this special delivery I wasted precious minutes of my life on? A large poster showing where all the Intercontinental Hotels in the world are located.

A massive waste of time, money and paper. What did they imagine I would do with this? Frame it? Hang it? It won't fit into my files. I'm sure I can learn whatever I need to know online, and I don't need to know anyway.

Straight into the recycling bin it goes. Little is stupider than stupid PR.

Labels: marketing, post office, public relations, travel

For many of us in Dallas, the stretch of highway between Dallas and Austin is as familiar and well-worn as the path between the couch and the refrigerator.

I-35 is a blessing and a bane—a zippy jaunt to a beloved town that has grown slower, rougher, more torn up and less lovely every year. This is a major artery through the nation. Trucks and heavy traffic, heat and cold, have rutted the asphalt, construction areas seem to settle in for decades, with occasional adjustments to the orange cones and lane closures. While landmarks still include the dome caterpillar at the Monolithic Dome Institute and the shop of guy who does chainsaw sculpture, much of the view is malls and industrial sites of various uninteresting sorts. Except, of course, Waco, which is a nifty little town to visit and I don’t care what you think.

On a good day, the drive takes three hours. Today was a great day, I made it in 2:45, with no stops. The longest it has ever taken me was five hours, due to blinding rain and construction. What a white-knuckle misery that was.

(Digression: I left here on Sunday morning. I’d planned an early start and dragged myself out of bed at about 6:30. I was in the kitchen, staring into space and drinking coffee, when I heard Tom calling weakly from the bedroom, where he was trying to remain asleep, “Sophie … daylight savings time.” Shit. I was barely awake and I was late already. This explains my packing job. I forgot shampoo, deodorant, earrings, eye makeup remover, and a belt.)

Anyhoo, we all have our rituals for the drive. I usually am compelled to stop in West for kolaches, which are Czech baked goods. (Not this time, though. I was in too much of a hurry.) I like the cottage cheese kolaches, the very thought of which gives Tom the dry heaves. He likes sausage rolls and cherry kolaches, if I’m not mistaken. And we like to stop at a little butcher off the highway that makes the world’s best beef jerky. Beef jerky and gummi bears are the road’s two essential food groups, to my mind.

A random observance: I noticed that while the billboards for Up In Smoke Bar-B-Q still feature a worried-looking cartoon cow, the cow is no longer being consumed by flames, which was always a little disturbing to me.

I was starting to think about filling up the tank when I spotted a Chevron with the ungodly low price of $2.76 a gallon. Score! I pulled off, pulled into the station, opened my gas cap—and then realized the station was long closed. Boarded up. Moths and cobwebs. Der. I pulled into a Shell station across the street and paid $3.16 a gallon. I later realized that this was about the highest priced gas on the road. What do you bet they leave that crusty old Chevron sign up on purpose, to catch hapless knuckleheads like me? A mile down the road I could have paid nearly .10 a gallon less.

Also, because I have promised Kristen a bathroom reference whenever possible…I see they are building some kind of bathroom spectacular fun house happy play area rest stop,to replace the old rest stop near Salado, at which I have rested many, many times. These new “Safety Rest Areas” are part of a statewide initiative to improve the rest areas and now, says to TxDot (Texas Department of Transportation) “motorists can’t thank us enough.”

Though not open yet, the new rest complexes look splendid indeed, all made of stone with playgrounds and walking trails (and according to the website, wifi as well as heated and air-conditioned bathrooms). However, I find myself already feeling a little nostalgic for the open air bathrooms with the stainless steel toilets to which I’ve grown accustomed. They weren’t fancy but I have to say, they were always immaculate. As I waited for a stall on Sunday, I gazed up at the blue sky above and reminisced.

So, how’s this for a rambling and inconsequential blog? As soon as I have more time, I’ll tell you about the rockin’ exhibit about the Beats I saw at the Harry Ransom Center on Sunday.

In conclusion, on the drive home today I listened to Christina Aguilera’s Beautiful three times in a row. I’m such a sappy girl but that song moves me.

Labels: road trip, texas, travel

Something particularly peculiar happened to me on this trip to India. Well, actually, a lot of peculiar things happened but this particular peculiarity had nothing to do with India and everything to do with me.

I got homesick.

Honestly, this never happens—not homesickness per se. I always miss Tom. I sometimes get exhausted and overwhelmed. I often long for my own bed. I sometimes have trouble with one or more of my travel companions. (Many years ago, on a grueling trip in Australia, I was the press trip geek—the one person among a group who just doesn’t quite click with the rest. I'd never been the press trip geek before and it was awful. I called Tom from Ayers Rock, sobbing with exhaustion and insecurity. Insult to injury: The sniveling phone call cost me $70.)

But this bout of homesickness was different for me. It wasn’t in reaction to much of anything and it was all-out I wanna go home and see Tom and Jack and write and eat dinner and go to sleep in my own bed and not have to worry about all this strangeness RIGHT NOW!

This wave of misery hit me a few days into the trip, during the long wedding ceremony. The wedding took place over four days at a resort outside Hyderabad. While everyone was very nice, I didn’t know anyone well, including Catherine, who understandably was wrapped up in seeing old friends, leaving me mostly to myself. I was older than everyone in my group and I didn’t have any logical place among the ecstatic throngs of family or friends. I felt like a loose thread.

As a rule, I get lonelier in crowds than I ever do alone. And here I was in a crowd of strangers, far from home, feeling left out (this was partly self-inflicted, I’m at an awkward age). And I was jet lagged. And I didn’t have internet access to touch base with Tom, which always cheers me up on the road. (IM is a great invention for travelers.)

Thinking back, I can hardly believe what I did. I left the wedding ceremony early (it went on for hours, so I felt I’d seen a lot), went to the room, got in bed, and cried. I thought about Tom. I pictured Jack’s silly face. I imagined myself on the couch, drinking tea and watching Oprah while I write, as I do most weekday afternoons. I wanted to go home.

Oy vey, right? Here I was in the midst of a travelers’ wet dream—an Indian wedding—and I wanted to be at home, on my couch.

So, I’m of two minds about this.

The dark side implicates my increasing agoraphobia. When I’m not traveling, I spend a lot of time at home alone. I feel bad about that only because it’s the sort of thing society frowns on. Otherwise, I don’t care that much. Still, I am so reluctant to go out and interact with the world (ask Tom how hard it is to get me to go to the grocery store) that I have to worry about myself a little bit.

Will agoraphobia interfere with my desire to travel?

But there’s my other mind, too. And that mind was happy about this bout of run-of-the-mill homesickness.

After all, I started traveling 30 years ago because of certain feeling of rootlessness. “The outsider” has been my identity for most of my life, and I wrenched my roots from New York City with great intention when I started traveling, determined to become a citizen of the world. Some people do their seeking in church, I did it in a Greyhound bus.

While leaving home has always been stressful, I’ve never minded being away from it. In my first few years of travel writing, it never occurred to me to check in with Tom while I was on the road—he would put me on an airplane and hear nothing from me until he picked me up at the airport however long later, sometimes weeks. I know—weird right? Honestly, I wasn’t being mean. It just truly did not occur to me.

In fact, through most of my life, I’ve been bluer about returning home than being away, and have wrestled with a sort of homesickness for where I’d been.

But this longing for the profoundly banal details of home, this sense of belonging somewhere (even if it is the couch) and with someone, this sense of being far away from my place in the big world…it was bittersweet. Boo hoo hoooooooooooo.

I felt better in the morning. And I sat on the couch and drank tea and watched Oprah while I wrote this.

Labels: personal growth, psychology, travel

Thank you, Suck It Trebek (see my blogroll for a link), for this: Least Inspiring Flags.

Labels: design, flags, humor, travel

Why did AA flight attendants twice deny this woman oxygen?

I fly a lot of airlines and find my hometown flight attendants least warm and helpful.

And another thing--why don't they offer juice and water periodically during long international flights, as most airlines do? Dehydration is a major reason one feels crappy after flying.

Give me British Airlines any day.

Labels: air travel, travel

Everywhere I saw Americans, I saw at least one American woman clutching the book Eat, Pray, Love. Catherine brought a copy that a friend had pressed on her and we both dutifully read it. (I tried not to let anyone see me.)

Neither of us were knocked out by the book although Catherine said she wouldn’t mind having a cup of coffee with Elizabeth Gilbert. Not me. I found her irritating. A good writer and thinker, but really annoying. As Rolf Potts says in this right-on, right-on rebuttal to the book on Worldhum: You’ve come to admire this woman—and you wish the best for her—but you wish she’d stop yapping about emotional minutiae so you could both look out and enjoy the scenery from time to time.)

Labels: books, eat pray love, travel

I enjoyed this Tom Maurstad story about sitting through all five best picture Oscar nominee films back-to-back, especially since I just did some marathon film-watching of my own, on my long, long, so long flights.

Over the course of four international flights, I watched Brokeback Mountain again. I enjoyed it more than the first time but it still didn't make me cry. The Chronicles of Narnia, did, though. I always did cried when they killed Aslan in the book and I cried again seeing it in the movie. I thought the movie did a perfectly fine job with the story, and I was fearful about that, having loved the books as a girl. The special effects were lovely. I also cried at a clumsy little tearjerker called Evening, starring Vanessa Redgrave and Claire Danes. It kind of sucked, but a dying mother and all...

I watched Dan in Real Life, which made no impression and most of Elizabeth: Into the Golden Age, a reasonably satisfying costume drama with good spooky acting by Cate Blanchett. Oh yes, and Vanity Fair with Reese Witherspoon, which went down real easy. I watched Into the Wild, which was more absorbing than I expected. Hal Holbrook made me cry.


Finally I watched a Britcom with Alan Partridge. I'd read a profile about the comic in the New Yorker not long ago (that might have run years ago--New Yorkers tend to stack up in this house) but had never seen him. The show was hilarious. I started watching an episode of different show of his, but we started our approach and I had to turn off and stow all electronic devices and return seat back to full and upright position.

Labels: movies, travel

Clothing was a big player on this trip. My newly purchased items were OK but didn’t entirely cut it, especially for the wedding, and I ended up shopping for yet more clothes so as to not stand out. While men mostly wear Western style clothes in the cities, most women wear traditional dress.

It struck us as kind of funny that while saris reveal an expanse of skin from just under the bust to the waist , modesty requires shoulders be covered. The bride whose wedding we attended wore a sleeveless top one day, inspiring comment from one of her aunties, who said, “My, aren’t you modern.”

My theory is that while women’s stomachs range widely in attractiveness, especially as years and gravity take hold, shoulders usually manage to remain alluring.

Catherine and I took a walk around the lake in Hyderabad one day wearing our Western clothes—nothing sexy, just jeans and loose (although scandalously v-necked) t-shirts. We were kind of sweaty and really not looking our best but were nevertheless hollered by passing men as if we were hoochie mamas. This convinced us to change our style for the duration of the trip.

Don’t you love saris? They’re so beautiful—all those mouth-watering jewel tones, the drapes, the trim. The bride bought saris for all the women in her wedding party and so our first day in Hyderabad included a stop at a sari shop for last-minute fittings. Most of the women had already mailed their measurements for cholis, the little tops worn under saris, but we then spent a while sitting in a closet-sized shop surrounded by beautiful fabrics while they were measured again and shown the colors they would wear for the wedding.

We also all shopped at a department store as well as at a chaotic market for the more casual uniform of the Indian woman: the salwar kameeze, which is long full pants worn under a tunic and accessorized with a long scarf.

This outfit fascinates me not only because it’s incredibly comfortable and appropriate for the climate but because I love the simplicity of having a uniform. Women all wear the same thing in different colors and patterns with slight variations in the cut of the pants, the length of the tunic (I’m told shorter tunics are more modern), the way they drape their scarves. And everyone looks beautiful in it. I purchased three of these outfits and I’m trying to decide if I would look foolish wearing them in Dallas.

Shopping in the market was fun. You slip off your shoes and sit on the padded floor of a stall while the owner whips out outfit after outfit for you to admire. It’s like prestidigitation—magical piles of colors and patterns, sparkle and silk until you finally walk away or succumb to one, two or as many outfits as they can persuade you to buy. Bargaining wasn’t difficult, although who knows if I got the best price. I got prices good enough for me—a full outfit of salwar, kameez and orhna could be had for about $10-$20.

This also was my first experience of seeing many women in burqas. While I wouldn’t want to be required to wear a burqa, I confess to finding the sight of dark almond-shaped eyes looking out from the heavy black drapes strangely alluring. And, having blossomed to bodaciousness at an early age in New York City, where many men imagined that kissing, sucking, hissing noises were appropriate appreciation of women on the street, I also could imagine enjoying the freedom such a covering would provide. In fact, through much of my hippie-dippy adolescence, one of my favorite garments was a vintage nurse’s cape, which provided me and my overdeveloped body some protection.

I did note, however, that lots of women wore sassy shoes with their burkas, and the clothing didn’t prevent them from being among the many courting couples we saw in city parks.

Today I am a hoochie mama in sweatpants and a 20-year-old sweatshirt. I miss dressing as an Indian.

Labels: fashion, india, travel

Catherine and I arrived home late last night none the worse for wear although hardly looking our best. Tom picked us up at the airport and his first reaction was to laugh at us. “You look like a couple of drowned rats,” he said. Yeah, 37,004 hours on airplanes will do that to you. Our first flight in the epic journey home was about 14 hours (give or take--all the time changes confused us) and that just got us to London.
I am far too jet-lagged and addled to sort through my impressions of India yet except to say it was absolutely wonderful and thrilling but may also be the Most Confusing Country Ever. No matter what we thought we knew each day, we quickly realized that we didn’t. I did get comfortable with the whole concept of the bucket shower after it was explained to me by a smarter traveler, and I even got to like it. So there is that.
Let’s do the math, shall we? Two weeks, 11 airplanes and seven hotel rooms, including a houseboat and two rooms in one hotel because our India-based travel agent confirmed our reservation with us without actually confirming that the room was available at the hotel. The hotel management was nice enough to move us to another room that came available instead of kicking us out. The trip was kind of like that all the way through. Count on nothing, you know? We learned that, too.
I want a do-over on this trip because two weeks was hardly enough to get our bearings. There was so much we didn’t see or do … Granted, it’s a whole sub-continent and two weeks is barely a blip of time and included travel days and three days of wedding festivities, at the wedding of a friend of Catherine’s. (It was a small wedding by Indian standards, just a few hundred people. I’ll tell you about it someday.) But still, I feel like I did a bad job of the trip because the learning curve was so steep. So much I would do differently…
Next time. And there will be a next time, somehow.
It is now tomorrow in India and jet lag is starting to make me queasy and cross-eyed so I will end with a small moment of homecoming culture shock before I collapse back into deep, painful, drooling jet lag sleep.
Our last pee in India was in the Bangalore airport bathroom, which had four stalls with both Western style toilets and squatters, typical nefarious puddles of water on the floor, typical Indian lack of toilet paper (fortunately Catherine had supplied us with 12 years' worth of little Kleenex packets) and a woman sleeping soundly on the floor. She was the restroom attendant, who had spread newspaper on the floor to sleep on but was nonetheless sleeping on an airport restroom floor. Catherine gave her our last 50 rupees. That's just a few dollars but it could at least buy her a few months' worth of clean newspapers. (Actually, the floor couldn't have been much harder than the beds in our first hotel, into which we flopped with exhaustion, nearly giving ourselves concussions.)
Our first pee in America was at O’Hare in Chicago, in a huge, hushed, gleaming rest room with at least a half dozen stalls with automated toilet seat covers, automated toilet paper rolls, automated flushers and automated faucets. And nobody sleeping on the floor.
It was kinda different.

Labels: india, travel

My first appearance in the fine website, Worldhum.

So … the days before a big trip are kind of an odd combination of perpetual motion and suspended animation. I have a strange otherworldly feeling as I go about my business, a sort of “last time, last time” feeling. (Neurotic? Me?) I’m nearly packed and organized, the trip is almost completely nailed down. It’s been a wee bit of a struggle, because I am a terrible travel agent and kept screwing up dates, because the Indian way of doing business seems to be a lot less Type A than my way of doing business, and because the Internet went down in India this past weekend. Oy gevalt.

But, we’re almost there and I am now in the phase of trip prep that involves a lot of walking in circles around the house. This is a good thing, because that means when it’s time to go, Tom is good and sick of all my nervous energy and is ready to get rid of me.

I like today’s Libby Gill column in the Dallas Morning News about what she calls INR—the immediate negative response to fear. One might argue that fear is a negative response, but I think she means the kind of negativity that causes us to believe we cannot transcend our fear. Anyway, I know exactly what she means—sometimes you have an opportunity to do something new and your knee-jerk response is No F***ing Way! even though if you take a deep breath and think about it, there really is a f***ing way. (You know I don’t usually shy from profanity but for some reason, it looks better to me here with asterisks. So whatever.)

On a somewhat related topic, the New York Times on the imposter syndrome. I like the fact that sometimes people are imposters about being imposters.

I’ll have more for you later but now I must rush off and do things…

Labels: psychology, travel

A moment of respectful silence, please, for a retiring workhorse.

It’s been a fine old daypack and has covered a lot of ground with me. It attaches to a convertible pack that I bought in 1994 (I think it was) for a trip through five Alpine nations. Alone. By train. In 10 days. Oy, what a stupid trip I planned. The resulting article was titled “The Fabulous Alpine Adventure and Its Evil Twin.” Every two days, I was in a different country, trying to find my hotel, trying to figure out what to eat, trying to wrap my mind around the money, since this was pre-euro. I get a headache just thinking about it. I saw some lovely places thought. Ever been to Slovenia?

I haven't used the main pack much, since I discovered the beauty of rolling bags, but it's going to India with me because I suspect surfaces I'll encounter won't be rolling bag-friendly. And I'm packing light so carrying should be OK.

Anyway, it will be a while before I can bear to actually throw this old pack out—it’s served me so well. Well traveled, Hale Fellow.

But it's time for in with the new.

I just realized that one of my professional organizations gives me a whopping 50 percent discount on Eagle Creek’s quality travel accessori