Hasta La Vista, 2009

I have mixed feelings about 2009, which is probably why I haven't blogged here since the beginning of last year. From most perspectives, 2009 was far better than 2008, the most reviled year I've experienced since the debacle that was 2001, and it brought some surprises I couldn't have anticipated. I halted my fledgling consulting business to take a full-time job, even after I'd vowed never return to the corporate world. But I'm enjoying my new role far more than I could have anticipated, and not just because it has allowed me to travel to Fiji and even take on philanthropic projects, such as brainstorming for NPR and working on a Habitat for Humanity project.

I didn't get to check off as many cities on my to-do list this year as I did in 2008, but, considering I now have to actually show up at an office rather than work from truck stops across the nation, I still managed pretty well. (See below.) I also rode in a Zeppelin (and met Buzz Aldrin at the same time), sailed in a glider plane, participated in a Fijian kava ceremony, survived a trip to Martha's Vineyard as the sole chaperone of four niblings, and somehow inherited a few more nibling-esque family members that have come to visit me.

All in all, a good year. I'm just hoping 2010 is going to be even better.

Warner Springs, CA
Easton, CT
Boulder City, NV/Willow Beach, AZ
Newport, RI

Martha's Vineyard, MA
Las Vegas, NV
San Geronimo, CA
San Francisco, CA
Suva, Fiji
Paso Robles, CA
San Simeon, CA
Monterey, CA
Albany, NY
San Diego, CA

America's Castle Article Published on ForbesTraveler.com

During my East Coast odyssey of '08, I spent a few weeks researching America's castles, many of which are located in the Northeast, particularly Newport, Rhode Island, and New York's Hudson River Valley and Long Island. The article is finally live on ForbesTraveler.com:
http://www.forbestraveler.com/luxury/americas-castles-story.html?partner=rss

While in Newport to dig a little deeper into the history of Belcourt Castle, I also happened to be on deadline for another assignment. Instead of rushing back to my hotel to use the lobby Wi-Fi, I was fortunate enough to hang out in the castle a little longer, flanked by two suits of armor. It was definitely one or my more unique writing locations.

I'd still love to visit Wing's Castle and Coral Castle, since they're both such oddballs, as well as check out OHEKA, which I'm sure has changed greatly since my sister got married there a thousand years ago.

Visited Cities 2008

Two Februarys ago, I picked up on a meme about cities visited in previous year. that I have no qualms about stealing lists from others' sites. I'm pretty certain I can add far more to this year's list, on account of my East Coast odyssey.

Here's a list of the cities I traveled to in 2008 (* indicates non-consecutive visits), in chronological order, to the best of my memory. This list does not include every city I traveled through on my two cross-country drives, just the bigger ones:

Long Beach, CA
San Geronimo, CA
Vieux-Fort, St. Lucia
Asbury Park, NJ
Lavallette, NJ
Lake Arrowhead, CA
Las Vegas, NV
Littlefield, AZ
Cedar City, UT
*Denver, CO
Columbia, MO
St. Louis, MO
Effingham, IL
Indianapolis, IN
Columbus, OH
Wheeling, WV
*Ephrata, PA (Lancaster County)
West Orange, NJ
New York, NY
Easton, CT
Philadelphia, PA
Baldwin, NY
Glen Cove, NY
Fire Island, NY
Brooklyn, NY
Beacon, NY
Arlington, VA
Charlottesville, VA
Barrie, ONT
Toronto, ONT
Montreal, QC
Newport, RI
Vancouver, BC
New Hope, PA
Cleveland, OH
Des Moines, IA
Lincoln, NE

Not too shabby. Let's just hope I get in some more time on foreign soil this year.

That Aussie Dream Job Is Mine, All Mine!

You know you're a perfect candidate for a job when not two, but five people send you a link to it within 24 hours. That's what happened this week when several of my friends forwarded me a link to the Best Job in the World, Caretaker of the Islands of the Great Barrier Reef.

I've had an infatuation with Australia since I did a report on the country Down Under in sixth grade. During junior high, I had the Australian flag hanging in my locker and a map of the country on my bedroom wall, which I studied on a regular basis, memorizing the capitals, states and territories as if I would be quizzed.

Somehow, I've made it to every other inhabited continent on the planet but not Australia. This is a situation that needs to be rectified ASAP -- and this gig would be the perfect way to do it. Who else is better qualified to test dive gear, monitor aquatic life, blog about the reef's goings-on, and answer questions to incoming tourists?

I'm sending in my application this month. If anyone knows someone on the selection committee that I can bribe, please let me know.

New Column for Examiner.com

It's been a while since I've blogged -- on my own website, at least. I've been so busy ghostwriting, web consulting, writing Wikipedia entries, and teaching high school (yes, you read that correctly) that I've let my poor beloved blog sit idle for far too long.

However, should I once again begin to slack and the urge to read my prose become too strong, feel free to check out my new column on Examiner.com:
Southern California Travel Examiner

I only have a few posts up so far, but now that I'm getting my schedule under control, I'll be going to bed before 4AM and will have more time (and energy) to write here. I may even get another chapter of my book done before the end of the month. (Stop laughing.)

Drug Lords Ruined My Weekend Haven

I've been hearing tidbits from friends about how Rosarito, the beach town 30 minutes south of Tijuana, has been a hot bed of violence over the last few months. I initially chalked up the heightened tales to paranoia and over-caution, but then I began hearing about it more frequently, most recently from this story in the LA Times.

It's a shame, really. Rosarito was just getting on its feet and making a name for itself, what with the influx of more upscale restaurants and Donald Trump moving into the nabe with his spa tower and high-class cuisine. When I first started visiting Baja just over a decade ago, Rosarito was little more than a street full of rival frat parties, most notably at such mega-bars as Papas & Beer.

Then, just a couple of years back, I began to notice a change, and not just the number of new concrete settlements being hastily constructed along the "Scenic" Route 1. Rosarito now had a jazz bar. And French food. And high-end spas. An Italian restaurant with creative Mexican infusions sported a cavernous underground dining room that hosted murder-mystery dinners. Heck, the area was even beginning to make a name for itself with its wineries, with trendsetters such as San Diego's legendary Hotel del Coronado importing local vintages for their cutting-edge restaurants.

Yes, the rowdy college crowd persisted in taking its parties to the streets, and friends still returned with tales of corrupt police extracting exorbitant bribes for offenses as minor as jaywalking. But Baja was still a great weekend bargain, especially for stocking up on custom furniture and wrought-iron works.

I was planning to spend another New Year's in Mexico, but the recent stories have made me rethink those plans, which is a shame. I was looking forward to introducing my friends to such favorite spots as Chipotle (not the chain, a family-owned establishment with delish breakfast dishes), the naked lady house outside Puerto Nuevo (pictured, from two New Years ago), and Fox Studios Baja, a pseudo-theme park that your insurance company would rather you never heard of. But I guess those moments will have to wait. C'mon, drug lords, can't you take your shenanigans elsewhere? Leave Rosarito to us turistas.

Who Deserves $1 Million?

...Besides yours truly, of course.

One of the web's most popular travel sites is giving away $1 million to a charity to be chosen by its users. Vote today! So far, two children's charities are in the lead. I'm sure those are worthy causes and all that, but I'd love to see The Nature Conservancy win, as I've read that its organization gives a very high percentage of its donations to the actual cause, rather than spending it on overhead.

Vote early, vote often

New Hope: Been There, Done That

I've been hearing about the quaint little burg of New Hope for years, but something has always seemed to get in the way of my visiting. Not so this time. With no boss bellowing for me to return to a prison-like cube and five months to spend on the East Coast, I finally got to visit one of the cities that Forbes Traveler recently named one of America's Prettiest Towns.

With niblings in tow, I packed up Eartha Kitt and set my GPS for New Hope, population 2,252 (per the 2000 census). We planned to spend the day strolling charming boutique-lined streets, taking in the autumn foliage, and then heading to Shady Brook Farms for some pumpkin and apple pickin'.

I'd expected New Hope to be charming, but I didn't quite anticipate its unique hybrid of historic cuteness and hip anti-conformism. The first indication that we wouldn't be greeted by minutemen and Betsy Ross wannabes came in the form of a surreal statue, which the niblings and I deemed a cat on acid. It has ears like a cat and a rather cat-like posture, if said cat were having its ass scratched, so high was its overly elongated tail in the air, but there was also something inherently un-catlike about it, something less whimsical Seuss and more opium-smoking Poe. (If anyone has any idea what this animal is actually supposed to be, please tell me. We're dying to know.) After taking a few pictures with the un-cat and the un-cat's bunghole, we moved on down the street to the canal museum, unmanned and amusingly tiny. We took a gander at the mule-less canal, now choked with duckweed and cat tails as it undergoes renovation. Quentin, remembering what he'd learned about canals from our Toronto trip, impressed me by pointing out the locks. (I have to remember to show him this site tomorrow.)

The first few shops we encountered were closer to the New Hope of my mind, including a year-round Christmas store and a handmade purse boutique, complete with punny name (The Bag Lady). We perused a bit but soon grew bored with a holiday too far off to provide any instant gratification. As we ambled lazily down the sidewalk, we had a bit of a shock when a woman, her hand covered in her own blood, streaked past us, her eyes glazed with fear. I spun some story to ease the kids' own fright, then kept walking, only to run into the same woman emerging from a restaurant moments later, her hand still dripping scarlet. This time, I decided to be more of a role model and told her to take a deep breath before asking if she needed me to call 911 and reminding her to apply pressure. But apparently my heroism was a little late, because a moment later the restaurant manager came out with cloths for her to press against her wound.

I hurried the kids along, trying to divert their minds from the pre-Halloween gore by pointing out the lush foliage, distinctive architecture, and the Mansion Inn (after my trip to Newport and, most notably, Belcourt Castle, "mansion" seemed a misnomer for this comparatively teensy dwelling). We finally found a worthy distraction in a medieval-themed store brimming with suits of armor, metal brassieres, and swords taller than my nephew. Although the prices were more than reasonable (a hand-crafted knife for $20!), I decided against buying weapons for children and instead took them to gaze at the horrific display of Chucky-inspired gore in the window of an adults-only store. Much more appropriate.

That's what shocked me most about New Hope. Although it's steeped in history and the arts -- every other shop at the far end of Main Street was an overpriced gallery -- New Hope definitely has a kinky, non-comformist side. Now that I've seen it myself, I realize that's probably what my friends were trying to convey when they gawked about my never having visited, especially since the town seemed "made for me" and "right up my alley." There were at least three stores that the niblings wouldn't be able to enter for at least another eight years, and several more that probably should have had similar warnings.

Luckily, their favorite stop turned out to be Farley's Bookshop, an independent seller with the requisite creaky floors and even a feline mascot but, sadly, no musty old books for me to pine over. After buying reading material for the kids (Fablehaven for Carly, another edition of Captain Underpants for Quentin) and skipping rocks on the banks of the Delaware in the shadow of passing paddleboats, we decided to ditch our historic train ride so we could spend the maximum amount of time on the farm, whose website promised all sorts of autumnal fun.

We should have done the train ride. Shady Brook Farms was, let's just say, a tad disappointing. If the admission fee had been more than $10, I probably would have asked for--no, demanded--my money back. The haunted house was little more than a gross-out fest, far less frightening than it was nauseating (thanks in part to a toilet full of poo in the blood-splattered bathroom). Only two of the big-kid carts on the SPF 500 Racetrack worked, and with no one to monitor the gaggle of children, I practically had to yank off two cart-bogarting kids so my dear, sweet, patient niblings could have a turn. The corn maze had terribly marked "clues" planted about, and because it too was unmonitored, we could easily still be in there if I hadn't cheated our way out, since no one saw us enter and the sunlight was rapidly fading. Even the hayride... wasn't. There wasn't a straw of hay to be found on the tractor ride to the pumpkin patch. The upside is we did leave with decent pumpkins, and the pig and dachshund races were delightful, if only because Carly got chosen to wave the checkered flag and act like a starting bell at the beginning of each race.

The kicker came when we went to go apple picking, which Quentin had been waiting for all day. It took nearly half an hour to find the unmarked orchards, even though they were only a quarter mile and two turns away. For those looking, it's a right at the mailboxes (not the stoplight), through the drive between the two white buildings, down the dirt road to the left, and conveniently located next to an apiary. Yes, a whole swarm of beehives. Very convenient for pollinating apples, but not very convenient for picking them. As seemed to be the theme of the day, the orchard too was unmonitored, so we had no one to ask what we could pick or where we would pay. So we simply left, leaving Quentin feeling unfulfilled. Damn you, Shady Brook Farms!

I bet if you ask the kids a year from now what they remember most about the trip, they'll say the bloody-armed woman, the toilet of horrors, and the pig races. Such is the mind of a child. At least, that's what stands out to me.

America's Purdiest, Per Forbes Traveler

ForbesTraveler.com recently compiled a list of what they deemed to be the prettiest darn towns in these here United States. Luckily for me, I've already seen quite a few of them -- and I've knocked off several this summer alone.

There was a wealth of options in the Southwest and Northeast, but I was surprised how few were in the Northwest, and not so surprised about the lack in the Southeast and Midwest. But where's Bellingham or Friday Harbor? And does New Hampshire really warrant two picks?

The biggest surprise was Bodie, a California ghost town in the Sierras, current population: 0. I have to admit, the photos from my visit there a few years back are some of my favorites, as it's quite the picturesque town. It helped that no cars ever drove in front of my shots. Here's my tally of the been-there, done-thats from the Forbes list:

• Rockport, ME
  
• Springdale, UT
  
• Burlington, VT -- Visited this summer on a day-trip from the Berkshires. Pretty town, but the realistic statues of people frozen in everyday poses was a tad on the eerie side.
  
• Bisbee, AZ
  
• Cape May, NJ -- How is it that I worked on a film about the Jersey Shore all summer and still never made it here?
  
• Annapolis, MD -- When I drove through the colonial-styled town a few years back, my friend remarked, "I want to write a book here." I still have dreams of holing myself up in an 18th-century home with my laptop in front of the fire.
  
• Lake Placid, NY -- Does driving through on the way to Montreal count? Darn, thought not.
  
• Portsmouth, NH
  
• New Hope, PA -- Finally knocked this one off the list just a few weeks ago.
  
• Flagstaff, AZ
  
• Newport, RI -- Skip the Breakers. Visit Belcourt Castle instead.
  
• Galena, IL
  
• Marfa, TX
  
• Park City, UT
  
• Mendocino, CA
  
• Savannah, GA
  
• Bodie, CA -- I swear, I'll post pictures soon. I'm pretty proud of these. So proud that there are bathrooms across LA with pictures of my black-and-white outhouses hanging in them.
  
• Hanover, NH
  
• Aspen, CO -- I'm counting this one because I drove through twice this summer.
  
• Santa Fe, NM

Letter to Cathay Pacific re: Canceled Flight 888

To Whom It May Concern:

I was recently on Cathay Pacific flight 888 from Vancouver to JFK, which was delayed 14 hours on October 2. I was told by a flight attendant that I should write to you regarding getting reimbursed for the extra day of parking at JFK airport for which I was charged. How do I go about receiving this reimbursement? The amount was $30 (roughly half of the $66 for the two days I was gone).

My flight to Vancouver was one of the best I'd ever had, especially in light of all that is happening with the airline industry, and I raved to several of my friends (also travel writers) about Cathay Pacific. However, when the flight was canceled Thursday night, I was surprised by how disorganized and unprepared the staff was. In fact, after the fastidious service I'd receive on the outbound trip, I was shocked by the lack of preparedness. Several passengers actually had to take charge and begin instructing the attendants, who were answering questions one-on-one rather than informing the flight as a whole. One attendant kept promising to fill out our hotel vouchers, but kept stopping to answer questions that had already been addressed several times over, further delaying the process; in fact, she had my boarding pass and voucher in her hand for a full 20 minutes before she did anything with it. In total, it took more than an hour and a half from the time the flight was finally officially canceled to when we were able to get to the hotel -- and we'd already been waiting several hours.

Some other issues that I observed:

• Buses were not waiting -- as we were told they would be -- to take us to our hotel. We had to wait nearly 20 minutes longer, after already waiting at the gate more than two hours.
  
• When I finally received my hotel voucher, the attendant directed me to the incorrect portion of the terminal for the bus, and I had to wander around before I found where I was actually supposed to be.
  
• We were not provided with meals the night our flight was canceled, and many of us had not eaten for hours, since most airport restaurants had been closed and we'd been expecting to be fed on the flight. The hotel's restaurant had been closed for hours by the time we arrived, and I know that I myself -- since I'd planned to be in Vancouver less than a day -- had only $5 Canadian on me, so I couldn't even order delivery. Some snacks or at least bottled water would have been much appreciated.
  
• We were told that the airline would call us by 9AM the next morning. No such call came. Instead, I had to call the front desk to find out the status. Had I waited for Cathay Pacific's call, I might still be in that Best Western hotel room.
  

I felt bad for the Cathay Pacific staff, as it seems that there were few procedures in place for something as routine as a canceled flight, and they were left to scramble to pick up the pieces at the last minute. I'm used to canceled flights -- I'm a travel writer -- and I'd much rather a flight be canceled than fly on an uncertain craft. However, I would have expected that an airline of Cathay Pacific's reputation would have been better prepared for such a pedestrian mishap, and I hope the company does better by its employees the next time such an event occurs.

Sincerely,
Jenna Rose Robbins
___________________
Read Cathay Pacific's response.

24 Hours in Newport, Rhode Island

In the course of researching an upcoming article, I came across a location that piqued my interest: Belcourt Castle. This Newport, Rhode Island, mansion stands out from its stodgy neighbors by virtue of its rebellious history -- and its reputed hauntings. I'd never been to Newport, let alone Belcourt, So I took a little six-hour drive up I-95 to visit the Ocean State -- my first time actually stopping and not just driving through on the way to Boston -- and checked out the quaint little island burg that was recently named one of America's Prettiest Towns by ForbesTraveler.com.

Although I had less than a day to spend in town -- whose colonial buildings are remarkably well preserved, thanks mainly to the foresight of philanthropist/heiress/scandal queen Doris Duke -- I was determined to see the highlights, most notably the castle that had originally drawn me here.

But as I'd arrived less than an hour before Belcourt closed, the castle would have to wait until the next day. First I was off to the Cliff Walk, the three-and-a-half-mile oceanfront path that guides visitors along the lawn perimeters of some of the most magnificent homes ever built on American soil. I managed to arrive about an hour before sunset, and I bragged to a friend on the other end of my phone about the sights I was passing as he sat shackled to his cube on the opposite coast. "Ooh, there's The Breakers. You should see Chateau-la-Mer!" Sometimes it's fun to rub a little salt water in the working-man's wound.

I made it back to the Bowen's Wharf area just in time for the magic hour, which once again left me pondering, Why is it that sunset photos never look half splendid as they do in real life? At least I got a few decent twilight shots of the darling colonial-era shops and restaurants that line the waterfront. It felt someone like Disneyland, only without the impending air of falsehood or soul-numbing Stepfordness. After a splendid dinner at One Bellevue -- featuring the best butternut squash soup I've ever had in my entire butternut squash soup-loving life -- I got some much-needed shuteye at the Hotel Viking, a historic 1926 hotel whose mission seems to be not to skimp on pillows. (Where the heck are you supposed to put them at night, anyway?)

The next day, I awoke refreshed and ready to tackle the ludicrous eight-hour agenda I'd set forth for myself: sailing, a visit to the Norman Bird Sanctuary and Hanging Rock, and, of course, a firsthand view of the castle that had drawn me to America's Society Capital (also aka the Queen of the Sea and the Queen of Summer Resorts) in the first place. Surprisingly, I haven't been able to discover a sailing nickname for Newport, or perhaps they've opted not to have one, still smarting from the loss of the America's Cup back in 1983. My sailing guide from Sail Newport was a wealth of information about the sport, answering every question I had as if he'd studied for an oral exam. He regaled me with tales of the cup, the story behind the naming of the Rose Island Lighthouse (the island is said to resemble a stemmed rose when the water is at low tide), and the remarkable tenacity of Clingstone, the unsheltered "House on the Rocks" that has somehow managed to weather storms that have obliterated more protected landmarks.

After a delightful morning on the water, I realized that if I were going to keep on schedule and leave by sundown, I would have to skip my hike to Hanging Rock and head straight to Belcourt. I didn't want to be rushed, and I certainly wouldn't have missed this stop.

Owner Harle Tinney was kind enough to give me a private tour through her home, which, unlike most of Newport's other mansions, was still a functioning household rather than just a museum. She pointed out where she herself had spotted ghosts and provided her own personal take on some of the artifacts, most notably the coronation carriage, which she had assisted her husband in building. Tinney can point to a carving and recall just how many hours, days, or weeks it had taken to finish it. The carriage itself is quite an artistic achievement, with the sort of craftsmanship and attention to detail usually found only in works of centuries past.

The rest of the house is an eclectic wonderment of treasures that the Tinney family collected from around the globe. Before a stained-glass window sat a hand-carved four-poster bed from India, which Tinney said would have taken four men twenty years to carve. (Imagine the back order on those.) A jewelry box made for royalty stood nearly twice as tall as Tinney herself. Vases, chairs, and paintings originally owned by some of history's grandest names filled every area of the castle, which at times actually felt medieval due to the abundance of suits of armor, vaulted ceilings, and stained glass.

I won't go into the details of the home's history, which is laid out in great detail elsewhere on the web, but suffice it to say that Belcourt's pedigree is unusual, just the way original owner and maverick Oliver Belmont wanted it. The love the staff feels for the house is evident, especially from Tinney herself. One of her employees even took off a year of school in Canada to work at Belcourt, so obsessed he's been since he first learned about the castle as a kid. It seems that most anyone, myself included, who visits Belcourt finds a special attachment to it, and I found myself jumping at Harle Tinney's offer to use her office to finish the assignment that was due in mere hours.

When I finally, and reluctantly, left Belcourt after sunset, Ms. Tinney was leaving for a birthday extravaganza at one of the other historic manses, and she had just finished wrapping a lovely antique vase for her guest. She was decked out in her finery, evoking images of the social butterfly Alva Belmont, whose presence, if not her spirit, could still be felt throughout the darkened halls of Belcourt. I followed her a few blocks down the road to the party and then, as I rolled off back towards the modern world on I-95 and she down a long white gravel driveway, spotted a last glimpse of Ms. Tinney, a tux-tailed valet, and a bygone era.

View more Newport, Rhode Island photos

London, Please Hire Me

For years, I've dreamed of returning to the U.K., particularly London, where I spent my final semester of undergrad. But with the pound still kicking the dollar's butt, despite recent dollar rallies; the difficulty getting a visa; and the Byzantine rules behind the pet immigration scheme, I don't know how I'd manage it.

Luckily, I'm considered worthy enough to obtain a Tier 1 visa, which means I don't have to wait for some company to sponsor me; I can just apply and flit over on my own (and on my own dime, er, pence). So I've begun to put out feelers.

Why the U.K.? I like it, dammit. Sure, it doesn't have the quality of life rating that France does, but I can speak the language far better. I love London, the British sense of humor, and curry. I can flit off to Mallorca or Croatia or Oslo for a weekend, for the same price as going to San Fran from LA.

If I could find a job that didn't require me to speak another language, I'd gladly take off for various other realms, such as France, Spain, or Italy. But a fluent polyglot I'm not, despite my best attempts. So I'm going to aim to get abroad -- even if only for a few months -- by 2010, hopefully sooner. That's my goal.

Care to join me? Here's a link that will help you determine you're eligibility for the U.K.'s Tier 1 work visa:
http://www.1stcontactvisas.com/Uk-Visas/tier-1-visa.aspx

Zip-Lining: Adventures in Trees (Montreal, Day 4)

Home again. Well, home for the twins, anyway. I'm currently in my sister's basement recovering from the nine-hour (including the hour wait in customs) ride back from Montreal, my neck still in a crick from my trapeze pratfall. I'm looking forward to some shut eye before diving into the pile of work awaiting me.

We left Montreal at what felt like the butt-crack of dawn, considering how late we've been sleeping in, and completed the one-hour drive west to Rigaud with time to spare. Despite the nap in the car, the twins, I knew, were ecstatic to finally be going on the zip-line, which they'd been looking forward to ever since I first made their itinerary months ago. Now, despite each one having been penalized nearly half an hour for some less-than-savory behavior, they would finally get the chance to see what all the fuss was about.

Compared to Arbraska's Barrie, Ontario, location, the Rigaud park is far larger and more diverse in its offerings. Had I been able to move my neck, I would have had a blast. Instead, I sat out and contented myself with getting embarrassing video footage for the montage for the twins' b'nai mitzvah next year.

After finishing the beginners' course, the kids moved onto L'Aigle, a course consisting purely of zip-lines, including a 750-footer and one that stretched over the golden fields of an open meadow, where groundhogs scurried for cover whenever a zip-liner screeched past overhead. Only a few reminders to keep their legs straight and to steer with their hands, and they were flying through the canopies like pros.

When their aunt-allotted time was almost up, we found the Tarzan Rope, a one-game course that consisted of hurling yourself off a platform into space, sailing across the void on the aforementioned rope, and grabbing the cargo net on the other side. After my trapeze experience, I doubt I would have been so brave as to voluntarily propel myself off a 25-foot platform face-first into a net. But they both did it, even if Micaela did flail about for a moment before finding foot purchase. (See snort-inducing video below.)

Before any of us realized it, we had to head home. Not only were we dreading the ride, but the twins were especially not looking forward to returning to school the following day. At the end of our trip, we were a little slaphappy, and while recapping some of the weekend's highlights over lunch, we were pleased to find the small cafe empty, as we couldn't help cackling hysterically over the horrible waitress from the day before. Just saying, "I'll give you a tip" caused the two to fall into uncontrollable fits of laughter.

The line at the border was far longer than when we'd come through a few nights earlier (we were the only ones crossing at midnight), but the interrogation was far less harsh, and this time the kids were prepared for such questions as "How is this woman related to you?" and "What is your mother's last name?" (The latter threw Micaela off, since Ilene often still uses her maiden name.)

But we made it through, and I spent the rest of the ride telling stories about airhead students, redhead rivalries, and misadventures abroad. Before nodding off, the twins bounced around ideas as to where we should go on our next adventure, their heads dreaming up grandiose voyages on foreign continents. They balked at my idea of youth hostels, but train travel appealed to Carter. Micaela seemed to only be satisfied with staying in high-end hotels, no matter how much we extolled the virtues of a sleeping car on rails.

But that's all at least another year away. They're still digesting their memories of Montreal. And I've yet to recover from the trapeze -- or our Egg-spectation waitress.







Day 1: An Egg-cellent Journée Dans La Ville
Day 2: Merde! Trapeze Drama
Day 3: A Day in Old Montreal
Day 4: Zip-Lining: Adventures in Trees

A Day in Old Montreal (Montreal, Day 3)

Damn if my sister didn't come up with the best idea of the trip: dangling the carrot of zip-lining to keep the kids in line. With that in mind, I purposely planned that activity as the last of the trip (not to mention it's out of town and thus requires driving) and have threatened penalties of 10-15 minutes off trekking time for infractions ranging from stepping on my toe (still swollen from yesterday's trapeze mishap) to sassy mouths. As of right now, Carter has been penalized 25 minutes and Micaela 15. They're on their best behavior in the hopes of earning back some time before the all-important event tomorrow.

Our return to the hotel this evening has been incredibly serene, with each nibling trying desperately to keep his or her temper in check and to not, under any circumstances, make me have to repeat myself twice. They're both also trying to figure out just how this time penalization will work, but I'm purposely remaining mysterious. Aside from a slightly surly Micaela when I mention her homework ("Mom said I can do it in the morning and be late for school. Mom said."), it's been rather pleasant. I must think of a way to enact such a system more often.

The kids have even gotten into a little bit of Montreal's green spirit. They were fascinated when I pointed out the two buttons on the top of the toilet -- one of #1, one for #2 -- and they even agreed to reuse their towels more than once, as per the hotel's suggestion card. Only problem is, the Embassy Suites doesn't seem to be following its own guidelines, as we've found fresh towels in our room no matter how many we leave on the rack.

This morning we returned to Eggspectation, with visions of delectable breakfast goodies dancing in our heads. But our experience this time was quite a let-down. Our waitress didn't seem to understand French or English, and our wait was far longer than our first wonderful visit Friday. At least we knew it wasn't just us, because we heard other patrons around us muttering their discontent. But our meals -- once they finally came -- were delectable and left us full for our busy day. Plus the kids got a kick out of making fun of our incompetent waitress for the rest of the day. The old chestnut "I'll give you a tip: Don't eat yellow snow," had them in stitches. Even recycled jokes can enjoy a second life.

Our day's plans consisted mainly of Old Montreal and the quais, which all lay within walking distance of the hotel. First stop: Montreal Science Center, which had lured us with its exhibition of aliens. The main attraction turned out to be on the lame side, but all of us had a blast in the Science 26 area, a hands-on cavalcade that demonstrated the best of chemistry, physics, biology, and even telekinesis, the last of which was done via Mindball, a game in which you move a ball with your mind.

As impressed as we were with the ingenious games for demonstrating complex concepts -- a pillow bridge that demonstrated the strength of the keystone, a lever that lets you lift 113 kilograms (249 pounds), a mobile of space shuttles powered by the sun -- we were surprised by the lack of explanation. Just how do you move a ball with your mind -- and are you supposed to be pushing or pulling it? How do you get the vortex going? And why the heck is every third exhibit broken? The biggest disappointment was finding the tightrope bicycle closed.

Just a few wharfs away was the Labyrinth at Shed 16, an indoor maze set up in an abandoned hangar on Quai de l'Horloge. I'd read that we should prepare to spend at least an hour in there, maybe more, and we arrived with just that much time left in the day. After a rather poorly acted video introduction, we were set loose in the maze, which consisted of tarp panels for walls and the odd obstacle here and there. Four different rooms in the labyrinth contained riddles that, once solved and put together, would help us solve the overall mystery set forth in the video.

Carter immediately took charge, forging ahead and shouting to us whenever he encountered a dead end, then heading back and quickly finding a new trail to blaze. The three of us got stuck going in a circle for a good 20 minutes before one of the labyrinth's residents pointed us in the right direction.

I've never seen a maze of its kind. Even the Dole Pineapple hedge maze -- reportedly the large hedge maze in the world -- pales in comparison, both in size and difficulty. Aside from a few features that would leave them open to lawsuits if they were stateside, I'm not sure why there's nothing like this back in the U.S. Once again, Montreal succeeded in outdoing itself.

For our final night in town, we celebrated with a pleasant meal at one of the least touristy restaurants we could find in that part of town, during which I let Micaela and Carter in on a few little secrets and told them stories that might get me in trouble down the road but tonight made for a memorable evening of bonding. To get even more brownie points in their favor, they even indulged me in sitting trough a full-length screening of the 3D U2 IMAX film playing at the science center.

They're sleeping soundly now, as I too should be, as the alarm is set for the butt-crack of dawn so that we can get to the zip-line in time.


Day 1: An Egg-cellent Journée Dans La Ville
Day 2: Merde! Trapeze Drama
Day 3: A Day in Old Montreal
Day 4: Zip-Lining: Adventures in Trees

Merde! Trapeze Drama (Montreal, Day 2)

I would have said that there couldn't be two more excited twiblings than those with me this morning, but I'd have to eat my words come Monday, when we finally go zip-lining. Today, however, was the second most anticipated event of the trip.

After a quick (and complimentary!) breakfast at our hotel, we hopped aboard the metro at Place d'Armes and headed in the direction of the Olympic stadium, bound for flying lessons. The twiblings were a little put off by the neighborhood -- slightly industrial and a little run down in the few residential parts -- but they soon forgot all that upon arriving at the rock-climbing gym, an enormous cavern of a warehouse that's the largest of its kind I've seen. Admittedly, I've seen only a few, but I've been noticing that Montrealers don't do things half-assed. From the multi-story laser-tag arena to top-notch meals, most everything we've experienced has been above par. Except for one glaring exception this afternoon.

Folllowing a few-minute briefing, the Trapezium staff strapped us into our harnesses so we could climb the 30 some-odd feet into the air where we were to propel ourselves off a platform via a trapeze. The niblings went first in our group, as they'd been giddy with anticipation all morning. Carter soared off into the air and was immediately able to hang upside-down by his knees, landing in the net with the greatest of ease. Micaela also was off to a commendable start, with her belayer continuously commenting on her cuteness. I, however, could barely get my legs up above my head and never made it to the hanging position. The best I could manage was a backflip.

After watching the twins progress, I climbed the ladder a third time. The platform instructor gave me a few pointers, then launched me into space -- through which I plummeted face first into the net below. I lay stunned for a moment, then clutched my nose when I felt it grow warm, half expecting blood to start pouring out. My limbs were shaken, and I swear my brain rattled about in my skull at impact, because I felt a headache coming on, and I can count the number of headaches I've ever had on both hands. To add injury to more injury, I gashed my foot on a bolt in the floor moments later.

My belayer, Isabelle, brought me to the restroom to wash up and apply cold compresses. But I was miffed. I hadn't slowed at all during my descent, which meant she hadn't done her job of belaying. As I reviewed the rope burns on my nose and upper lip, she said, "I didn't know you were going to fall!" Uh, seriously? Neither did I! But isn't that why she was there? I completely expected to fall or muff up at some point, but I also expected that the staff was competent enough to be prepared for such mishaps and that they'd employ their skills to help prevent any unnecessary injuries.

Aside from that one half-assed employee, the rest of the staff were phenomenal, and I wouldn't have let the niblings continue if she'd still been in charge of the belay. But they switched off after that mishap, and the rest of the session went trouble free. In fact, both Micaela and Carter succeeded at performing the full routine, which included a hand-exchange to the "catch" on the other trapeze. Talk about a confidence booster! (See video below.)

Another quick metro ride brought us to the Parc Olympique itself, home of the Biodome, which my friend Stefan (husband to Véro) informed me was the former cycling pavilion for the 1976 Olympics. Quebec should have left it empty. The new, unwitting inhabitants of the eco-sounding Biodome are crammed into exhibits more fitting for hamsters and gerbils than creatures of their size. Otters have what amounts to a bathtub for swimming. A penguin colony of several dozen lives behind glass in a space no bigger than an elementary classroom. And the poor bobcats were so depressed with their abode that they expressed their discontent by pacing in circles as they carried their food in their mouths. Shame on you, Canada. I thought you had more respect for animals than to treat them like this. I was embarrassed that I'd subjected the kids to the experience.

Our next stop was Mont Royal, where we met up with Véro and Stefan, our guides to the local neighborhood for the evening. When Micaela piped up that she wanted to try French food, Carter wrinkled his nose, and I almost gave in since his sister had had her way the night before when we'd gone to Vietnamese. But when Véro announced that she knew of a place that had both French and Carter-friendly cuisine, we decided it would be worth the 10-minute walk, even though we were already quite tired.

Over political and internationally peppered conversation, we enjoyed our eclectic meals, with both Micaela and Carter scarfing down their veal and salmon. The kids enjoyed my and Véro's stories from way back -- hitchhiking in Normandie, barhopping in Westchester, etc. -- although I think they got lost when Stefan and I got a little didactic with our Bush bashing. But I'd needed a little adult conversation, and the kids readily complied for their bruised and battered aunt. They'd behaved so well, in fact -- no doubt partly due to empathizing with my injuries -- that I complimented them on their behavior when we got back to the hotel, and I asked if they could keep it up just a couple more days.

One can only dream.





Day 1: An Egg-cellent Journée Dans La Ville
Day 2: Merde! Trapeze Drama
Day 3: A Day in Old Montreal
Day 4: Zip-Lining: Adventures in Trees

An Egg-cellent Journée Dans La Ville (Montreal: Day 1)

Having survived the eight-hour car ride with twin preteens, I woke this morning to a surprising sound: the alarm clock. I'd expected to awaken to the same bickering chatter that had prompted me, somewhere in the bleak darkness of the Adirondacks, to stop the car and threaten to turn it around all the way back to Connecticut. But instead, Carter was still in the living room on the fold-out, obediently watching television at an unbelievably acceptable level, and Micaela awoke at the same time I did. So far, so good.

Our bellies grumbling from not having eaten almost 18 hours earlier at The Village Oven in West Stockbridge, Mass., we hurried over to Eggspectation, a breakfast joint I'd found recommended on several restaurant sites. Before they'd even finished their meal, Carter and Micaela were asking if we could return every morning so that we might attempt to sample all the various other dishes that had caught their eye. We've succeeded in gorging ourselves on strawberry-flambé pancakes, yogurt-and-honey-dolloped cinnamon brioches, and eggs and latkes -- not to mention the appetizers and smoothies -- but there are still kiwi pancakes, bagels dorés, and various other fast-breaking morsels to try. Plus, it's only a block away from our hotel. Micaela wasn't kidding when she said she was looking forward to experiencing Montreal's culinary wonders.

We began our exploration of the city with a stop at the nearby Notre-Dame Basilica, a cathedral smaller than its Parisian namesake but every bit as worthwhile to visit. I have to admit that I never thought I'd see a kid floored by architecture, especially religious architecture, but my nephew couldn't take enough pictures, and he repeatedly remarked on the attention to detail. His impression impressed me.

After a stroll around Old Montreal and a stop for all-natural sorbet, we headed over to the famed Underground City, a 19-mile network of subterranean shops and businesses that allow residents and tourists an escape from the region's often brutal weather, particularly in winter. Once again the twiblings (the twin niblings) showed an uncanny appreciation for structural engineering, noting several times the efficient use of space as well as how cool it was. (It didn't quite reach the level of "awesome.") Micaela picked up some rather nifty Ugg knockoffs and a sweatshirt for back-to-school wear, but Carter didn't fare so well and left empty-handed. After seeing their wardrobes though, I'm not shedding a tear.


Off to dinner we hurried, meeting my friend and Normandie hitchhiking pal Véro in the Quartier Latin, which I'd described to the twiblings as Montreal's Greenwich Village, not realizing they were still unfamiliar with New York's neighborhoods. I convinced Carter to try Vietnamese food, and he wolfed down his plate, while Micaela was thrilled to have the chance to order red curry, which she'd first tried during last summer's visit to LA. Véro and I then regaled them with a few stories from our Westchester County years, spicing it up more than we would have had the parents been there, but leaving out enough juicy tidbits to be able to retell the tales when the kids are older.


Although it was past their normal bedtime, the twiblings got to add one last item to the day's agenda, mainly because Aunt Jenn wanted to do it too: Laser Quest. (Note to Laser Quest managers: Your website is sorely lacking. I'm available for hire.) So on we went to the Métro -- which Micaela noted was similar to D.C.'s, only slightly cleaner -- and mere moments later we were being shown onto the blacklighted playground. Both Carter and Micaela weren't laser tag virgins like me, but even they were impressed with the field layout: a multi-storied maze with boundless nooks and crannies from which to snipe your enemies. Had they not already been dog-tired, I'm sure they would have gone another round, but it was late, and we have one of the most anticipated stops of the trip tomorrow: Trapezium. Cross your fingers I come back with both patellas intact.

Day 1: An Egg-cellent Journée Dans La Ville
Day 2: Merde! Trapeze Drama
Day 3: A Day in Old Montreal
Day 4: Zip-Lining: Adventures in Trees

Why We Travel -- According to American Express

Recently, I've been getting an influx in travel-related press releases. It's nice to know this little blog o' mine is getting noticed.

After my post some months ago about my experience with the new site RezHub, I received a response from a site employee within the week. (I apologize for not responding, RezHub Rep. If only you knew the full status of my current Ulysses-like living situation. Sans cyclops. Kind of.) That was the first time I'd realized that the couple hundred regular readers -- not to mention the thousands of irregular readers -- reading my blog weren't just friends I'd made on various jaunts over the last decade or so.

Many of these press releases leave me, shall we say, wanting. I don't really give two craps about the new eco-lodge in Indiana. I'm glad more people are hopping on the eco-gravy train, but I just drove through Indiana on my way out to NYC, and if the gods favor me, I won't be passing through the Hoosier State on my way back. (This has nothing to do with the fact that Googling "Hoosier State" yields "Hoosier State Semen Supply" as the third result. Honestly.) However, once in a while, something lands in the ol' inbox that's worth repeating.

The latest was from American Express. I know, I know -- I'm a corporate sell-out, blah blah blah. But I actually liked the angle of their latest customer survey: The Purpose-Driven Vacation. I believe that traveling can do so much more than relieve the frazzled nerves of us Western workaholics. It can also benefit the residents, flora, and fauna of the destinations we visit. Case in point: When one of my oldest and dearest friends visited New Orleans last weekend, she and her husband went out of their way to volunteer eight hours of their four-day trip. And they didn't do it just to rack up the karma points. Zi told me she felt that it gave her a better perspective of the city, not to mention that it might have countered the bad juju from having gawked at the worst-hit city districts from the comfort of a tour bus.

I guess a lot of us are feeling that way, according to Amex's survey. Here's the breakdown I found to be most significant:

• 87% of travelers indicate that personal interests drive the majority of their vacation plans
  
• 60%* of travelers say the stronger they feel about a passion, the further they’ve traveled for it
  
• 57%* of respondents are willing to travel any distance to explore their personal interests
  
• 36% of those surveyed said they wouldn’t consider a vacation destination that doesn’t help them fulfill at least one personal passion
  
• 71%* of respondents have discovered a “new passion” while on vacation
  
• 34% of vacationers have discovered a passion on vacation and incorporated it into their home life

Vacations that incorporate personal passions also tend to be longer by almost double the number of days compared to those trips that do not include personal interests (16 days versus 9); more frequent (6 trips versus 3); and more expensive ($3,900 versus $2,400).

Google Text Saved My Life

Okay, not my entire life, but a quality two hours of my life were saved from post office purgagory due to that wondrous little widget known as Google Text, which I first heard about a few week's ago on Gadling. For the first few days, I played with Google Text as if it were 20Q, trying to stump it with any question I could think of. What are the locations of every Yolato in NYC? Is there still a Daffy's on Sixth Ave.? What is Elton John's real name?

Part of my challenge was seeing how little info I could send to QT and still get an accurate response. When I made the Elton inquiry, I simply typed "Elton John's real name." In under 15 seconds, I had my response. (Reginald Kenneth Dwight, for those not near their cell.)

I used GT more as a game than an actual practical device for the first few weeks. Co-workers and interns alike were getting irked by my insistence to "see if Google Text knows it!" When one intern pointed out how it had failed her the night before, I had her retrace her steps, then pointed out what she'd done wrong before assuring her GT wouldn't let her down next time.

It was only today that I discovered how GT could be a life-saving device -- and not only for myself. I believe this free service may have saved the woman behind the passport desk from my attempting homicide.

I'd already had an altercation with the passport police the week before. Yes, I've legally changed my name, I told them, but, no, I didn't have the paperwork because it was never given to me. (All true.) Why did I need this extra layer of evidence -- beyond all the documentation I'd already had shipped from my home -- when I hadn't needed it three years ago, for the same exact thing? I'd been issued my passport then with no problem -- I simply provided the proof of the use of my new, legal name and just a few weeks later I was graced with the document to flee the country. This time, however, I wasn't in LA. Instead, I was up against the clerks of the NYC central post office.

And so I stood in line yet again today, the air about me seeming to gel from the oppressive humidity. I watched for 20 minutes as the clerk helped the same two customers, with little action being done by parties on either side of the counter. There were still two customers ahead of me and an increasing number behind. I hadn't moved a step. Another five minutes passed. Then another. Everyone about me fidgeted from discomfort and impatience. Where had I read about a similar uncomfortable experience about travel?

Ah, that Gadling post about Google Text! In my research on full-service passport locations, I had read about the Greeley post office, just a few blocks away on 6th and Broadway. But I was hesitant to give up my place in line only to find myself in the same predicament, just different scenery. So I texted Google, "Greeley Post Office, NYC." I had to choose the "More" option before I got the listing, but there it was, local phone number and all.

A few seconds later, I was on the phone with a clerk who was far less surly than the woman who was still "helping" the same two clients. "You do passports there, right?" When he told me yes, I asked how long the line was. "No line at all?" I said a little too loudly. The others in the line turned to look at me. What magical world could I be calling?

Before they could put the clues together, I was out of there, fleeing down the majestic steps of the main post office for Greeley. I glanced behind me every few yards to make sure my fellow line-waiters weren't tailing me. Fifteen minutes later, I was leaving Greeley with my paperwork completed, a smile on my face from having dealt with the extremely pleasant courteous clerk.

Had it not been for Google Text, I might still be standing in that line in the main post office.

Photos Published in Washington Woman Magazine

After my unforgettable St. Lucia adventure a few months ago, my first photos have been published, alongside Marsha Dubrow's article in Washington Woman. Check 'em out, starting on page 46.

View more photos in my St. Lucia album.

Featured Correspondent for AdventureUs.com

You may have noticed a purdy new badge on my site, the one announcing that I'm now a Featured Correspondent for AdventureUs.com. What does this mean? For one, it means I should get my tuchis in gear and start blogging more, as I'm already backlogged with travel tales -- from driving with the fluffy children from sea to shining sea, to a weekend camping adventure where the original Friday the 13th was filmed -- and I have several more excursions planned for the summer, all of which I plan to post to both AdventureUs.com and this here site.

What you can look forward to:

• Visiting the Semester at Sea ship on its first trip to NYC since 1972, during which we'll celebrate the study-abroad program's 45th anniversary
  
• Trekking to Montreal with the twiblings (the twin niblings), where we'll fly on trapeze and tackle arboreal rope courses
  
• Best-kept secrets of Pennsylvania (still discovering a few myself)
  
• Day-to-day adventures of a reformed New Yorker who still finds it hard to get some of the Cali out of her system, and doesn't, like, totally want to
  

I'm going to try to blog at least three times a week, and by putting that in writing, I'm expecting someone to hold me to it.

Frequent Flying: Alaska vs. United

I'm a devoted frequent flier, which means I generally fly one airline in particular, in order to gain the highest frequent flier status possible, not to mention to accumulate miles and, thus, free transport. But the recent upheavals in airlines -- including the Delta/Northwest merger -- mean less perks for us devoted travelers of the air.

I've been a faithful United Airlines customer for nearly a decade, often choosing United over cheaper flights just so I can earn the extra miles. Last summer, I had the good fortune of being bumped on both United and Alaska within a few weeks of each other, and earning a round-trip ticket for each airline.

Two weeks ago, I needed to get to the East Coast -- and fast. Round-trip tickets skyrocketed from $250 to more than $400 in the course of less than 24 hours, right after the grounding of American Airlines and the announcement of the aforementioned mega-merger. I was at a loss. Without a full-time job, I couldn't afford to pay such an exorbitant fee. Then I remembered my two free tickets.

I'd previously booked a trip with Alaska to Portland back in December, but had to cancel my trip when my Portland pal unexpectedly moved back to LA. The experience was painless: Alaska Air canceled my flight without a penalty, leaving me with my free ticket intact. I remembered the positive experience and so called Alaska first when I realized I couldn't afford the last-minute cross-country fees.

Because Alaska's hub is in Seattle, and it doesn't offer direct flights to any of NYC's three airports, my only option was a 12-hour excursion from LAX to Newark via Seattle -- hardly what one would consider optimum.

Then I called United, the airline to which I'd been so faithful for what seemed like millennia. After dealing with an agent who was obviously not U.S. based and who could hardly understand me ("Ms. Robinson [sic], you speak so fast!") and waiting for nearly 20 minutes to find a seat, I was finally told that to use my free ticket required 14 days' notice. I had told the agent at the start of our conversation that I would be using a voucher, so I found it highly inconvenient to be told this after the fact. I then asked how many of my frequent flier miles would be needed for the same trip. Seems that 25,000 would do the trick -- in addition to $75 for booking my ticket less than two weeks in advance. Screw that.

So, it was Alaska's ticket I used. I dreaded the long flight in each direction, but I had little choice financially. What angered me most was that my experience with United, the airline to which I'd been so faithful, was so far below that which I had with Alaska, with which I'd flown only three times in the last five years or so. There were far fewer restrictions on my "free" ticket and, when I was finally on board, I found Alaska's seats roomier and much more comfy. About the only negative with Alaska was that in order to view the in-flight movie, I would have to pay $10 for a portable DVD player, rather than watch the free flick on United. I passed.

I still have my free United ticket, which I have to use by August. I have no clue where I'll fly with it, now that I'll be on the East Coast for the next few months. But I have to say, after I cash in my United miles, I'm going to reconsider my airline allegiance.

Pele Erupts With Fury

When I visited the Big Island back in November, one of my main to-do's was to see lava. Unfortunately, Pele, the Hawaiian volcano goddess, didn't have that in her plans, and the many helicopter and plane flights I'd booked were all canceled due to inclement weather. In the past, visitors had been able to view the lava flow from the ground, but during my visit, only aerial tours made the view accessible. And now Pele has changed plans.

The lava flow is once again visible to day-hikers.

"Visitors should know that if they follow precautions, come prepared, and listen to officials, the volcanic activity on Hawai'i Island is not only fascinating to witness, it's also safe," said George Applegate, Executive Director of the Big Island Visitors Bureau. "A contingent of scientists, local and federal officials are keeping close tabs on the situation, and keeping the public well informed," he said.

Ah, if only Pele had been so gracious during my visit. But that only gives me another reason to return to one of my favorite islands on the planet.

For visitors wishing to view the lava flow, click here for the latest updates.

How Green Is Your Hotel?

I was all excited to check out RezHub.com, the highly touted new travel site that assists users in making greener travel choices. Alas, my first few attempts to load any page of the site resulted in either "sorry" pages or plain out gobbledygook.

While I waited to access the site itself, I did a bit of investigating and learned the following. Unlike some sites, RezHub is pretty open about how properties earn their Green Score. Green amenities are given point values from 1-3, depending on the level of effort required by the hotel. Serving organic food, for example, earns only one Green Point, while using Green Key Cards earns three. A hotel's total number of Green Points determines how many Green Branches it is awarded -- 1-6 points earns one lonely branch, while 25-30 points scores a whole tree, or five maximum branches.

Since it turns out I'm actually in the market to buy a ticket today, I decided to put RezHub to the test. First thing I noticed is that the site's strength is obviously hotels, since that's where the homepage immediately directs you. But since I also may be in need of a room for one evening, I tried that out. Hmm. No results at all for Asbury Park, NJ -- and the site designers deemed it okay to leave the user on a dead, worthless page. Clicking "modify search" took me back to the homepage -- but didn't save the info (dates, number of guests, etc.) I'd already entered. Even Newark, NJ, resulted in squat. So far, no good.

Next up: Trying to find a flight to Newark for this week. Lowest price: $433, same as both Kayak and Cheap Tickets. But I didn't see any green info. So why would I use RezHub for tickets when I have my tried and true outlets?

It's only the site's launch. I'm sure it's officially in beta of some sort, so I'll give it another chance down the road. But I have to say that what I've seen so far isn't all that spectacular. If RezHub is going to stick around, it's going to have to offer a unique booking experience that actually works -- or start syndicating its green rating content. Oh, and change the name to something that actually speaks to us green-lovers. "RezHub" sounds more like a treatment for eczema than a green booking engine.

Virgin's Biofuel Flight: A Bunch of Greenwash?

He's done it. Sir Richard has come through on his promise to be the first commercial flight to use biofuel. It's only one flight, so far, but is it a flight in the right direction?

Naysayers claim the flight was just a load of PR propaganda, that biofuels are impractical on a wide commercial scale due to the massive amounts of land that would be needed to produce the fuel. Virgin counters that the flight was meant to prove that alternative fuels could be used, and it acknowledges that the coconut-based concoction used on the flight isn't what they'd use long term. For that, they're looking towards algae.

Hmm. Seems like a decent idea on paper. But has anyone come close so far?

Frequent Flyers, Cast Your Votes!

You may not get invited to the Grammys. You're sure as hell not going with Brad Pitt to the Oscars. And you've missed the Golden Globes (and weren't even asked to vote, dagnabbit.) But there's one award ceremony you can still take part in: The Freddies.

Yes, frequent travelers, you too can give your backing to your favorite hotel chain or airline, with no worries of hanging chads or butterfly ballots.

http://www.freddieawards.com/

And if you live in Florida, rest assured that here, at least, your vote actually does count.

Voting ends February 29th, so vote early and vote often.

In case you're wondering, the Freddies were named for British airline entrepreneur Sir Freddie Laker. And if you're not familiar with this travel-industry pioneer, you'd best be clicking that link to Wikipedia. He influenced Richard Branson, for Pete's sake.

World Flags, Deconstructed and Critiqued

I am now officially addicted to the Travelpod geography quiz that I blogged about a few weeks back. (Today I'm trying to conquer Africa. Interestingly enough, I've already conquered the world.) By far the hardest version of the game is Flags, wherein you're shown a flag from one of the 192-194 (depending how you count them) countries, numerous independent states and territories/dependencies, and you not only have to name the country and find it on a map, but know where it's capital is located. Tough stuff in seven seconds!

To brush up on my flags -- many of which have changed design or become non-existant since my pre-college days -- I went in search of a complete list. And what did I come across? A hysterical design critique that breaks down the good, bad, and the ugly of each nation's flag, finally assigning it a letter grade. Flags are lauded for such characteristics as simplicity and color choice, or lambasted for the inclusion of weapons, graven images, or even "colonial nonsense." Gambia must have a great PR firm, because it came out on top with a 90 (somehow, the critics see 90 as an A+), while the Northern Marianas failed with a measly 2 for a design that appears to be "constructed from clip art."

(Side note: The author behind the site also created a fantastically entertaining Engrish generator.)

For a more professional -- and even more hilarious -- take on flag design, check out the website of Frederik Samuel, who skewers not just the designs but the "clients" behind them. I'll be sure to hire him to design my flag when I become empress of my own island nation.

Virgin to Go Green

When I read the headline that Richard Branson's Virgin airline would begin testing biofuel in early 2008, I thought, "Sure, it will. That's so far away, he's planning on us forgetting about it by then." Then I remembered that it is 2008 and that I have to stop writing 2004 on the two checks I now write a year.

Which means Sir Richard must be serious. So serious, in fact, that late February has been cited as the date of the planned London-Amsterdam flight, which will use 80% conventional jet fuel and 20% biofuel from an unnamed but supposedly sustainable source. (I vote they use Soylent Green. Hey, I'm not far off.) My question is, why only 20%? With over 50 billion people served at McDonald's alone, doesn't that give us enough excess french fry grease to power our entire air fleet? With the enormous -- and strange -- array of bio-diesel sources available to us, Sir Richard should be able to go whole hog on his promise. Twenty percent? Eh, I guess I should be happy someone's doing something. Unlike some people.

Reasons Not to Be a Travel Writer

Establishing a lucrative career as a writer is hard enough. Take a crack at travel writing and you might as well call that refrigerator box on the corner your "condo." This is the main reason I've never gone freelance full time. (The runner-up reason is that the querying process is as unforgiving and demoralizing as being a personal assistant at a movie studio, which pays even less.) Thus, I prefer to spend the majority of my time on the editorial side, where the paychecks are steadier and I don't have to grovel for my next gig. That said, I'm sure the view of a full-time travel writer is far more picturesque than that of the gray walls of my cube.

If you've got the stamina, passion, and cojones, by all means, follow your dream of being a travel writer. But before you begin dreaming of comped trips to Tahiti and widely praised articles about your sojourn to an Israeli commune, heed this advice from travel-writer extraordinaire Tim Leffel:

The Seven Myths of Being a Travel Writer

First Irony, Now Travel Writing Kicks the Bucket

When irony died a premature death, thanks to the events of 9/11, I wasn't terribly upset. I actually hoped its passing would spell the end of cooler-than-thou t-shirt slogans that every hipster from Silverlake to Williamsburg wore as a de rigeur part of their wardrobe. Eh-eh. Instead, irony seems to have gone into a coma, not quite dead but not entirely certain the world is ready for the announcement that it's still alive and kicking. I got over it.

But when I read that some bloke named Chuck Thompson (never trust a guy who willingly goes by "Chuck") thinks that today's travel writers amount to little more than a class of uninspired hacks, I was peeved -- and a might bit baffled. Does this guy not read National Geographic Adventure or Outside? Has he not heard of Tim Cahill, Pico Iyer? Sure, there are more than enough travel-industry stoolies who'll write a glowing review of any dump that throws them a comp, but isn't toadyism part of any industry?

I haven't yet read Chuck's opus, Smile When You're Lying: Confessions of a Rogue Travel Writer, but based on the pieces I have scanned, I have no need to. The first one I plucked out on Amazon began -- I kid you not:

Watching the Penis Olympics didn't make me feel much like the "foreign ambassador" the JET orientation had prepared me to be. Worse, the pressure on me to participate was fierce. A lupine excitement gripped the room at the possibility of seeing a Caucasian penis in the engorged flesh, but the assumption that I was packing a gigantic wad, flattering to be sure, was also intimidating.

And two Surprise Me! clicks later:

Temples, not tits, filled my Thai checklist.

Pure poetry, Chuck.

If travel writing has passed its peak, Chuck sure ain't helping prep for its comeback tour with frat-boy prose like that. So who is he to pass judgment on the rest of the travel-writing community, especially when the fluff pieces he so despises are usually taken by well-meaning writers just to pay the bills in between more important writing gigs?

Senor Chuck does, however, make some valid points, including several that brought back stinging memories of a not-so-long-ago gig. Says Rolf Potts, in his review of Chuck's book [emboldened words hold special meaning for yours truly]:

Thompson proceeds with an accurate roundup of the elements that conspire to create bad travel writing: throw-away words like "hip," "happening," "sun-drenched," "undiscovered," and "magical"; imperative language that urges the reader to "do" this, "eat" that, "go" here; stories that depict tourism workers (taxi drivers, hotel clerks, bartenders) as "local color"; the fake narrative "raisons d’etre writers invent to justify their travels"; the untraveled writers and editors who assemble authoritative-sounding travel "roundups" from Internet research; the conflicts of interest that arise when writers fund their travels with industry-subsidized "comps"; publications running what is essentially the same story over and over again, never questioning stereotype assumptions about certain parts of the world.

All genres have their low-brow and their high. Travel writing is no different. To lump the commercial in with the literary is like comparing Knocked Up to North by Northwest. Kudos to Potts for taking Chuck down a notch.

Online Quiz for Geography Geeks

I've wasted several hours on this site playing its various geography-themed quizzes. Now I'm letting everyone in on my addiction so you can procrastinate just like me. My highest score on the World version of the game is 551,113, level 12. Beat that! Oh, if you want a triple threat of a quiz, play the Flags of the World version. Not only do you have to recognize what country the flag is from, but you then have to pinpoint the capital of the country on a map -- in less than 10 seconds. Talk about a brain scrambler.

http://www.travelpod.com/traveler-iq/game

Don't Make Me Go! (Hawaii, Day 8)

Feeling depressed on the last day of a vacation is not uncommon. But this was the first time I actually felt tears welling up as I loaded my bags into the cursed Sebring then walked to the office to check out. I don't know why my emotions were running so strong. Perhaps it was the thought of leaving so much undone, or returning to the tedium of everyday life. Whatever it was, I played out my last few hours on the Big Island in a state of mourning, begrudgingly following the necessary departure routine.

My plane left early in the afternoon, so I didn't have time to travel very far. After a subpar breakfast at the restaurant at the King Kamehameha Hotel that left me more than a little unsatisfied, I strolled the grounds near Ahuena Heiau, located incongruously near all the hustle and bustle of the tourism of the Kona waterfront. The grounds of the hotel are in dire need of updating. Considering the place has such prime real estate and a significant historical landmark, the proprietors have really let it go. The interior looks as if it hasn't been refurbished since Esquivel's heyday, and I almost expected to hear his "space-age bachelor pad music" piped through the faux wood corridors. Even the air seemed stagnant and old, the strong whiff of retirement home permeating every corner. It was a depressing place to spend my final day.

With less than a half hour before I'd have to hit the road, I ventured into town for a quick peek at the Mokuaikaua Church, listed as the first Christian church of the Hawaiian islands. Quaint as it was, it was less than remarkable, and much less picturesque than either of the smaller churches I'd visited over the previous week. A few snaps there, then it was time to hit the road -- with a quick pitstop at Ba-Le to pick up my beloved lemongrass tofu baguette for the plane ride.

After a brief disagreement with the Dollar clerk regarding the problems I'd experienced with the Sebring From Hell, I found myself at the end of an interminable and unmoving line at the Kona airport. I've been through airport chaos, including during holiday season, but the inefficiency was just deplorable. How many times did I have to have my bags scanned? Why did it take the skycap 20 minutes to serve the one person ahead of me? Why were only two counter clerks around to check the three plane loads of passengers who were hoping against hope that they wouldn't miss their planes? Note to Kona airport managers: Hawaii is not a developing nation. Get your act together. You don't want your economy-fueling tourists having this melee be their last memory of an otherwise relaxing vacation.

Even with all the inconvenience, it was far preferable to being in a cube. That was when I realized the cause of the tears welling behind my eyes.

Day 1: Escape From Cube Life
Day 2: Manta Heaven
Day 3: Paddling to My Death
Day 4: The Southernmost Gaffe in the United States
Day 5: Somewhere Over Polulu
Day 6: Grounded in Hilo
Day 7: To Fly or Not to Fly
Day 8: Don't Make Me Go!

Grounded in Hilo (Hawaii, Day 6)

I awoke with grand visions of lava-spewing vistas still dancing in my head. Today was the day I'd scheduled my biplane ride over volcanoes, a trip I'd planned toward the end of my vacation knowing that my diving would prohibit me from flying on certain days. The flight was one of the "must-do" activities I'd planned for my trip -- sister or no -- and I'd set aside a certain amount of vacation allowance for the event. I might not be able to light a stick on fire while walking on a lava flow -- as I'd seen on the Big Island's visitor channel -- but I could at least experience the volcanic wonders from the air. I hopped into my untrustworthy Sebring and headed for the far side of the Big Island.

Thus far, I'd seen only the "dry" side of the island -- from the brown stone fields of the Kohala coast to the cloud-obscured vistas just up the road from Kona. Rain had already canceled plans on one of my dry-side days, so I should have been prepared for massive amounts of precipitation in the rainiest city in the U.S. But that would mean I was being rational.

Living in LA for ten years has all but absolved me from having to know how to handle rain. I'm used to doubling my commute time at the mere whisper from a "weatherman" of approaching precipitation, but I've never lost my confidence in handling slick-surfaced pavement. My drive to Hilo almost made me feel like a native Angeleno. At one point, the rain pelted my windshield so hard that I was forced -- for the first time in my life -- to pull to the side of the road until I could see the road again. This from a driver who's bested the black ice of Michigan winters.

As I drove from one side of the island to the next, the landscape grew ever more lush, the green seeming to meld with the black pavement, which was interrupted more often than not by one-lane stop signals required by ongoing construction or road maintenance. To go the roughly 80 miles from my condo to Akaka Falls took almost as long as it would have in LA rush-hour traffic -- sans scenic overlooks. I could at least thank Lono that the view at Akaka was unobstructed by rain.


I killed the next few hours having sub-par pasta at Pescatore (seriously, how hard is it to make sauce for noodles, people?) and perusing the lackluster exhibits at the Pacific Tsunami Museum, where the docents were kind enough to let me recharge my camera batteries in anticipation of my afternoon volcano flight. When I learned my flight was canceled due to weather, I switched to Plan B, exploring the area's attractions, rain be damned. A cursory cruise around Banyan Drive and the Queen Liliuokalani Gardens made me wish for blue skies more worthy of photographing. Then north of Hilo I went, in search of the botanical gardens so many people had told me were worth the seemingly steep $15 admission.

I wasn't disappointed. The Hawaii Tropical Botanic Gardens merit the price, even in inclement weather. I took more photos here than I'd shot my entire vacation. I'm not usually a sucker for orchids, but I found myself in macro mode more often than not, so unusual were the blooms. Even though I spent less than two hours on the grounds -- in damp clothing, for the most part -- I found the gardens, and the scenic drive to get there, a high point of my trip. Rainbow Falls and the Boiling Pots, located just outside of Hilo, paled in comparison to the verdant dips and vales of the botanic paradise, as spotty as the signposts were.

When the day's rain finally let up on my return trip to Kona, I stopped in at Daniel Thiebaut, a posh eatery in Waimea, where I ensconced myself at the bar. (Note to local I met that night: My trip to Portland was cancelled, so I won't have any recommendations for your son. Sorry!) I then trudged back to Kona, intent on getting a good night's sleep for my return trip the next day. There'd be sun this time, right?

Day 1: Escape From Cube Life
Day 2: Manta Heaven
Day 3: Paddling to My Death
Day 4: The Southernmost Gaffe in the United States
Day 5: Somewhere Over Polulu
Day 6: Grounded in Hilo
Day 7: To Fly or Not to Fly
Day 8: Don't Make Me Go!

Somewhere Over Pololu (Hawaii, Day 5)

It’s not often I get to dive. Yes, I live in SoCal, but the water there is downright frigid, so I haven’t been since my beginner certification many moons ago. My volcano flight wasn’t until the next late afternoon, so I booked myself on a morning dive with Kona Honu Divers once again. This time out, we hit Koloko Arches, which had wonderful arch and tunnel formations that made me wish I’d sprung for that underwater camera. We spotted a host of critters, including a crown of thorns starfish and several eels.

After my dive, I headed north up the Kohala coast in search of the Puako petroglyphs and ran into a band of scavenger hunters. I so badly wanted to crash their party and join in, especially when I learned it was part of an Internet conference, but I let the nerds be.

Next stop: Hapuna beach, the oft-named “finest beach in the country.” Yes, it was pretty and the sand was powder white, but beyond that, I didn’t get why it receives so many accolades. I found Oahu’s Kailua far more picturesque and inviting. To each his own.

Café Pesto turned out to be a bit of a letdown. For all the hype this Italian restaurant receives, it didn’t do much for me, and you can’t blame it on the vegetarianism since the waiter recommended my pizza before I’d explained my dietary restrictions. I think I might have been able to teach the chef a thing or two about Italian cuisine.

The highlight of the day came while driving the final stretch of route 270, through picturesque Hawi and its Old West storefronts. At the end of the road sits the Pololu Valley, a majestic swath of green that tumbles down to a black-sand beach rimmed by steep emerald cliffs. The view from the top was wonderful, but The Book declared the 20-minute trek to the bottom even more photogenic, so down I went, a fine mist acting as natural coolant. About halfway down I began to ponder the return trip upwards and so confirmed the validity of The Book’s decree via a passing Aussie before continuing the descent.

I wouldn’t say it’s that much prettier at the bottom, at least not when it’s misting/raining, but I am glad I spent extra time in the valley. The beach was the first I’d stood on that was an usual color, and I found it interesting that my camera had such a difficult time reconciling this contrast, especially when challenged with a composite of just my pasty white legs and black sand. I think that shot almost fried the processors. In spite of the superstition against taking lava rocks, I scooped a spoonful of sand for my grandmother, who for some reason has begun a collection of soil from around the world, then began the climb back up the six or so switchbacks.

It was at this point that I noticed the most vibrant rainbow I’d ever set eyes on, an unbroken, iridescent arc that spanned from the valley’s green cliffs clear across the water, as if hoping to reach the Maui shore. I must have taken 20 photos of the rainbow, which appeared to glow against the gray mist, like a piece of Oz breaking back into Kansas. Perhaps one day I’ll get around to threading all the shots together.

Day 1: Escape From Cube Life
Day 2: Manta Heaven
Day 3: Paddling to My Death
Day 4: The Southernmost Gaffe in the United States
Day 5: Somewhere Over Pololu
Day 6: Grounded in Hilo
Day 7: To Fly or Not to Fly
Day 8: Don't Make Me Go!

The Southernmost Gaffe in the United States (Hawaii, Day 4)

My elderly, Big Isle-loving neighbors had raved about Place of Refuge, and The Book lauded the adjacent Honaunau reef, so I made that my first stop the next day. The reef delivered as promised, with tons of fish and even a lollygagging sea turtle who saw fit to trail me within yards of the heiau on the opposite shore. Easy entry meant that even scuba divers converge on the place, where they take advantage of the "two step," a naturally formed stair of lava rock that allows you to slide right into the water without getting too cut up or bashed by waves.

After only 20 minutes or so of snorkeling, I realized, thanks to the slight sting of salt water, that I'd forgotten to lather my pasty back in sunscreen and that I'd be feeling repercussions the next day if I didn't two-step it back on land.

Several people had described Place of Refuge (Pu'uhonua o Honaunau) as tranquil, serene, and emiting a calming effect over the body. Yes, there's something rather peaceful about a turquoise lagoon fringed with waves crashing on lava rock while palm trees sway overhead. But ain't that most of Hawaii, brah? I strolled among the staged tikis and examples of heiaus and longboats, but lingered over the replica of a konane game, which looked strikingly similar to Chinese checkers, minus the star pattern. If the gift shop manager is listening, you should get this game in stock, ASAP. I was surprised not to find it among the other ubiquitous souvenirs.

From Honaunau, I headed south, by now used to the feel of dried salt on my skin for most of the day. My ultimate destination was Volcanoes National Park, but The Book declared South Point -- the true southernmost point in the United States, contrary to Key West's claim -- a "Not to Be Missed!" locale, so I took the 12-mile, crumbling-road detour past some cows and windmills to see what would be seen. I didn't have time to hike the additional two miles to the green sand beach, but I knew that would only be a waste of time for me, as I've learned I just don't have the slightest desire to sunbathe or sit still when I'm on vacation. There's just too much to be seen.

This is the first time the book or any of volume of its series has steered me wrong. There ain't nothing at South Point, and it was perhaps the most polluted beach I've seen in all the Hawaiian islands. After driving some 20 minutes out of my way -- and wasting valuable daylight to do so -- I didn't even get a damn plaque to commemorate the occasion of my presence. I hightailed it out of the there, not wanting to waste another precious second at such a pointless, unphotogenic spot. Stupid South Point.

I did, however, find it necessary to make a pit stop for lunch. After snorkeling, walking, and driving way the hell out of my way, I needed a little something in the belly to keep me going, but something fast so I could enjoy the volcanoes as much as I could. I’d already scheduled my plane flight for Thursday morning, since the actual lava flow was currently visible only by aerial tour, but I still wanted to get in some precious ground time and to see such sights as the acclaimed Thurston lava tube. But that would have to wait until I snacked.

The Book declared Desert Rose Café as “probably the best food in this part of the island,” which wasn’t saying much considering I spotted only one other eatery (mini-mart notwithstanding). I opted for a veggie burger with cream cheese and mango – I hadn’t found many other healthful choices – and scarfed it down. I have to say, the combo was quite interesting, and I’d try it again, only without so much dang cream cheese. After filling up my gas tank – and spending 20 minutes on hold to verify with Dollar that I didn’t have to use ethanol, as the label on my gas tank declared, and that the brake light that kept flashing intermittently was nothing to worry about – I was on my way. Again.

I arrived at Hawaii Volcanoes National Park a little before four o’clock, leaving me with just over two hours to drive Crater Rim . It was enough to do that and only that, although I would have preferred longer to explore the many trails in the more lush, rainforest portion of the park. My camera couldn’t capture the beauty and vastness of the craters, and on the computer screen, the steam vents seem like little more than the smoke of a latent campfire, but trust me, the park is well worth visiting, even when the lava flow isn’t visible by land. If nothing else, the Thurston lava tube and the surrounding flora are worth the visit. If my condo’s flashlight had been working, I would have explored the unadulterated portion of the tube, but I wasn’t about to venture in there in pitch blackness.

Now, scientists, listen up: One of you needs to create a device that captures smell. We have cameras and audio recording devices, but nothing quite captures the spirit of a place or triggers a memory like the sense of smell. I’ll never forget the sulfurous odor of the craters, that acrid, nose-tingly scent that doesn’t quite offend but isn’t something you wanted a candle scented after. I did, however, want to bottle the smell and take it home to supplement my slideshow so they could get an all-sensory feel of the place.

The sun set not long after I left the park’s gate, and by the time I hit the road back north, I was pretty tired. I had roughly 100 miles to go, on a road that disallowed a speed of more than 65 – both legally and practically – and all I wanted was to get back to my condo and sleep. I gave the bird to the South Point turnoff as I passed and whizzed northward. In the gloam, a sign blazed off to my left, one that I’d failed to notice on my daylight cruise southward. This time, I not only noticed but read the sign, and by the time it clicked, I’d already flown past. A quick U-ie fixed that, and moments later I was parked at the bar of Shaka, the southernmost bar in the United States. (Take that, lying Southernmost House Grand Hotel!)

As soon as bartender Cyboy (real name: he’d kill me if I told you) had poured me an ice-cold pint of red ale, I whipped out my cell to call my pal Marilyn and tell her of my achievement. Moments later, after writing a few postcards and talking to amiable son Bubba (real name: forgotten), I walked out to my car to take a shot of the exterior, now all aglow in the afterthought of sunset. My Sebring didn’t respond to the first dozen punches of the key fob, so I let myself into my car the old-fashioned way, with a key. I tossed the keys on the driver seat, grabbed my camera, shut the door, and posed my camera on the car roof so that I could get a crystal-clear shot. As I pushed the button, my possessed car honked and all I got was a fuzzy neon blur. The next one came out all nice like.

When I went to open my car, I found it locked. There on the seat sat my keys, glinting up at me in mockery. Apparently my key fob had a several-minute delay, and had locked me out of my rented vehicle. After telling Cyboy the story, I plopped myself down on my still-warm barstool and once again called Dollar. After several calls, I was told that I’d have to pay for the locksmith myself, as I’d declined roadside assistance (which I didn’t recall ever being offered to me), and that the cost would be around $35. No sweat. Plus $1.50 mileage. From Captain Cook. Both ways. That amounted to just over $200, and it would take the locksmith at least an hour to rescue me. As I argued with the Dollar representative on the phone, Cyboy came outside to tell me that his buddy up the hill was on his way and would be arriving in five minutes. I hung up on Dollar and awaited my knight in shining armor.

Or flannel PJs, I wasn’t being picky. Cyboy was in hysterics as he watched the pajama’d Sean at work, and moments later, I once again had my keys in hand. As Sean went to go back into his truck, his handle wouldn’t move. “I locked myself out.” I almost burst into hysterics before he let on that he was just joking. I have a feeling he loves pulling that over on customers.
I finished the free pint of beer that Cyboy had offered me for having survived the experience, then headed back up to Kona. I couldn’t even look the Sebring in the face. I always name my cars – even rentals – but this one didn’t deserve a name. All it deserved was a kick good night.

Day 1: Escape From Cube Life
Day 2: Manta Heaven
Day 3: Paddling to My Death
Day 4: The Southernmost Gaffe in the United States
Day 5: Somewhere Over Polulu
Day 6: Grounded in Hilo
Day 7: To Fly or Not to Fly
Day 8: Don't Make Me Go!

Paddling to My Death (Hawaii, Day 3)

Just because I'm traveling solo doesn't mean I'm going to slow down... much. Sure, I take my time getting ready in the morning, usually heading out the door an hour later than I'd intended. But it's a vacation, what do you want from me?

My trusty guide book informed me that the best way to visit the Captain Cook monument in Kealakekua Bay is by kayak, and a kayak being one of my preferred modes of transportation, I decided to heed The Book's advice, even though I'd be without a paddling partner. I rented my trusty craft from Adventures in Paradise, a home-based business that looked every bit the part. As I squinted to read the day's weather forecast posted on the wall of the tin-roofed patio, the proprietor stepped out to greet me, as did a red-speckled gecko even larger than the one who'd hitched a ride on my rearview mirror the day before. Sunny skies and warm waters told me it was okay to go ahead with my plan.

As Karin helped me load my sit-atop on the roof of my car, I wondered how in Pele’s name I’d be able to unload it myself. She informed me that the parking lot at the bay was full of able-bodied boys looking for a $5 tip in exchange for easing me of my burden. When I explained that I deal in virtual cash and thus had little more than a pocketful of coins and some lint, she told me not to worry.

She was right on all counts. Before I’d even opened the car door, a Bud-sipping young’un tapped on my windshield to ask if I needed help. When I explained my lack of hard currency, he shrugged. “I’ve got nothing else to do,” my knight explained, and began unloading my Sebring of its cargo. Moments later, I was packed into my kayak, Amancio waving to me with one hand and sipping another Bud with the other.

It’s only a half mile or so across the bay to the beach where Captain Cook was killed, but by kayak – solo – it seems much longer. I took my time, alternating between snapping shots with my camera (safely tucked into its housing) and sprinting to make up for how much the tide had shoved me since I’d last stopped. The tide seemed to be moving against me, which, I reasoned, was a good thing since it’d be working in my favor on the way back.

I paddled on at a leisurely pace, watching the green-furred cliff walls drift by and marveling at the blueness of the water. I didn’t recall the ocean being so stunningly cobalt in Oahu, and I remembered that this, the westerly side of the Big Island, was known for its clear waters due to the lack of runoff from rivers and the lava rock. As I mused about the little Hawaiian geology I know and tried to keep my kayak steady for another shot, I realized the sounds of breaking waves had grown louder. When I turned to see how close I was to shore, I realized I was about to be turned over by a large wave – and pushed headlong into a crag of unfriendly-looking lava rocks, which could stand the beating surf much better than I could. I paddled frantically, timing the boat so that I just barely managed to ride a wave in rather than being pummeled by it.

A second wave almost knocked me from my seat, and when I saw that I could stand, I jumped out and began leading my boat to shore. But I wasn’t out of danger yet. The waves still forced their way in, threatening to crush me between my kayak and the rocks, and several times I just managed to push the boat out of the way before it gave me a broken nose. Coughing and trying to remain nonchalant as I dragged ass ashore, I waved to the older couple who had watched me nearly drown, the husband half-amped as if he were about to save me, then realized, “Eh, I don’t know her.”

I allowed myself a few moments’ rest before strolling down the white sandy beach to explore, rust-colored mongooses darting out from underfoot. After seeing the white obelisk and snapping shots of the sea from land, I was ready for some snorkeling, which I’d heard was some of the best on the whole island.

It was like swimming in an aquarium. There were so many fish – yellow tangs, puffers, whitemouth eels, teardrop butterfly fish – that I could hardly keep track. I hung out and rode the surf with a school of yellow tangs that I had spotted from the shore, the surge pushing me in and out of their lemon bodies so often that they seemed to get used to me – at least, as long as I didn’t try to take a picture. (Perhaps tangs are Amish.)

When I’d had my fill, I paddled back, amazed to find that the tide was once again working against me, insisting that the nose of my boat face the completely opposite direction I wanted. By the time I reached the boat launch, I was exhausted, and terribly happy – and surprised – to see Amancio waiting for me some three hours later. “I wasn’t sure you were coming back,” he said as he reached down to help me out of the kayak. Moments later, the Sebring was all packed up to go, and Amancio was waving me off on my next adventure.

Whoever goes to Kealakekua Bay next, please tip him. Or at least bring him a few beers.

On my way back to return the kayak, I stopped at the Painted Church, which sits high up in the hills of Captain Cook. The church is small, but quite charming -- well worth the slightly out of the way drive. I could have gotten off some amazing shots had it not poured the whole time I was there. I can only imagine how land developers must envy the view that the dearly departed have but will never again enjoy.

I’d planned to head to Honaunau next, but the weather had other thoughts in mind, so I instead heading back north to Kailua Town, where I explored the Hulihe’e “palace” (a large home that supposedly once had grand furniture but was now under renovation) and the Kailua Pier, where several fishermen were hoisting in their final catches of the day. Honaunau and Place of Refuge would have to wait for the next day.

Day 1: Escape From Cube Life
Day 2: Manta Heaven
Day 3: Paddling to My Death
Day 4: The Southernmost Gaffe in the United States
Day 5: Somewhere Over Pololu
Day 6: Grounded in Hilo
Day 7: To Fly or Not to Fly
Day 8: Don't Make Me Go!

Manta Heaven (Hawaii, Day 2)

When I made my to-do list for my Big Isle trip, I had one item at the very tip-top of the list: dive with manta rays. I've read oodles about this dive, with may sources declaring it a dive of a lifetime, the pinnacle of underwater adventures, and other superlatives. After diving with great whites, I thought that swimming with plankton eaters would be rather anti-climatic. I was greatly mistaken.

We started our diving day at Garden Eel Cove, a sandy-bottomed locale with numerous pencil-thin eels who sway in the surge like sea grass. A coral reef flocked with critters surrounded the cove, which counted for less than a few minutes of the entire dive, and we spotted several other eel relatives in the craggy nooks that were only yards away from the man-made ring of stones that would act as the focus of the night dive ahead.

After downing some sandwiches (mine was a lemon grass tofu baguette from Ba-Le, of course), during which we watched the sun fade into the ocean, we prepared for the main event. A cluster of other water crafts had invaded our mooring site, and as we donned our gear, we spotted one of our visual prey gliding through the water just yards from the line shining beneath our boat. When the first two divers into the water shouted back that there was "a big 'un right below us!" I long-strided in and immediately sank my face downwards, my flashlight bobbing about for the 14-footer they'd spotted.

I didn't have to look far. Rising from the midnight blue depths -- headed straight towards me and the diver bobbing on my right -- came the manta, his eyes seemingly intent on looking me face on. When he as at my knees, he opened his maw so that my beacon shown straight into his ribbed cavern of a mouth, his wings still propelling him towards me as if he meant to suck me in like a Hoover. He stopped, hovering, just inches from my mask, taking in both my features and the multitude of plankton that had flocked to my flashlight's beam like microscopic moths. I managed to snap a few photos with my "can't go deeper than 10 feet" camera, but I only got off one shot where you can almost make out the manta shape.

As we flippered over to the designated manta meeting grounds, an unearthly blue glow loomed up ahead, causing images of James Cameron's aquatic aliens to float through my head. As we drew nearer, we realized we weren't the first arrivals at manta central: at least three other dive boats had claimed their places around the ring. Their flashlight beams formed pillars of light that appeared to hold up the water's surface, where snorkelers splashed about, gazing down upon the underwater Druid ceremony below them. At the center of the ring lay a large milk crate stuffed with high-powered beams that created a stationery Klieg light in which a school of plankton-hungry fish darted about. In the divers' beams, silvery bubbles rose to the surface. Ring within ring within ring we awaited the guests of honor.

And waited. And waited.

After about 10 minutes of shivering on the ocean floor, Bo switched to plan B, and we and the other diver reluctantly swam off. Just when we were almost out of sight of the blue glow, in swooped the enormo manta who'd tried to make out with me earlier, followed by another a foot or so smaller. They slid through the water over our heads, sometimes tapping us with their wings as they passed, their ever-searching mouths widened to take in as much miniscule matter as possible. One diver, who'd brought along a high-powered light for his cumbersome camera, attracted them most, so I quickly made my way to his side for a ringside view. The surge grew stronger, so I wrapped my legs around a large rock anchored to the sea bed and took in the mantas, who were know somersaulting before us to grab as much food as possible.

For the first few minutes back on the boat, few of us could speak, although our ear-to-ear grins spoke volumes. Then slowly the chatter started, and we returned to our chatty selves, several of the older female divers donning red glowsticks as earrings in celebration. What could possibly top an experience like that?

Second best experience of the day: Kona Brewing Company's strawberry and spinach salad. Ever since having it on Oahu last year, I've been craving its tangy sweetness. Washed down with their pale ale, it's second only to the manta experience. And a far second at that.

Day 1: Escape From Cube Life
Day 2: Manta Heaven
Day 3: Paddling to My Death
Day 4: The Southernmost Gaffe in the United States
Day 5: Somewhere Over Pololu
Day 6: Grounded in Hilo
Day 7: To Fly or Not to Fly
Day 8: Don't Make Me Go!

Escape From Cube Life (Hawaii, Day 1)

I know, I know -- I've been slacking about getting my Hawaii vacation up on site. I've actually been working on it on my Yahoo! Travel page, but I might as well serialize it here -- where most of you look -- as well. So now, without further delay, is the first day of my trip.

Yes, this first day doesn't sound as if it were worth the 2,000+-mile flight, but stick around. It gets better.

Most everyone who knows me knew how much I needed this trip. When my sister canceled on me, I searched frantically for a travel companion. Then, when three volunteers stepped forward just days before I left, I decided I wanted to go solo. I needed to go solo. After a long night mostly spent packing and making my home somewhat presentable to the most wonderful kitten-sitter ever, I was on my way, headed to the most remote islands on the planet for some much-needed R&R.

I wasn't prepared for what I saw out my plane window. The barren, lava-rock landscape was not what I'd had in mind when I'd pictured my tropical island getaway. "It looks like Mordor," the gay husband had told me, but I ignored him, knowing his penchant for exaggeration. He was right. (One of the few times I'll admit this.) But I also remembered that the Big Island is famous for its varied terrain and climatic (not climactic, as one guide book had led me to believe) zones, so I knew that lush landscapes still awaited.

After dealing with the interminable line at the rental car company (note to Dollar: Hire more staff, please), I hopped into my Sebring, cursing the lack of amenities I was used to in Eartha KITT, my beloved Prius, and tore off for my timeshare condo on Ali'i Drive. When I learned my room wouldn't be ready for another four hours, I peeled out again, heading south on Ali'i, the Big Island version of the guide books I'd come to trust on Oahu in hand.

I wasn't the only one to choose the Hawaii Revealed series as my guide book of choice. As I strolled past the parked cars lining Ali'i near Pahoehoe Beach Park, I saw numerous pairs of pedicured feet sticking out of windows, their owners reading the familiar light blue tomes describing all the insider knowledge they'd need for their trip to the largest of the Hawaiian islands. A quick dip in the surf and a visit to the adjacent Little Blue Church (formally known as St. Peter's and described by Hawaii Revealed as the most photographed church in the island chain) and I was on my way, this time to the terraced cliffs that contain the graves of numerous Hawaiians after an inter-island battle.

Before leaving LA, I'd researched some of the more popular restaurants of the island, and one in particular stuck out: Ba-Le, which several readers had described as having a wide array of vegetarian options. I happened upon it while looking for a local supermarket where I could stock up on provisions and soon found myself back in my timeshare eating an enormous amount of pho, the first vegetarian version of the popular Vietnamese soup I'd ever found. If you're in the islands, you must hunt down the nearest location. During my week in Hawaii, I ate there at least five times, including a well-planned pre-airport excursion for food to replace my in-flight meal.

Up route 180 I went, ascending to an elevation of 1000 feet as I explored the mountainside towns of Captain Cook, Holualoa, and several other burgs that blended together as I swerved and curved through rolling greenery, not far below the local cloud forest. Then back down to my temporary hale of Sea Village I went, exhausted already from my lack of rest, but intent on getting an early start on the next day. I hadn't yet ticked off many items on my to-do list, but the week was still young.

Also visited on Day 1:
Big Island Grill

Day 1: Escape From Cube Life
Day 2: Manta Heaven
Day 3: Paddling to My Death
Day 4: The Southernmost Gaffe in the United States
Day 5: Somewhere Over Pololu
Day 6: Grounded in Hilo
Day 7: To Fly or Not to Fly
Day 8: Don't Make Me Go!

More Kudos for "Great Whites of Isla Guadalupe"

Just got back from my trip to the Big Island (sans Big Sis -- photos and journal to come) to find a welcome surprise waiting in my mail box. Seems that my article on diving with great whites received an Honorable Mention for feature article in the 2007 Writer's Digest contest. Results haven't been posted online just yet, but I'm pretty sure they'll be available here when they are.

Considering how heartbroken I was to leave Hawaii behind, this news definitely made the transition back to everyday life much more bearable. Now, off to plan the next trip!

Note: "Great White of Guadalupe" was originally published on AOL Travel, but since AOL is inanely removing all of its content -- nice SEO move -- my article no longer lives there. Thus, I'm now pointing to TravelExplorations.com.

Big Island, Here I Come... Solo

So, my sister flaked on me for our trip this upcoming week, but I'm not about to let that get in the way of having a killer time on the Big Island. On the to-do list:

• Night dive with manta rays
  
• Helicopter ride over volcanoes
  
• Kayak sea caves (with, hopefully, no floaty dead things)
  
• Stroll a black-sand beach
  
• Stroll a green-sand beach
  
• Stroll a plaid-sand beach
  

I'm open to suggestions. Anyone know some stellar spots to recommend on the Big Island? Oh, and anyone (who's not lame) wanna come? You buy your flight and pay for incidentals, the hotel and car are for free!

Iloho Travel Photo Contest

Think you've got killer travel snaps? Then enter Iloho.com's travel photo contest. What the hell's Iloho? I asked myself the same thing when I got the press release, and the website itself offered few answers as to the oddity of its moniker. But there are prizes! If you're willing to give up copyright to your images, of course. Then again, are you really going to sell that pic of you mom on the lanai, Diamond Head looming in the background, to T+L? Yeah, probably not. So why not upload it here?

Some info on the contest:

There is no cap on the number of images competition entrants can upload and no parameters on inspiration; any landmark, natural or constructed, from any corner of the globe that generates an interesting photograph is eligible. The first one hundred users to submit ten pictures or more will automatically receive a 1GB USB stick or a travel sized iPod/MP3 speaker, perfect for photographers on their travels.

Back From a BLIFF-ful Weekend

It's been years since I've been up to Big Bear, and I honestly hadn't given the place much thought recently until a friend of mine mentioned his film was in the Big Bear International Film Festival (the BLIFF of the post title). So up I trekked, taking the back road, CA-38, since the front was closed due to massive fires.

I pulled into the small mountain town less than half an hour before the screening to find the sky brimming with smoke, which seemed to grow closer by the second. Should we screen or should we evacuate? We chose to screen, and I'm glad we did. After a night of cheese-filled buffets and Oktoberfest chicken dances, I said goodbye to my friend and the actors from the film, who were on their way back to Temecula for yet another fest. I, however, was left to roam the hillsides of Big Bear in search of Swiss-inspired chalets, alpine slides, and abandoned animals.

After a decent sandwich at The Mandoline, a picturesque chalet-styled restaurant on the edge of Big Bear Village, I figured it was time to make good on my promise to myself to take on the alpine slide. As I rode the gondola up to the top, I watched other riders whizz down at varying speeds, some so fast I'm surprised they didn't leap off the track. (Note to self: Any ride that makes you sign a liability waiver without letting you read the contract might be iffy.) My ride was much tamer than the daredevil whose wheels curled just over the lip of the slide as I rode the gondola above him, and I probably should have given it another whirl after getting the hang of it the first time. But instead, I opted to try to squeeze in some more mountain fun before having to return to Metropolis.

With the fire raging on the north side of the lake, I had to ditch the idea of kayaking at the Discovery Center and so instead opted for a visit to Moonridge, the area zoo. Now, I'm not a huge fan of zoos, and especially not local zoos, since the animals' confines tend to be a great deal smaller than those at cash cows like the San Diego Zoo or The Bronx Zoo. So I was hesitant to give my money to an organization that profits off the misfortune of animals. I'm happy to be proven wrong.

Moonridge, unlike most zoos, doesn't buy the animals they exhibit. Instead, they take in animals who might otherwise have to be euthanized, for reasons ranging from being unreleasable due to injuries (many human-inflicted) to being too tame to be able to fend for themselves. One of Moonridge's bobcats was found declawed, apparently the result of some stupid human trying to keep an unpredictable wild cat as a pet. All of the bald eagles, save one who is blind, were shooting victims. And the zoo's family of three grizzlies were victims of Yellowstone's three-strike rule, having ventured one to many times into human domain. They'd been scheduled to be put down until Harley Davidson came to the rescue and forked up the dough for their enclosure at Moonridge, where they've lived ever since. Mama Bear was named Harley in honor of the Hog organization's kindness.

After Moonridge, I reluctantly headed back down the hill, through the winding passes of San Bernardino National Forest, where I stopped repeatedly to snap shots of the misty -- not smoky -- hills that folded over each other in fading succession. Unfortunately, Blogger is currently being a pain in my ass and not letting me upload any other photos, which bums me out since I had some good ones. Alas, they'll have to wait. You'll have to settle for my lame-ass alpine slide vid.

Life Goal #681: Circumnavigate the Globe... Again

I'm in between trips again, just back from a weekend down in San Diego and about to depart for Pennsyltucky in two days to visit the family. All this recent traveling has got me to thinking: Just how can I travel more? I have friends flitting here and there about the globe, some sticking to one locale for extended times, others bouncing to the next destination every few days. And here I am locked into my cubicle with a measly two weeks of vacation. Something's gotta change.

After this trip to San Diego, I've finally found a reasonable goal to shoot for: circumnavigate the globe a second time. My first such journey was just over ten years ago, on the now-defunct Universe, the converted cargo freighter that served as Semester at Sea's floating campus for many a year. This weekend I returned to the ship for a celebration commemorating two of the program's most adamant supporters, and that bug to hit the open road, er, ocean bit so hard it left a mark. (Or that just might be a result of my gracelessness after a weekend of open bars.)

I've been trying my damnedest to sail again, this time on the luxuriously equipped M.V. Explorer, which makes the Universe look like a dinghy. I've been volunteering as the LA alumni chapter president for more than half a decade, went back to school for my master's (to better my chances), and have gone on nearly every reunion voyage since 1997. I'm on the verge of giving up hope.

Now I heard about a program called the Peace Boat. Although similar to SAS, in that you're on a student-laden vessel that's circling our fair planet, Peace Boat isn't academic, per se, but rather philanthropic, with a goal of spreading the greater word of peace. Right up my alley. Now, if someone can tell me how I get on this ship, I'd be much appreciative.

Best Countries to Move To

Give me sunshine. Give me fresh air. Give me a high GNP. While you're at it, give me easy access to wine, cheese, culture, and a lair in which to escape all of the above. But more than that, give me freedom from the insanity that is known as organized religion. I don't know who "organized" these numb nuts, but they sure as hell didn't adhere to Robert's Rules of Order, Dewey Decimals, or Martha Stewart's plastic-bin system. In fact, the whole approach looks rather messy from my vantage point. And, being a creature of orderliness and efficiency, I just won't have it. None of it.

So, when next I pack my backs for parts abroad or unknown, I'll use the following list as a guide as to where I might next hang my board and lay my head: Least Religious Countries

Santa Cruz: Spanish for "Isle of Corpses"? (Channel Islands, Day 1)

It seemed to bode well that we had quite the picture-perfect sailing day as our boat, Sun Soleil (repetitive, no?), motored through the marina at Channel Islands Harbor. The sun was high in the azure sky, a few billowy clouds floated about, a slight breeze carried us to the harbor inlet towards the open ocean. However, our first misfortune befell us before we'd even made it past the breakwater: Our craft's motor wouldn't start after we stopped for gas. Sally, whom Cap’n Gary had designated his first mate, theorized that our luck was due to the presence of bananas – a no-no at sea, she explained. An hour later and a visit from a Marina Sailing mechanic, we were finally on our way, crossing the slight chop under motor and sail to make up for the lost time.

We arrived at Pelican Bay around 6PM, where there were already a few other boats anchored. After ferrying our cap'n over to the Synapse, our sister boat, our crew of four dragged our dinghy ashore for a brief exploration. As we rowed to shore, we spotted a bleached white blob floating in the water and paddled near it until we realized it was a sea lion carcass, a foul-smelling one at that.

Once on shore, we found the small waterfall -- a trickle, really -- then headed in the opposite direction to Little Pelican, where we found a most unusual sight. Lying at the edge of the incoming tide was an enormous carcass -- shark or whale, we couldn't be sure. Chris, the resident expert on aquatic critters, having trained dolphins for several years, poked the enormous body with a stick trying to discern what the hell it could be. He estimated the body to be about 22 feet, but with most of the head already rotted and submerged under the beach's rocks, it was difficult to know how long it had been when it had been alive, let alone what it had been. We saw what we thought might be claspers, indicating shark, but we weren't aware of sharks in these waters that grew to such a length. Although great whites weren't uncommon, it didn't have the markings of the species, nor had either of us heard of one that big.

Despite our CSI attempts, we knew one thing for certain: The animal had died after being caught in a fishing net, the remains of which were still wrapped around its maggot-riddled body [video]. It had probably been dead for more than a few days, as evidenced by its distended belly, upon which sat a rock – either as a sign of respect from a previous passerby or at attempt to cause the carcass to explode, we weren’t sure. On the off chance that the corpse was that of the incredibly rare Megamouth shark, which I’d recently read had only been sighted or caught less than 50 times, Chris extracted some teeth from the corpse’s mouth. They were smaller than human teeth and pointed, not conical like that of a whale’s, so we kept them in the hopes we could ask an expert once we’d returned to the mainland.

We met up with the crew of the Synapse, showed them our odorous discovery, then hiked a nearby ridge for a view of the sunset before hiking back down the stairs of the erstwhile Pelican Bay hotel and paddling back to our vessel. After a dinner of mayonnaise-basted fish (I opted for a veggie burger), we headed topside for an unspoiled view of the Perseids, which delivered some jaw-dropping meteor-shower scenes.

Our first day in the "Galapagos of the Americas" and the only wildlife we’d spotted was of the dead, putrid-smelling variety.


Day 1: Santa Cruz: Spanish for "Isle of Corpses"?
Day 2: Stampede of the Sea Lions
Day 3: Anacapa: Unbagged

Never Heard of the San Juans? Pshaw.

It's been roughly four years since I read an article in National Geographic Adventure about the San Juan Islands, and the image the article painted for me was nothing like reality. Looking back, I don't know how I could have imagined such a darkly romantic locale existing in the real world; my imagination had conjured up some otherworldly realm that exists only in mid-century adventure serials, something akin to the Skull Island of the recent King Kong remake, only less violent and more bucolic. Oh, and without prehistoric vermin. Okay, very little like Skull Island, except in terms of cinematography and foliage.

During my short long weekend, I learned that the 700 islands of the San Juan archipelago have only one incorporated town, that being Friday Harbor, which also serves as the county seat. In just over 48 hours, I spotted at least six bald eagles, including one eaglet hopping about his aerie just outside the visitors center near the American Camp. I also learned that crime is such a rarity in the islands that few of the residents I met ever locked their doors; at least one claimed to not even own a set of keys to his residence.

Day 1: Escape From "Civilization"
Day 2: Water, Water Everywhere
Day 3: Farewell, Friday Harbor

Farewell, Friday Harbor (San Juan Islands, Day 3)

Sunday morning in Friday Harbor is about as laidback as any other day in the sleepy burg, with few of the shops shuttering for the day in the hopes that weekend tourists will bring along more business. Since checkout was 11AM, I dragged my new "no-weight" (yeah, right) suitcase down Spring Street then over to First, where I finally made it to the Whale Museum, which, unlike other museums with a form of "whale" in their name, actually promotes the conservation of the mammals, not the commercial whaling industry. The museum itself is small, befitting its island location, but is packed with lots of eco-friendly facts and specific information on the pods that roam the Salish Sea, which I learned to call this pocket of the Puget Sound.

I spent roughly an hour wandering the museum and taking in bits of info about individuals in the pods, then strolled over to Pelindaba Lavender, where I'd spent my first morning with Robin. With me I lugged my suitcase, which had weighed just over 20 pounds before I boarded the seaplane at Lake Union, but was now a tad heavier that I had an autographed copy of Patricia Schultz's best-selling and oft-copied 1,000 Places to See in the U.S.A. & Canada Before You Die, which Robin had gotten for me the night before when the author made an appearance at a Spring Street bookstore. The San Juans, of course, made it into Schultz's book, and the whole lot of her vetted places made for quite a heavy tome. I wondered if my suitcase would pass the test on the return flight.

At Pelindaba, I purchased some lavender pepper -- bringing the number of varieties of pepper in my kitchen up to seven (lemon, cayenne, white, black, red pepper flakes, chipotle, and my newbie) and ordered the same delicious flaky mushroom pie and ginger soda I'd enjoyed when I first landed. Then it was off to the docks to await my flight. I watched as a family who had chartered a plane to themselves tried to unload their gangly, lop-eared mutt onto to the dock, then waited another 45 minutes before my plane arrived. (I was still in denial that I could arrive just a quarter hour before I was to leave and had left plenty of buffer time, during which I caught up in my journal.)

All too soon I was back in the air, soaring over small islets and then landing next to the houseboats on Lake Union. When I landed, I realized I'd forgotten to heed the advice of the proprietor of the metaphysical shop where I'd purchased a replacement purse: "Take a rock with you when you leave. It'll call to you to return to the islands."I'd forgotten to pocket a rock, but as I scrolled through my camera at the photos I'd taken, I knew it wouldn't be necessary.

Day 1: Escape From "Civilization"
Day 2: Water, Water Everywhere
Day 3: Farewell, Friday Harbor

Water, Water Everywhere (San Juan Islands, Day 2)

After a rather restful sleep in my comfy bed at Elements Hotel & Spa, a few short blocks from downtown Friday Harbor, I boarded the 46-foot Western Prince in search of J- and K-Pods, who had eluded me the day before at Lime Kiln Point and had headed farther north than usual. Owner/captain Ivan told me how he'd come to own his business, after relocating from sunny San Diego to the rain shadow of the San Juans. (I also learned that the Weather Channel had recently visited to discuss this weather phenomenon with San Juan residents.) As we chatted on the bridge, Ivan took us past a small islet -- little more than a sandbar with a large piece of driftwood, really -- where a bald eagle perched majestically, as if posing for the tourists aboard, and a harbor seal bobbed in and out of the water in the foreground. Ivan displayed his facility for multi-tasking by manning both the radio and his cell phone in order to find the whereabouts of the pod, and moments later six-foot fins could be spotted in the distance.

Ruffles, the patriarch of J-Pod, led the way, along with Granny, believed to be either his mother or grandmother. We watched the pod make their way back toward San Juan Island, the bursts of their breathing still very audible even from the maritime-law-imposed distance of 100 yards (Ivan normally gave them berth of even more than that, just to be sure). My little point-and-shoot digital couldn't sufficiently capture their grace from that distance, but the memory remains.

Since I'd only had a scone before my three-hour tour, I trekked back into Friday Harbor with a grumbling belly and satisfied it at the Front Street Ale House, the local brewmaker conveniently located just strides from the dock. After downing a decent veggie burger and two well crafted pints, I headed back to my bed for a cat nap (I was still recovering from the 6-day visit with the niblings), then awoke in time to be chauffeured to the island's north shore by my gracious host Robin, from the visitors' bureau. We made a pitstop at Lakedale Resort, which was in the midst of prepping for a lakeside wedding that evening and so was decked out in rustic splendor.

After our drop-in, we headed up to Roche Harbor, a favorite vacation spot of both Teddy Roosevelt and John Wayne. Roche Harbor is less resort and more "community," as the property manager explained it, and I'd agree -- not only because of his convincing stories but because of the palpable aura that surrounds the many conjoined properties. Families roam the grounds -- sculpture garden, marina, artists' bazaar, mausoleum trail -- as if it were part of their own estates, and indeed some may think it is, since they've been returning to the same vacation spot for decades -- the same week and cabin each year, next to the same family who does likewise.

After getting an abbreviated tour and history lesson (Note: Is this really the only privately owned Catholic chapel in the country?), I hopped into a San Juan Safaris kayak for a sunset tour around the island. I was paired with a high school student who, from what I could gather, had never traveled far from his Ohio hometown, based on his frequent remarks ("This is the first time I've seen a real crab." "I've never kayaked before." "Are those mountains real?"). When our path put me downwind, I endured the spray from his paddles, but cringed whenever he spat chaw over the side. He was friendly enough though, and obliged by taking over all paddling duties whenever the urge to take a photo struck.

Although we didn't have the colorful sunset we'd hoped -- we were, in fact, drizzled on -- we were rewarded with several wildlife encounters, including a close encounter with a harbor seal and her pup that brought us within feet of both. We had stopped paddling as soon as we realized they were in our path, and with the current at our backs, we soon drifted so close that when Mom opened her eyes, she quickly shooed her charge underwater and both disappeared. Not long later, we spotted not one but two bald eagles communing in a tree, bringing my baldy tally to five thus far on the trip.

The San Juans being the laidback place they are, not an eyebrow raised when I strolled into the romantically lit dining room of McMillin's with the bottoms of my khakis drenched. Sam, Robin's step-son and long-time employee of the Roche Harbor properties, laid out the fixin's, including a deliciously bold, local red wine and a cheese plate that made me rethink my aversion to blue cheeses. Mushrooms, raspberry salad, and veggie-filled lasagna stretched my stomach to its limits -- and dessert was still to come. Since Robin and I had opted for creme brulee the night before, we went all out this time with chocolate decadence. As she drove me back to my hotel, I was already falling into a food coma. From the little I'd sampled of Seattle cuisine, I have to say the San Juans beat the Northwest's metropolis hands down.

Day 1: Escape From "Civilization"
Day 2: Water, Water Everywhere
Day 3: Farewell, Friday Harbor

Escape From "Civilization" (San Juan Islands, Day 1)

I needed this getaway. Hell, I needed any getaway, but I was overly fortunate that the San Juans fell nicely into my itinerary, due to a business trip in Seattle. I'd had the islands on my travel to-do list for four years, so I didn't even mind waking at the butt-crack of dawn to catch a seaplane (my first) to Friday Harbor.
I'd fantasized about what this island chain would be like, but I was way off. It wasn't the romantically gloomy, fog-enshrouded archipelago my imagination had cobbled up, but the remote world I discovered was just as refreshing, and in some ways even more singular. Where else can you find a community so safe that residents don't even own keys to their homes? What other destination boasts a national park whose sole purpose is whale watching? Such peculiarities seem downright normal the moment you set foot on any one of the isles.

My trip began with a moped rental from Susie's, which brought back memories of my dearly departed Kymco scooter (I'd curse the bastards who stole it, but that would be against the islands' nature) as I tooled around the inner portion of San Juan, the most populated of the islands and the only one with an incorporated village (Friday Harbor). The darkly wooded interior I'd imagined was soon replaced with golden rolling fields reminiscent of Northern Europe, complete with neatly rolled bales of hay wafting warm scents in the afternoon sun. At the start of my jaunt, I was joined by a dragonfly of iridescent blue, who criss-crossed my moped's path in a game of chicken, as if mocking my measly 50cc horsepower. Before the buzz of his wings had even been swallowed by the breeze, a bald eagle soared mere yards over my helmet, and I swear his golden eye was checking me out. Then, as if on cue, a small private aircraft swooped down to land on the airstrip of the farm I was passing.

Down to Cattle Point Lighthouse I puttered, snapping photos of hay rolls, quaint farm steads, and the overly fragrant False Bay, where the deep salt scent lured me though the flies seemed to flee in swarms. At the park's visitors' center, I did as Susie suggested and asked the ranger about the eaglet that had recently been spotted. Sure enough, in the branches outside the building was a nest, stocked with one brown-feathered baby whom the rangers, an elderly couple who delighted in sharing their information of the park, had named "Lucky." I shared their binoculars with the other visitors of the moment, all of us taking turns to watch Lucky hop about the branches outside her aerie.

After strolling the rocky shores of Fourth of July and South beaches, I returned to the road and headed inland for Pelindaba Lavender Farms, which I smelled before even spotting the undulating fields of purple. I would have visited longer, but I had to return my scooter to Susie by 6PM or it would turn into a pumpkin, and I had yet to hit the main attraction: Lime Kiln Park, the aforementioned orca-viewing grounds. Alas, no orcas that day, although the view of my second lighthouse in less than three hours and the sparkling Haro Strait were sights unto themselves. A glance at my cellphone told me that I had less than an hour to make it clear across the island and, knowing my vehicle's aversion to inclines steeper than an anthill and not knowing just how far "clear across the island" actually was, I hightailed it back down Bailer Hill Road, with far fewer photo pitstops than on the way out. When I returned my two-wheeled steed to Susie, she was surprised that I was so early, and when I glanced at my cellphone again, I saw that I was a full hour ahead. Ah, those tricky cell towers! My phone had been picking up Canadian service on the west side of the island, and Canucks don't observe daylight savings.

The cellular mishap was actually a blessing in disguise, because I now had time for a catnap before my dinner at Duck Soup Inn, whose locally grown produce made my meal a standout, especially after the overpriced, overhyped dinner I'd had in Seattle the night before. I would have asked chef/owner Gretchen for the recipe for her simple but elegantly presented twice-baked corn souffle, but I know I would only have mangled it, so it's for the best.

When I finally put my head to the pillow, I was as far away from my life in Los Angeles as I could have dreamed.

Day 1: Escape From "Civilization"
Day 2: Water, Water Everywhere
Day 3: Farewell, Friday Harbor

Sin Chicas, Silencio (Los Angeles, Day 7)

My cell phone is broken. A conspicous brown spot has appeared on the backseat of my once spotless six-month-old car. A fine film of sand covers the entire flooring surface of my home. There's gum on my wall.

But quiet has returned to my home. I'm not exactly sure how I feel about that. I wouldn't necessarily say that quiet is better.

When I said goodbye to the chicas at the airport, I felt unexpectedly choked up. I was going to miss their crazy ramen songs and impersonations of impersonations of celebrities. I would no longer be peppered with questions about politics, environmentalism, or Greek mythology in the most unusual of surroundings. I'd also have to go back to work, dagnabbit.

I hope the chicas have taken with them lots of memories that they'll cherish for years to come. For me, my favorite memory was when the two embraced me out of nowhere and stared up at me with impish grins. When I asked what they were up to, they just shrugged and said, "Nothing, we just wanted to hug you."

"I'm going to enjoy this moment," I said gazing down at them as they snuggled closer while still wriggling with pre-teen antsiness. "In a few years, you're going to hate me." Why is that? they asked, such a thought still inconceivable. "Because most teenagers have disdain" -- they'd already heard this word many times on their trip -- "for adults. I did."

"That won't happen," Micaela insisted, shaking her head emphatically. "You're just a big kid."

I'll remind her of that sentence the first time she rolls her eyes when I offer advice. Oh, wait...

Day 1: Las Super Chicas Invade LA
Day 2: Santa Monica and the Hollywood Bowl
Day 3: Raging Waters, Raging Chicas
Day 4: Disneyland and California Misadventure
Day 5: I Think They're Turning Japanese
Day 6: El Capitan, La Brea Tar Pits, Friends and Family
Day 7: Sin Chicas, Silencio

El Capitan, La Brea Tar Pits, Friends and Family (Los Angeles, Day 6)

Las Super Chicas are slowing down, their seemingly limitless energy giving way to sleeping in and returning home early to see what movie Aunt Jenn can surprise them with next. We started our day late, with breakfast at my old haunt, Jinky's in Santa Monica, where we met up with the notorious Lenatic and her outrageous cackle. After scarfing our brunch ("I can't believe how much these two eat!" exclaimed a not-easily-impressed Lena), las super chicas were introduced to Rocky McDoodle, Lena's trusty red chow.

Next we headed across town to the La Brea Tar Pits (which translates, redundantly, as "The the tar tar pits"). The chicas couldn't believe that there was still trouble brewing beneath the surface, as evidenced by the gurgling bubbles -- and the stench. We watched the mammoth statues float on the tarry surface, then headed over to the excavation pit, where workers painstakingly cleared fossil specimens one speck of dust at a time. Not exactly a dream job for any of the three ADD super chicas.

A quick drive in Eartha KITT (our beloved chariot) brought us back to Hollywood and Highland, where we parked and headed through the maddened crowd of muggles awaiting the arrival of the stars of the Harry Potter franchise. Las super chicas had no interest in anything Potter, even though the eldest is, like, a huge fan and would have been thrilled to catch a real-life glimpse of any of the actors. Alas, she had to settle for watching the tops of their heads bob through the Hollywood Boulevard crowd before ducking into the El Capitan for the Ratatouillespectacle, where my friend Marilyn joined us belatedly. The pre-show consisted of the requisite organ playing followed by several live dance numbers starring some of the most popular Disney characters. The film itself didn't impress the younger chicas as much as the pre-show and the theater itself.

We had a few minutes to duck into stores for souvenirs, then, because we hadn't eaten enough all day, we headed to the Valley to meet up with some of Jessica's family and some of my friends. Along the way, we picked up my pal McK, whom the girls fell in love with due to their mutual tastes in music and television (Avril Lavigne, American Idol, etc.). Once at the Pomorodoin Sherman Oaks, we enjoyed a lovely meal with Jessica's aunt, uncle, and cousins, as well as my surrogate family, Julie and Tyler. As McK watched the girls' ramen dance and non-stop chatter, he turned to me and said, "You've survived five days of this?" His is a lifestyle that moves at a much slower pace than water slides and roller coasters.

After bidding farewell to blood and surrogate families alike, we traveled over the Hollywood Hills to return McK to his home, las super chicas entertaining from the backseat by regurgitating various pop-culture shows. They then asked the question that would seal McK, who knew the answer, as their favorite person of the whole trip. "Do you know where Paris Hilton lives?" Las super chicas claim to hate Paris, but their unwavering fascination with her and their desire to spend money on merchadise with her likeness say otherwise. Now they insisted that their eagerness to see the Hilton homestead was because they wanted to toss eggs, which wasn't about to happen on my watch. We did, however, drive by 1467 N. Kings Road, while the girls protested ever more loudly how much they despised the heiress. Yeah, okay.

After dropping McK home, we returned to Playa del Rey and I forced the girls to shower -- no way were they waking me at 5:30AM with showers and hair dryers. While one cleaned up, the other, supposedly, packed, but there were still personal belongings strewn about the living room when we finally turned out the lights and the last of the giggles were suppressed.

Video: The Ramen Dance


Day 1: Las Super Chicas Invade LA
Day 2: Santa Monica and the Hollywood Bowl
Day 3: Raging Waters, Raging Chicas
Day 4: Disneyland and California Misadventure
Day 5: I Think They're Turning Japanese
Day 6: El Capitan, La Brea Tar Pits, Friends and Family
Day 7: Sin Chicas, Silencio

I Think They're Turning Japanese (Los Angeles, Day 5)

"Hello, my name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die." This is the movie quote du jour that las chicas learned.

We spent a rather relaxing day, compared to the previous ones. My shark-diving pal Patric hooked me up with his fishing buddy at the Aquarium of the Pacific, where we got a behind-the-scenes tour. We started out with an up-close shark feeding, where bull sharks, zebra sharks, sawfish, and other toothy pelagics swirled about to get their daily nibbles. Then Steve took us back to the main quarantine area, where we saw animals awaiting their turn to be put on exhibit, or simply enjoying life as they couldn't out in the open ocean. One in particular was a blind sea lion, who would have been Purina shark chow himself had he not been taken into captivity.

We got quick peeks at the animal food prep area, the diver staging area, and then onto the above-tank viewing area, where we looked down upon the ginormous exhibition tanks that all the hoi polloi could see only from below. Then Steve asked what the chicas' favorite animal is, to which they answered, "Sea horses!" Moments later, the girls' grins were wider than a porpoise's as they saw the hundreds of miniature sea horses, some less than a day old, galloping around in their tanks. We even saw leafy and weedy sea dragons, relatives to the sea horses but more like silky plants, say las chicas. Perhaps the thoughts of ramen are finally getting to them: Like Japanese tourists, they viewed much of the aquarium through the camera viewfinders on their cell phones.

After our VIP treatment, we headed back to join the masses, this time viewing the exhibits with the commoners. The girls were excited to finally meet Rungus, the binturong I'd told them smells like popcorn and looks like a cross between a cat and a monkey, complete with whiskers and prehensile tail. But their favorite part was the lorikeet exhibit, where dozens of the brightly colored birds fly free in an enclosure, even landing on guests bearing cups of nectar. Las chicas so adored this part of the aquarium that we returned after the first movie, and skipped a longer viewing of the puffins and sea otters. Actually, I take that back. Their favorite part of the aquarium was, of course, the gift shop, where they spent the better part of 40 minutes.

We strolled the boardwalk a little bit, taking in such sites as the Queen Mary and lighthouse in the distance. Then we headed north to sate their hunger for the legendary ramen, which they haven't been able to get out of their heads ever since I mentioned it the first day. They asked what flavors were better, Oriental or Roast Chicken, and they were shocked to learn that those would not be options at Ramenya. When they got the menu, they had trouble deciding what they wanted, unable to find anything that would satisfy them both, since they'd be sharing the vat of soup between them. When the bowls finally arrived, they couldn't believe how big they were. The chicas' stomachs had finally met their match.

Then home we headed for a viewing of The Princess Bride, which went over well, despite having to rewind multiple times so they could pick up on key plot points. Their questioning and interruptions were nicely complemented by those of the grandson in the film, whom they wisely chose not to criticize.

Now they're performing minor surgery on each other's blisters in preparation for an early night to bed. Then they'll have to produce either a thank-you note (for Patric and Steve) or a journal entry before they get their nightly bedtime myth, which they now beg for.

Only one day left, and still a few fun places to squeeze in.

Videos:
Sea Horses and Cell Phones
Coral Crab Research
Sharks-to-Be

Day 1: Las Super Chicas Invade LA
Day 2: Santa Monica and the Hollywood Bowl
Day 3: Raging Waters, Raging Chicas
Day 4: Disneyland and California Misadventure
Day 5: I Think They're Turning Japanese
Day 6: El Capitan, La Brea Tar Pits, Friends and Family
Day 7: Sin Chicas, Silencio

Disneyland and California Misadventure (Los Angeles, Day 4)

I bet someone could make a bazillion dollars selling a book on how to kill time on theme park lines. For me, the saving grace for these hours in the sun has been that I've been rereading Edith Hamilton's Mythology and regurgitating while we queue up behind 40,000 other park visitors. Who knew that stories 2,000 years old could keep kids entertained? Since I used up most of the stories at Raging Waters, I had to fall back on the Trojan war. So yesterday, Las Super Chicas (they've been upgraded from the pedestrian "Las Chicas") learned about Ulysses and the great wooden horse and, when those stories were over, the great wooden rabbit from Monty Python and the Holy Grail. (When they get back, ask them what the three most common sources for literal allusions are. I don't think they've realized they're actually begging to hear stories that they're going to complain about reading in school.)

In the mornings, the Super-Slow Chicas take their sweet time writing in their journals (they're currently two days behind), showering (my whole home smells like eau de theme park), and marrying their Tamagotchis. When we finally get moving a few hours later, they look at me as if I'm the cause for our tardiness. Since I'm not big on repeating myself, I'll stand near the door without opening it while they gaze up at me with eyes that say, "I know we're forgetting something. But we can't remember what!" Then Jessica will remember that the butter is still out or Micaela will run back to scoop a wet towel off the couch. After a few more minutes of my silent game, we're finally ready to leave.

Yesterday's culinary adventure was Thai, which Micaela still calls "thigh" but which she now loves. (They both still beg me to take them to "raymon," aka ramen.) First course: chicken-stuffed wontons with semi-spicy Thai sweet sauce. Verdict: Empty plate in less than four minutes. Second course: LSC shared their own concoction of glass noodles, broccoli, and chicken, having balked at the crazy Thai veggies listed on the menu. They knocked all this back with a shared Thai iced tea, which Jessica declared "smoke in a glass." Third course: coconut sticky rice and fresh mango. Overall verdict on Thai: "I don't think they have this in Connecticut," said Jessica. I assured them there was indeed Thai in the Constitution State, but the mango might not be as fresh.

Then we were off for the glorious kingdom of Anaheim. Las Super-Slow Chicas made insinuations that we weren't going to have enough time at the park, since it was after three. But seeing how tired they'd been the day before after only five hours at Raging Waters, I thought this would be the best course of action, now that the hottest part of the day was over and we'd be safely out of the triple digits on the thermometer.

On Disneyland's Main Street, I pointed out the only permanent religious object in the whole park: a mezzuzah. Stories vary as to why it's there, but I thought the kids would get a kick out of it.

After waiting in line for our 200th ride, Micaela commented that "people are looking at us." No kidding. It may have been something to do with the fact I was quite probably the only person in the park entertaining her charges with ancient mythology. Or perhaps it was because those around us had overheard my decree that any chica who does acrobatics inline or who bumps into a stranger gets flicked in the forehead. I could see total strangers mentally willing the chicas to forget their surroundings so they would bump into the disaffected emo boy behind us or the super-cute surfer boy in front -- everyone wanted to see some flickin' action. And guess who finally gave them the satisfaction. Yup, none other than Super-Chica Haas, who ran head-on into the stringbean surfer, who in turn looked both excited to see what would happen and embarrassed that he'd been part of the cause. When Micaela ducked her head to keep from getting flicked, she instead received two sharp pinches to the gluteus maximus (or "glucius maximus," as she calls it).

Micaela's look of disdain is legendary, perhaps even more so than the story of the Trojan horse. But one way to wipe it from her smarmy face is to threaten to record it forever with a camera. Presto! Instant giggles.

After just three days, Las Super Chicas are already speaking like me (prepare yourselves, parents). They've taken my habit of switching around words (e.g., "muffins of English") to create their own sayings, my favorite being Jessica's "pul of ap" for "apples." They've also taken up singing songs about my cats, using "fluffy" as a synonym for "great," and talking like Pee-Wee Herman (sorry for that last one).

Screaming on the Maliboomer

Day 1: Las Super Chicas Invade LA
Day 2: Santa Monica and the Hollywood Bowl
Day 3: Raging Waters, Raging Chicas
Day 4: Disneyland and California Misadventure
Day 5: I Think They're Turning Japanese
Day 6: El Capitan, La Brea Tar Pits, Friends and Family
Day 7: Sin Chicas, Silencio

Raging Waters, Raging Chicas (Los Angeles, Day 3)

America's Funniest Home Videos would do well to place a permanent camera on the Flowrider attraction at Raging Waters. As we waited in line, those before us provided some much-needed diversion in the 95-degree Valley heat, but it was two tweens in particular who had the crowd in hysterics. Micaela lasted a few seconds before she was tossed back like a ragdoll in the spray. Jessica lasted a little longer, but got caught up in an eddy where she spun around like a dreidel before her board got sucked away.

Had I not hurt myself after the very first ride (slipping on a mat), I would have tried the Flowrider, too, which I'm sure would have made for footage that would have kept Ilene in hysterics at least until Micaela's high school graduation. But, alas, I had to sit out a few rides until my pulled muscle felt a tad better, then I rejoined the girls in aquatic antics.

While waiting on a ride with Poseidon as the mascot, I began telling las chicas some Greek myths, mainly to keep them from singing, as they had on the other lines, and also to keep them from trying line acrobatics on the crowd-control barriers. They couldn't get enough of the stories, so if we have a chance, I'll stop by a bookstore and see if I can find a book that might interest them. I considered renting Clash of the Titans, but I don't think they'd be able to get past the ancient animation style, so they'd probably bore quickly.




Jessica: Take 1
Micaela (Picking a Wedgie): Take 2
Jessica: You Have to See It to Believe It
Micaela: Revenge of the Flowrider
Las Chicas Gritando

Day 1: Las Super Chicas Invade LA
Day 2: Santa Monica and the Hollywood Bowl
Day 3: Raging Waters, Raging Chicas
Day 4: Disneyland and California Misadventure
Day 5: I Think They're Turning Japanese
Day 6: El Capitan, La Brea Tar Pits, Friends and Family
Day 7: Sin Chicas, Silencio

Las Super Chicas in Santa Monica and at the Hollywood Bowl (Los Angeles, Day 2)

We started off the day way early -- too early, some might say. The girls, still jetlagged, awoke before 6AM, an inhuman time by my standards, but they were good and kept as quiet as possible. We finished watching our movie from the night before, then got ready to hit the beach. First we headed to the Santa Monica Farmers' Market to stock up on supplies for the Hollywood Bowl later that evening. Jessica and Micaela couldn't believe they were actually allowed to sample items, and we spent quite a bit of time at one cheese stall in particular, trying several varieties of gouda, from mild to sharp, jalapeno to herbs & spices (we bought the medium). I also introduced them to the best darn guac in the country, Holy Guacamole, and the two loved it so much that we bought a container for our picnic. Cheremoya, kumquats, and a slew of other fruits and veggies were also sampled.

Although they opted not to try the savory crepes, we did go back to Acadie for dessert (strawberry and chocolate crepes), after trying Baja Fresh, where we lined up every type of salsa available for a taste test. Since we only had a limited amount of time (and energy), I gave them a choice between visiting the Santa Monica Pier, with its overpriced and lame rides, or Venice Beach. All I had to do was say "shopping" and the latter was chosen. After driving around for half an hour looking for a spot (no way was I going to pay $30 to park, even on the Fourth), we left Eartha Kitt (my beloved Prius) in the Venice Canals, where we happened upon a makeshift boat parade, including two women dressed as ducks tossing water balloons at the crowd.

We made our way down to the beach, ogling the weirdos at Muscle Beach and ducking into a few vendor stalls to check out t-shirts. After romping in the waves for a little under an hour, they returned to the blankets where we took a power nap under a hazy Venice sky. Before heading back to Eartha Kitt, the girls got henna tattoos, fretting the whole walk back to the car about how much their designs were smudging.

Next stop: The Grove and the historic Fairfax Farmers' Market, where we picked up some bread for our cheese, more cheese (fresh mozzarella), chips for the guac, and a few other sundries. We watched as crowds darted out of the way of the The Grove's two-story trolley ("A lawsuit waiting to happen," says my friend Justin), then headed to Hollywood and Highland, where las chicas stuck their fingers and feet in the prints of every movie star available, even the ones they didn't know. We saw Olivia Newton-John and John Travolta's stars just feet away from each other on the Walk of Fame (yesterday we passed Venice High School, which acted as Rydell High in both Grease films), strolled past the Kodak Theatre, peeked into the Babylonian Court, then headed to the shuttles, which chauffeured our tired butts up the hill to the Bowl. There las chicas learned what I meant about "stacked parking" and finally understood why I didn't want to park at the Bowl itself.

We picnicked outside the amphitheater, where I knew there would be more space than in the benches, then heard the warning shot of fireworks that announced the start of the show. After hiking further up the hill (they really should give us crampons), we found our seats and settled in for a brisk night under the Hollywood stars. I could tell the girls weren't thrilled by the classical first half, which was dedicated to John Wayne on his 100th birthday. Micaela even cracked, "They keep talking about this 'inspirational' guy, but I have no idea who he is," even though she had her hands in his prints only two hours earlier. I filled them in a bit on The Duke, then gave up when the second half was announced and "Who's Gene Autry?" became the new chant. I threatened them with watching old movies the rest of the trip if they didn't sit still the rest of the concert. They enjoyed the second half more, with Riders in the Sky, the slaphappy cowboy troupe who wrote songs for Toy Story ("Woody's Round-Up") and several other movies, and who had a better sense of humor than the wooden mannequin who'd hosted the first part. Jessica fell asleep towards the end but woke up to witness "the best fireworks ever" (per Micaela).

Needless to say, they were both asleep before the lights went out at home, their final words being, "Are we going to Disney tomorrow?" Uh, no.


Day 1: Las Super Chicas Invade LA
Day 2: Santa Monica and the Hollywood Bowl
Day 3: Raging Waters, Raging Chicas
Day 4: Disneyland and California Misadventure
Day 5: I Think They're Turning Japanese
Day 6: El Capitan, La Brea Tar Pits, Friends and Family
Day 7: Sin Chicas, Silencio

Las Super Chicas Invade LA (Los Angeles, Day 1)

Las chicas landed in the sweltering Valley, skipping LAX for the more compact Burbank airport. After relating their ordeal of the overly attentive woman in the seat next to them (and having said woman almost overhear), Micaela and Jessica mentioned how they'd never before walked off a plane onto the tarmac or seen an outdoor luggage carousel.

We headed over to It's a Wrap, a second-hand store that sells clothing from TV and movie sets, but it didn't have the clothes labeled with the stars who'd worn the duds so we left pretty quickly. A few miles later we were at the Disney lot, which was pretty empty since it was July 3, which meant no lines at the commissary store. We strolled past sound stages and various historical Disney sites, then realized our stomachs were rumbling. At first we considered getting Mexican, but then, not wanting to drive all the way to Venice before eating, I remembered my favorite Japanese curry restaurant, Blue Marlin.

Las chicas dove into the medium-spicy curry and liked the spaghetti with wild vegetables and soy-butter sauce, but their favorite was the creamy risotto. Jessica liked the sauce so much that she ate a mushroom covered in it, then went on to try bok choy. I thought they were stuffed to the gills, but somehow they still had room for tempura ice cream, which was polished off in a matter of seconds.

Across the street we explored the Japanese market, where the girls squealed when they saw all the crazy dried fish products. We bought some candy and fruit-flavored sodas, then headed to the grocery store to stock up for breakfast. The girls couldn't believe the size of Ralphs, and when I told them there are bigger supermarkets, their eyes grew wide. With our English muffins and fruit, we then headed home, since we were all pooped. Halfway through a movie (Overboard), we gave up and hit the hay, intent on getting a headstart on the next day.


Day 1: Las Super Chicas Invade LA
Day 2: Santa Monica and the Hollywood Bowl
Day 3: Raging Waters, Raging Chicas
Day 4: Disneyland and California Misadventure
Day 5: I Think They're Turning Japanese
Day 6: El Capitan, La Brea Tar Pits, Friends and Family
Day 7: Sin Chicas, Silencio

Hogwarts, Take Me Away

I have to wait until when? Sheesh, someone's got to learn to build their theme parks a little faster. How's a gal supposed to keep her wizardly robes on waiting for the Harry Potter-themed park to open in 2009 -- late 2009 at that?

I'd always wished they'd open a Goonies theme park, complete with water slide and pirate ship playground, but no one's seen fit to do so yet. And now that that flick's more than 20 years old, I bet some studio is floating the idea for a sacreligious remake.

Hawaii With the Sis

I'm in the midst of planning my first trip in more than 10 years with big sis Ilene. We hit Nassau, Bahamas, a dozen years ago, right before I boarded the ship for Semester at Sea, and although we've been on a trip or two since, we've always had a gaggle of pint-sized tag-alongs. Our trip to the Big Island will be our first sister-only vacation since we had the pleasure of finding a dead cockroach in our toothbrush holder at the Radisson Cable Beach in January 1995.

Got some tips on what we should do on Hawaii? I've already come up with some ideas, but I'm open to suggestions. Keep in mind that sis no longer enjoys sunbathing and won't join me on such excursions as the night dive with manta rays. I'm still trying to coax her into a helicopter ride over lava fields.

Ilene enjoys: shopping, horseback riding, dining, shopping, making fun of me, massages, shopping, and the occasional museum.

I enjoy: hiking, diving, putting my life in peril, dining, making fun of her, and the occasional museum.

Ideas? We'd love to hear them.

Islands in the Sun

I love islands. Perhaps it's because I grew up on one, Long Island, where I spent the first 18 years of my life never further than 20 miles from the beach. My favorite part of Long Island, ironically, is an island off the coast of itself, Fire Island, which is known to most, including Long Islanders, as a gay haven, but has so much more to offer than day-glo Speedos.

After LI, I moved to Manhattan, another island, and one that is also on many travelers' "best" lists. (One not-so-loved NY island is Staten Island, which most New Yorkers either don't realize is part of the Empire State, or they refuse to admit it is, preferring to credit it to New Jersey. In my nearly two decades living in NY, the only time I ever went to Staten Island -- besides driving through it to get elsewhere -- was for a softball game. I didn't even stick around for the free beer afterward. That should tell you something.)

Why my sudden island fever? Conde Nast Traveler recently posted its list of favorite islands, a globe-trotting array of tropical and verdant outposts that even some geography whizzes may not have heard of. Let's recap:

• Santorini, Greece
  
• Cocoa Island, Maldives
  
• Mount Desert, Maine
  
• Capri, Italy
  
• Kauai, Hawaii
  
• Vancouver Island, British Columbia
  
• Anguilla
  
• Bora Bora, French Polynesia
  
• Virgin Gorda, British Virgin Islands
  
• Florianópolis, Santa Catarina, Brazil

Now, I have to admit, as an island lover, I've been to my share of ocean keys, but of the above list, I've only been to Vancouver Island, the least tropical of them all. Which means I don't really have much expertise on the above, but I do have to say, I know of some damn good islands worthy of mentioning.

• Fire Island Little red wagons, gorgeous coastal architecture, some of the finest sand I've ever stuck my toes in -- what's not to love? The urge to visit once struck me so hard that I drove from Westchester County to Brooklyn, threw two friends into a car with me, and forced them to drive the additional hour to the ferry in Bay Shore, which added an additional 45 minutes to our trek. No sooner had we landed on the beach than the skies opened up and forced us to seek refuge in one of the open-air restaurants in the main town of Ocean Beach. But even that visit was worth the trouble. I fell in love with Fire Island so much that I skipped my prom and went for the weekend instead. I could write pages about the place, but there are other islands to discover. (Note to self: Plan trip back east and drag friends to Fire Island.)
  
  
• Morro de São Paulo, Bahia, Brazil Perhaps it's nostalgia that makes Morro shine in my memory: I celebrated my 21st birthday there, in various stages of consciousness. After a night of partying, I celebrated -- and almost terminated -- my time on the planet by jumping off a cliff, before realizing I'd now have to climb back up. (I believe I swam around and found a way on shore.) Like Fire Island, Morro had no cars, and the lifestyle was summed up by the most popular bar on the beach: the Bob Marley Bar.
  
  
• Catalina The SoCal island recently took a beating from some nasty fires, but the majority of Avalon escaped unscathed, thankfully. I've been told that the harbor and picturesque hillsides rival those of Capri, but I bet the Italian isle doesn't have buffalo roaming its beaches.
  
  
• Oahu I haven't yet visited any of the other former Sandwich Islands, but if Oahu is the "least attractive," as most people have told me, then the others must be paradise. Just because there's a city, people, doesn't mean it's ugly. And I'd trade a smooth commute on the 405 for bumper-to-bumper traffic on the Pali Highway any day if it means I can return to Manoa Falls, Kaneohe Bay, or Kailua.
  

Gadling also mentions a few of their own favorite islands. The San Juans and Channel Islands have been on my to-do list for some time now. Now, if only I could wrangle the vacation time to make island hopping a little more convenient.

Jenna 2, Colorado 1

About two years ago, I accepted a friend's offer to accompany him and his pals on a
kayaking trip on the Colorado River. Less than an hour into the trip, I'd fallen on a slippery rock and ended up with a hairline fracture in my arm that put me out of commission. I spent the rest of the weekend being chauffeured down the lazily meandering river in a two-man kayak, a beer trailing in the cool wake. Not a bad weekend, by any means, but I was determined to paddle that damn river myself.

And so, I returned. And this trip more than made up for the last, not because I didn't have fun the previous go-round, but because I earned it this time, dammit.

The first day started off pleasant enough. The river was as peaceful as I remembered, so peaceful, in fact, that I hardly had to paddle, but rather just steered my craft away from the occassional rock or towards a put-in where my camping companions had pointed out a hot spring. At Gold Strike Canyon, the scene of my injury from the previous trip, we gamboled in newly created thermal pools, snapped shots of Seussian flora spawning in the warm waters, and bathed in natural showers that cascaded off the rock walls.

On we floated. Cormorants skimmed the water yards from our craft, while swallows flitted in the crevices of the red rock walls that enclosed us on either side. Up above, the sky shone a bright blue, with the occassional cottony cloud lolling by. Two miles downriver, and just over four miles from our launch point at the base of the Hoover Dam, we came ashore at Arizona Hot Springs, where we luxuriated in a sandbagged bath with several other groups who had stopped for the night. The sun was high. The sky was clear. We couldn't have asked for a better weekend.

That is, until we awoke the next morning, our bodies and sleeping bags covered in a fine mist of grit from the winds that had picked up during the night while we were sleeping alfresco, without tents. When one of my companions spied the river, she wondered aloud why it was flowing in the other direction. The sight didn't bode well. To top it off, my camera had run out of batteries, which meant not only would I not be able to snap shots the rest of the river portion of the trip, but I'd also have to go camera-free during the second leg, when we stayed in the uber-picturesque Valley of Fire. I cursed myself for buying an extra memory card rather than a battery.

There was no option but to paddle downriver, despite the fact that the unrelenting gusts of wind made it seem as if we were paddling upriver. Seven miles ahead lay Willow Beach, where we were to meet our outfitters by mid-afternoon. Bundled from head to toe in rain garments, we trudged forward, occassionally looking for bighorn sheep. Floating with the current wasn't an option this time; if we broke stroke for even a moment, the wind and current would begin pushing us back almost immediately.

Several hours later, we spied Willow Beach up ahead. As soon as I saw our destination, my muscles decided to give in to fatigue. Although the stronger paddlers had offered to tow me at various points during the day, I was determined to forge ahead on my own steam. With no injury to hold me back, I didn't have an excuse for a kayak chauffeur, nor did I want one. The last 200 yards or so were the roughest of the journey, but somehow I made it ashore, my muscles quivering.

As our outfitters loaded our crafts onto the trailer, I overheard a guide from another group tell his clients that it had been the roughest day on the river he'd seen in a long time. Knowing that made it feel as if I'd finally conquered the Colorado, having paddled enough for both my trips combined. And, damn, it was worth it.

Only next time, I'll pack extra camera batteries.

How Well Traveled Are You?

Dang, this is biased. But, like my compulsion to copyedit Chinese menus, I can't help myself when I see one of these quizzes. I just have to do it.

Here's what Blogthings has to say about how traveled I am:

Your Travel Profile:

You Are Extremely Well Traveled in the Northeastern United States (86%) You Are Very Well Traveled in Canada (80%) You Are Very Well Traveled in the Southern United States (69%) You Are Well Traveled in the Midwestern United States (50%) You Are Well Traveled in the Western United States (47%) You Are Well Traveled in Western Europe (43%) You Are Somewhat Well Traveled in Eastern Europe (40%) You Are Somewhat Well Traveled in Africa (25%) You Are Somewhat Well Traveled in the United Kingdom (25%) You Are Mostly Untraveled in Asia (17%) You Are Mostly Untraveled in Southern Europe (13%) You Are Mostly Untraveled in Latin America (7%) You Are Untraveled in Australia (0%) You Are Untraveled in New Zealand (0%) You Are Untraveled in Scandinavia (0%) You Are Untraveled in the Middle East (0%)

How Well Traveled Are You?

As soon as I have half a second to breathe, I'll write up my two latest trips, to Valley of Fire and Coachella.

Yet Another Travel Meme

Come up with more questions of your own, because these are rather lame.

Home Is: Los Angeles, CA (although I grew up on Long Island and lived throughout the Tri-State area before moving out West)

The One Place I Haven’t Been But Want to Visit Before I Die: Only one? If that's the case, then I'd have to say Australia. It's been my number-one destination since I did a report in sixth grade, yet somehow I've been to more than 20 other countries first. Go figure.

The Weirdest Place I’ve Been: Weird? Long Island ain't normal. Vegas is delightfully dysfunctional. But weird? Ohio is up there. I might have to vote for Reno, just because I've teased my friend Michelle about her hometown since the day I met her (and before I'd even been there). I was disappointed when I finally visited and there weren't midgets and clowns walking on the streets. I don't know how I got that impression, but I suppose I was disappointed at how un-weird Reno is. Still, it isn't normal.

How I Feel About Flying: Much better about it now. I've had several worse-than-bad flying experiences, including my first flight ever, where my brother had to land the plane. I no longer panic like I once did, but I still like picking up/dropping off people at airports better than going myself. Of course, if I knew how to fly, I'd probably feel even better about the whole experience.

My Last Road Trip: Drove up north in my new Prius to see my ol' pal Dimi, whose belly is now the size of a volleyball. Marin is so bucolic that my paltry 36 hours up there felt quite relaxing and longer than it was. On the way back down, I stopped in Santa Cruz to see Julie, my roommate from UCLA, who I hadn't seen in roughly 14 years. (Note to self: Must spend more time in Santa Cruz. Why have I not done that yet?) After that, I hit the Monterey Bay Aquarium, thus checking off one more item on my California to-do list. Another six hours down a pitch-black PCH and I was back home.

My Last Train or Boat Adventure: Well, since it's technically a ship, I can't count my Bahamas trip. So I guess I'd have to say my shark-diving excursion to Isla Guadalupe.

Best Music for a Road Trip: My self-made "Road-Trip" playlist on my iPod. One hundred fifty songs makes most any ride just fly by.

My Favorite Travel Item Is: iPod, baby. Unfortunately, mine is on its last legs. I shall mourn Dirk when he finally passes and blurts his last digital note.

I Think That I Am A _____ Sort of a Traveler: Laidback? Adventurous? Sarcastic? Person-who-thinks-this-question-sucks?

The Farthest I've Traveled: Circumnavigated the globe during Semester at Sea. Get me back on that ship, please.

Taken From: How to Spell Stoopit

Where I've Been: The World

Not too shabby a round-up, although I'd hoped to have lived abroad a bit more by this point. Anyone know how I can wrangle up a U.K. or New Zealand visa?



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The Shark FAQ, aka You Like Me, You Really Like Me!

Alas, I've yet to make an Oscar speech, but I had my own version of glory today when my shark article made it to the AOL Welcome Screen (once the "most valuable piece of Internet real estate," as the Mother Ship told us drones, but I doubt it is any longer). When my Oahu shark article was published in the Seattle PI back in October, I receive a handful of kudos from fellow shark-ophiles and divers. But in the space of the last few hours, I've received several dozen emails from readers who happened upon the story of my Isla Guadalupe adventure, some of which have even made me blush. The responses have inspired me to write even more so than when I handed in my bound thesis last May.

To those of you who wrote, thank you. It really meant a lot to hear your kind words and to share your shark-encounter tales and fantasies. I'll answer some of the FAQs here, short answers first:

Q. How can I go on this trip?

A. Call Patric Douglas, the CEO of Shark Diver. Tell him you're my pal and he'll treat you all nice-like. Heck, he'll treat you well even if you're not my pal. He's just that kind of guy.

Q. How long does a trip like [the one you wrote about on AOL] take?

A. It was a five-day trip -- roughly 14 hours to the island and back, then three full days off the coast of Isla Guadalupe, where we were anchored most of the time. We never went ashore, even though it was a shell's throw away.

Q. How much does it cost?

A. You can get the 411 on the Shark Diver site. Yes, it's more expensive than a one-day trip to the Farallons, but the visibility is better, the water's warmer, and the camaraderie of a live-aboard can't be beat. Meals (and alcohol!) are included, and the galley crew served some mighty good grub. (They even catered to my vegetarian needs and exceeded expectations.) Oh, and it's the trip of a lifetime, so charge that card and don't give it a second thought.

Q. Do you need a special certification for this trip?

A. Even non-certs can go. It's not tank diving, but rather hookah diving -- you breathe through a hose that goes up to the boat -- and you're never more than 15 feet deep. The hookah apparatus means you don't have to carry all that gear on your back, making it easier to maneuver in the cage.

Q. Was Isla Guadalupe really better than the Farallons [off San Francisco]?

A. I've never been to the Farallons, so I can't give a truly informed answer. However, there was at least one diver on my IG trip who had been there and he raved about the conditions of Guadalupe: warmer water, better viz, and -- most importantly -- more sharks. If you're interested in a good read about the Farallons, check out The Devil's Teeth, Susan Casey's beautifully written account of her time on these desolate islands. (Among other chestnuts, Casey drops amid her prose such mind-boggling nuggets as the fact that sharks are older than trees. Trees, dammit.) I took the book with me on this trip, and when I wasn't under water, I was usually holed up in my bunk with my nose buried deep in its musty pages.

Q. How do I become a freelance writer?

A. Good question. I'm still trying to figure that one out myself. I'm actually a freelance and full-time editor, but my love of writing has me constantly on the lookout for other outlets. If you really want some quick advice, here it goes: Come up with a killer idea. Query a publication. Get rejected. Find another publication. Get rejected again. Come up with a better killer idea. Query again. Take up papier-mache as a hobby to recycle all your rejection letters. Query again. Just don't stop trying. Some people will get your writing, while others... well, some people just don't have taste, do they?

Honestly, I don't think I could be a full-time freelancer. I just don't have the patience for querying. But as a side job, it's quite fulfilling, especially since I can focus on the writing and not where my next paycheck will come from. I know plenty of people with the stamina for full-time freelancing; I'm just not one of them.

Q. Weren't you scared? Or do you just have a death wish?

A. When I was younger, I was a tad more daring. Now that I'm older, my invincibility has a few chinks in the armor, so I'm much more cautious than I was in my salad days. I haven't jumped off a cliff in many a year, and I have no desire to relive my ambush in 'Nam (true story), but I'm still up for some adrenaline-inducing action quite often.

At Guadalupe, I was one of the first in the cage -- partly because I was excited, but mainly because I was green with seasickness after our overnight crossing and I knew the cool water would ease my pain. We didn't see any sharks on that first dive, possibly because I scared them away when I chummed up the water. Yes, your dive instructor wasn't lying when s/he said you can vomit in your regulator with no problem. (Thank you, Patric, for erasing that bit of footage.)

When the sharks were around I was too in awe to be scared. When you know your time with them is finite, you don't want to waste a second shrinking into the corner of the cage. I don't remember anyone chickening out at the last minute. In fact, we were usually fighting for rotation spots. Sharks are fantastic creatures, and seeing them up close only makes you appreciate them more.

Q. What was your first trip with sharks?

A. My first underwater encounter was roughly six years ago during a night dive in Turks and Caicos. I'd gone for a little R&R and was talked into taking the Advanced Open Water PADI certification by several other diehard divers at the Club Med where I had holed up for a week. Little did I know that the advanced course required a night dive, something I'd never imagined I'd do. I'd been afraid of dark water ever since my brother threw me into our pool on a pitch black night after telling me that the bottom opened up to the ocean after the sun went down. (Yes, for those who've heard the tales, this is the same brother who handcuffed me to a coffee table. I have only one. Thankfully.)

But I didn't mention my fear to my diving classmates, and when I jumped into the water that night, a glowstick affixed to my tank, I was certain I'd never surface again. Once I was under, however, with the pod of divers glowing like underwater stars around me, I lost all fear. I became mesmerized by the celestial lights of their own neon glows, caused by their own glowsticks and the bioluminescent organisms swirling in the Caribbean waters.

I did the prerequisite course requirements -- underwater orientation and the like -- then followed my instructor as he led us through a coral maze. It was there that he spotted what I believe was a five-foot nurse shark resting on the sandy bottom. When his flashlight beam hit the shark's face, it took off, heading straight towards me. I froze. But a foot before it reached me, it careened to the side, and its graceful sway made me forget my fear, so much so that I reached out and let my fingers trail along the last few inches of its body. If I'd had an endless supply of air that night, I might never have been coaxed back on the boat.

Q. So, you've done great whites. What could possibly be next?

Q. Oh, there's so very, very much more. As much as I loved my great white dive, my long-time dream has been to swim in the open with either a whale or a whale shark. Ever since I saw one of the latter at the Osaka aquarium 12 years ago, I've wanted to swim alongside something as large as a school bus and as docile as kitten. (Yes, I know there are dangers involved. I've just known some very aggressive kittens.) Patric's company also offers a trip with giant squid (I don't have enough dives under my belt for that yet, dagnabbit) and a deep-sub adventure to see six-gill sharks at 1,700 feet below the surface. Crikey! Oh, and there are a slew of land-based adventures on my check list, including a helicopter ride over a live volcano, which I'm planning for the fall.

Q. Do you have any more photos?

A. Hell, yeah! That wasn't even mine on AOL. Don't know why they didn't use my pics or video. This one is a shot of Patric holding the severed tuna I'd mentioned in the article, with Melanie behind him. For more pics, try this link, although it doesn't always work: Shark Album. For video, check out my stuff on YouTube. I'll post more if there's any interest.


Well, it's past my bedtime on a school night. Must go... procrastinate more.

The Sharkiest Place on Earth

After several months of waiting, I finally get to see my great white article on AOL Travel. It's on the front page today, and it's supposed to be on the Welcome Screen Monday, so I'm hoping it'll get a lot of traffic. For some reason, they used a generic photo rather than my brilliant one of a great white chomping on some bait. But what can you do?

Where I've Been: Europe

Dang, I need to get my ass a little further east. I've meant to do so, every time I've visited Europe, but I never seem to get the time off needed to do a thorough trekking of the Old World. At least I've done a pretty decent job of covering the western region.

Here's my European coverage to date:


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Where I've Been: Canada

Eh, not as exciting as the U.S. map, if only because I've visited so little and don't plan on visiting several provinces that are just too damn cold for human habitation. But I figured, heck, why not fill it out?



create your own personalized map of Canada
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Where I've Been: The U.S.

World 66 certainly has created an addictive widget: an interactive map that allows you to plug in where you've been, creating a visual representation of your travels. It's kind of like the Internet version of putting pins in a map (which I have hanging on my wall), only a tad more addictive.

Check it out:


create your own personalized map of the USA
or write about it on the open travel guide

Travel Meme

I have no qualms about stealing lists from others' sites. That's what memes are all about, no?

To that end, I give you the most prolific travel meme I've come across: a list of the cities you've traveled to in 2006 (* indicates non-consecutive visits).

Without further ado, here's what I can remember (not in chronological order):

*New York
Easton, CT
*Ephrata, PA (Lancaster County)
Orlando, FL
Tahoe, NV
Isla Guadalupe, Mexico (no city on the island)
Rosarito, Mexico
Ensenada, Mexico
**San Diego
Cabo San Lucas, Mexico
Honolulu, Hawaii
Palm Springs, CA

This Time, You Can Call It a Cruise: Bahamas

An undisclosed number of years ago, I sailed on Semester at Sea, a shipboard study abroad program that took me around the world. Last week, I sailed again -- only this time it was a reunion "cruise," not a 100-day "voyage" (as SAS parlance dictates we refer to the academic semesters). As part of the all-voyage reunion, we sailed to Nassau, Bahamas, which happened to be the first port of my own semester itinerary. The trip marked my third visit to the island nation, and little has changed since my initial visit more than a decade ago. The capital is still aglow with buildings of pastel shades, the water visibility runs up to 200 feet (!), and the call of hair braiders rings through the air as soon as you debark at the port.

What little change has occurred is evident in most tourist-driven destinations. Hard Rock has set up shop just down the block from port. Atlantis, the largest casino on Paradise Island (formerly owned by Donald Trump, then Merv Griffin, who took a wash when he later sold it), has become a sprawling mecca and icon of the cay that lies just north of New Providence. And, of course, Starbucks has planted its roots firmly in the Bahamian soil.

But I didn't go on the trip simply because I needed to get away (although I did), nor because of the dirt-cheap rate. I went because Desmond Tutu would be sailing on the reunion cruise, a quick trip before flitting over to India to receive the Gandhi Peace Prize, then back again to Nassau to meet the SAS ship to sail for the full length of the spring semester.

When I sailed back in [mumble mumble], we'd had the honor of having Dennis Brutus, a notable anti-apartheid activist and inmate at Robben Island with Nelson Mandela, as part of our faculty. His lectures were stirring, and his presence made all the more difference when our ship pulled into Cape Town, which was still in its nascent post-apartheid stage. I can only imagine what it will be like for the students of the current voyage (which leaves Nassau tomorrow) to have someone of Tutu's stature on board. During the reunion, I caught glimpses of him mingling with us hoi polloi, and the mundane mental snapshots of him smiling up at me as he typed on his laptop in the faculty lounge or holding his tray in the dining hall line made the trip worthwhile. (View video of his first lecture on YouTube: Part I, Part II. Apologies ahead of time for the subtitle burn-in. If you know of any good .avi conversion software, please let me know.)

Despite my aversion to all things religious, I found the Archbishop's speech about God and family riveting, and much less proselytizing than most politician's speeches back here in the good ol' separation-of-church-and-state US of A. What made it all the more stirring was his laidback demeanor. If it weren't for his gray hair, I might have thought he was a tween, what with the way he laughed and clapped at his own jokes, kicking his feet with glee as he recalled his own witticisms.

So it was with little regret that I gave up my only full dive day to hear the Nobel Prize winner speak. (Apologies to Ray at Xanadu Divers: I'd fully intended to come for the dive after his speech, but not a single phone in the port worked for me to confirm.) At least I got in a one-tank in Nassau, where I was serendipitously taken to the site of my first dive ever: Lighthouse Reef, where a 65-foot wreck lies in 35 feet of crystalline water. Although we didn't see any sharks or eels, there were myriad yellow jacks, a grouper, and parrotfish, some of which ate food (which I suspect was kibble) right from my hand.

On my previous trip to Nassau, I'd visited the miniscule aquarium, which has since closed after the opening of the monumentally overpriced one at Atlantis. (I've heard that the free viewing area shows much of the same fish you can see for $30, including the giant manta ray that will soon be released due to its steadily increasing size). This visit, I'd planned on visiting the new pirate museum, but it was closed on Sunday, our only day in Nassau. So instead I wandered about the streets, snapping shots of colonial-era buildings and visiting a local Anglican church built in the early 1800s. (Despite my aforementioned aversion to all things religious, I hold an unusual fascination for places of worship, of all faiths. Architecture built in the name of a higher power never ceases to take my breath away.)

Since during my first two visits to the Bahamas I'd seen only Nassau and its immediate environs (the infamous straw market, Cable Beach, Waterloo), I'd initially been ecstatic that our two-day layover would be in Freeport, which I'd never seen. However, Grand Bahama, although more laidback and less tourist-y than New Providence, held little to see except white sand beaches. The two parks I'd visited, Rand Nature Preserve and Lucaya National Park, were hardly worth mentioning, especially since the former's claim to fame, the West Indies flamingos, had been poached by raccoons three years hence. (The brochures and tour guides failed to mention that little fact until after we'd paid our admission and $18 cab fare. Consider yourself warned.)

Although the national park's trademark sink holes weren't quite as spectacular as I'd hoped, the nearby beach more than made up for it. Since we were nearly 20 miles from the main tourist drag, we were practically the only souls on the sand, which lay as powdery as talc as far as the eye could see. I've never been much of one to sit still, so while my companions frolicked in the multi-hued ocean blues or tanned their pure-white hides on the equally pure-white sand, I set to building a sand replica of the MV Explorer, complete with seaweed wake and driftwood smokestacks.

But kicking back was what the trip was mainly about, and my steadfast travel companion, Lauren, and I did much of just that. In between our shopping and rum expeditions to Port Lucaya (the Bahamian version of a strip mall), late-night forays at the snack bar, and the occassional educational on-ship lecture, we napped. A lot. But that's what vacations are for. Especially when you've already seen as much conch as you can handle.

What Friendly Skies?

After my recent trip to Fort Lauderdale and the Bahamas (more on that to come in a future post, complete with pics), I've come to realize that people are just getting exponentially ruder. Even in our own country, we are ugly Americans, out-graced by those brave enough to visit our ill-mannered shores.

This truth is never more evident than when you fly, one of my least favorite activities (I'll take a train over a plane any day). Not only do airplanes epitomize discomfort, but they also seem to attract those who believe that buying a one-time ticket somehow entitles them to behave as if they were sitting at home in their Barcalounger watching Monday night football.

People should need a license to fly -- not to fly the plane, just to ride. You get a license at birth, but commit too many fouls, and phht! License revoked! (This should also be true of attending concerts or even going to movies. Too many people can't even handle the etiquette required for these simple pastimes.)

I'm sure I've overlooked one or two biggies, but these are the ten most important etiquette rules (based on my most recent trip) to follow when traveling by plane -- both for your own comfort and the comfort of those you're flying with. Remember: You bought a ticket not a pink-slip to the plane.

10. Don't Offend the Olfactory. You're in close quarters on a plane. You can look disheveled and it's not going to bother the passenger next to you. But if the waves of stench coming out of your pits are visible, you've got an issue. If you plan to fall asleep, pop a mint first. (This last flight, my considerate neighbor chose to down two Heinekens before passing out and exhaling beer breath on me for the next three hours.) Bringing your meal with you? Leave the tuna or peanut butter for another time. This goes for nice aromas, too: Don't overdo it on the perfume/cologne. The sweet, clean scent of Dial will do just nicely.

9. Mind the Personal Space. Coach is small enough without you jutting an extra elbow or leg into your neighbor's precious 31" of allotted space. Before you turn on your side to lean against the window, make sure your ass isn't jutting under the armrest of the poor guy in the crappy center seat. When you take off your coat, make sure you don't elbow the woman next to you in the chest (happened to me). When you're getting out of the seat, don't lean on the seatback, which can either rock the tray of the person behind you or pull the hair of the person in front of you (both have also happened to me).

8. My Space? Quick question: Who owns the space directly in front of your face and just behind the seatback ahead? Yes, that would be you. So, what that means is that the space behind you isn't yours. Be polite and check behind you before reclining the seat, just in case your rear neighbor has really long legs or, worse, a cast. (Yup, had someone slam a seat into my knee while I was in a full-on leg brace after knee surgery.) Ask yourself if you really need that extra three degrees of reclining to feel comfortable or, if like with the free peanuts of yesteryear, you're just taking advantage of what little the airline has given you. Then, if you still feel the need to recline, do so slowly so the person behind you has time to get away, if need be. (Note: On redeyes, it's pretty much a given you're going to recline. Just do so slowly.)

7. Don't Be a Cork. Keep the line moving. Have your boarding pass and ID available at all necessary stops: check-in, all security points, at the gate. As soon as you get to your seat, get out of the aisle as quickly as possible; you don't need to stand in the aisle to put your purse in the overhead. Stow your luggage in the closest available overhead in relation to your seat -- not as far forward as is convenient for you (that will only make debarkation slower for everyone). Make sure you don't exceed the number of carry-ons and that those you do take qualify as carry-ons (hint: skis are not carry-ons). Don't wear 18-hole Doc Martens and more jewelry than Mr. T through security. And no matter where you are, stay out of the way of traffic: Don't stand in doorways, or at the bottom of escalators. If you're going slowly on the moving walkway, stay to the right -- and remember that advice next time you're on the freeway, too.

6. Toilet Taboo. The restrooms in the airport are much cleaner than those on the plane. Use them before you board. If you have a hamster bladder, ask for an aisle seat ahead of time. If you know you're going to be getting up several times and you don't have an aisle seat, try to switch; explain your situation to your neighbor and they just might let you have the aisle so that they don't have to be inconvenienced. If you can't get an aisle and it's a redeye, wear Depends.

5. Turn Down, Tune Out. I love music as much as the rest of you, but I can almost guarantee I don't love your music. I don't want to hear it, or the crappy in-flight movie soundtrack. Turn down the volume on your headphones. Especially if it's a redeye. And you listen to metal. Or Celine Dion.

4. Turn Off Your Portable Electronic Device. The flight crew doesn't ask this because they're jealous of your U2 limited-edition iPod or your Razr. It's because these devices can actually interfere with the control panels. Know how your cell makes your car radio or computer monitor go all fuzzy-wonky? Same effect at work here. And when they say you can turn it on, pop your ears before talking. We don't all need to hear you yell, "Grandma, I just landed in Los Angeles!" We all know. We just did, too.

3. Buy Leashes for Your Kids. A flight is not the time to put parenting on hiatus. I shouldn't have to ask your kid five times to stop kicking my seat while you pretend he's not yours and stare up at the crappy in-flight flick. You were able to afford the kid and the airfare, now invest in a Game Boy to keep the rest of us happy. Crying babies -- whatcha gonna do? But there's no reason your 11-year-old can't sit down and shut up.

2. Leave. Me. Alone. If I'm reading a book, don't try to start up a full-on conversation. If I have headphones on, there's a reason. If I'm sleeping, I may talk in my sleep, but I also have been known to flail and hit. If I'm watching the movie, I just might be bored enough to want to chat, but if I slap my headphones back on after I tersely answer where I'm from, I'd rather watch Outbreak 6 than chat with you. (This isn't to say I don't like meeting people. I'm just usually way too tired on a plane to converse civilly with a total stranger.)

1. Give Up the 'Rest. This isn't a given, but I'd like to see this enacted. Four armrests + three seats = someone gets two armrests. Who should that be? In the interest of fairness, I say the center seat gets it. There's a reason why no one asks for the center seat: It sucks. So let's make it a tad more comfortable by giving the poor guy in the center the two armrests. If you don't like it, give up your cush aisle or window seat.

¡Felíz año nuevo!

I've been making the occasional weekend trip to Baja ever since I moved to SoCal just over nine years ago, during which time the area has undergone massive changes. The once barren hillsides of the scenic road from Tijuana to Ensenada are quickly filling with shoddily constructed, homogeneously designed stucco buildings that often never get completed, mostly due to financial reasons. Rosarito has experienced a gentrification (as much as can be experienced in Mexico), with jazz bars and French bistros now dotting the main thoroughfare of Benito Juárez Boulevard, and nearby wineries now making a splash on menus just north of the border. The frat-friendly bars, complete with popper-peddling waiters and buckets of Coronitas, maintain their stronghold, but with Trump properties now setting up shop in nearby Punta Bandera, Rosarito stands to undergo a resurgence like none before.

So I was glad to get a glimpse of Rosarito over the New Year's weekend, before it becomes all Disney-fied and the ubiquitous sidewalk potholes become a thing of the past. I'm going to enjoy the beachside town in all its seedy glory for as long as I can before The Donald's influence spills over his property lines and down into town. My friends and I took in the sea air at Los Pelicanos over margaritas and ice-cold Bohemias, the beach teeming with locals, tourists on horseback, and wild dogs chasing each other in the surf.

The next night, in nearby Puerto Nuevo, a tiny town renowned for its lobsters, I scarfed down a quesadilla while my seafood-loving pals cracked open a clawless crustacean. (Pacific lobsters lack the large boxing-glove mitts of their Atlantic cousins.) We'd hightailed it down the toll road (cuota) while there was still light in order to get a shot of the Naked Lady House, as Tabitha so eloquently refers to it. If only this property could get listed on MLS -- I can only imagine how they'd deal with the photo, which MySpace deemed too racy and deleted from Tab's page. (How would they react if someone posted a pic next to Michelangelo's David?) What you can't see in this shot is the pool area that circles the crotch. I'll be sure to get back down when the house is completed.

For New Year's Eve, we ventured back into Rosarito, only to find stalwart party establishments such as Papas and Beer (which has lots of beer, but, to my dismay, no papas) closed. (Note to Rosarito Travel Board: WTF?) So while the boys stopped to buy some Cubans, Tab and I headed to the bar just beyond, where we spotted a sign for a rather tempting and (in the U.S., at least) verboten beverage: absinthe. I'd conveniently repressed my experience with the Green Fairy in Prague, and so convinced my cohorts to order a shot apiece. Within seconds I recalled why I'd forever sworn off wormwood, and not just because of the noxious licorice taste. But Tab saw fit to knock back a few more of the bile-green shots, and even accepted a drink of rattlesnake-soaked tequila (which I dubbed "carcass juice") from two strangers at the end of the bar. (How many problems can you spot in that scenario?) No surprise that Tab -- having already knocked back two margaritas, a red wine, a crappy martini, and some beer -- felt a might bit ill a while later. Instead of a visit from the Green Fairy, she found herself visiting the porcelain throne for the better part of an hour, while Dick Clark slurred his way into '07.

And thus the New Year was ushered in. Next month I plan to return so I can visit a few old faves I didn't get to hit, as well as spend more time at Foxploration. In what other country would the highlight of a theme park be a pair of trained rats? Just another reason why Mexican kitsch should never die.

Heading to Fort Lauderdale and the Bahamas in two weeks. Any suggestions?

Back From Shark Diving

Yes, many of you thought I'd return with missing limbs -- or at least a few digits. But here I am, as intact as ever -- physically, if not mentally.

I've got some kickass video of my shark dives, but unfortunately my camera made all the files .avi, so if anyone knows how to convert to .mpeg, please share the secret. To see the crappy-ass .avi files, check here:
http://www.youtube.com/view_play_list?p=B4B577EB2D1004A4

Aside from many wonderful sharky bits of trivia, I learned that Guadalupe is not a place for young, innocent men of a certain sexual inclination. ("The village has its own laws," says Mauricio, the PhD student who lives in the lock-less shack on the island's eastern side.) Also, my introductory scuba instructor was absolutely correct: You can indeed vomit into your regulator. The 20-hour crossing, complete with 14-foot swells, rocked our boat to the point where lunch was, most definitely, on me -- and those in the shark cage next to me. During our first day in the washing-machine lurches of the cage, I chummed enough for the whole boat. Luckily, by days 2 and 3, I'd regained my sea legs and my stomach-emptying feats came to an end.

People, you ain't lived until you've had a 16-foot white shark pass within inches of your camera lens.

Feature Article in Seattle P-I

The Seattle PI just published my piece on underwater adventures in Oahu. Check it out:
http://seattlepi.nwsource.com/getaways/288156_hawunderwater12.html

Not too shabby. A few edits here and there, but otherwise, the editor didn't touch much. Just wish he'd suppressed the urge to add that damn exclamation mark.

Baddest Biker Bars

It's been up a while, but if you haven't yet checked out my feature on the country's Baddest Biker Bars, take a look and let me know what you think. We'll probably do a follow-up in a few months of bars suggested by our users, so if I've left off your favorite, drop me a line. The feature has already gotten more than a million pageviews, but I'm amping to get it to 2 million. So start clicking!