Too tired to work. Too awake to sleep. Sitting in a dodgy Ramada Inn watching old videos on YouTube and feeling a bit melancholy. Time don't matter to me.
Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Friday, April 22, 2011
Ghost Town
After last year's nightmare travel to/from the Barbados, we almost didn't go on vacation this year but then we spotted a SniqueAway deal on a fabulous hotel in Texas, La Torretta, and jumped on it. I honestly can't bear the thought of not going away somewhere. I crave adventure. Life's too short, right? Fun. Relaxation. Sunshine. Family. Love. (Very grateful.)
The best part of this trip, aside from the relative proximity of flying to Houston vs. Barbados (via Queens), was that we bookended our fabulous resort stay with a trip to NASA/Houston Space Center on the front-end and the Houston Aquarium, Chocolate Bar, the Shops at Rice University and a wonderful dinner at Prego with our beautiful granddaughter/niece/cousin Leigh on the back-end. What else? We went to the Montgomery County Fair (great for people watching -- Texans are really not like New Yorkers at all) and we bought the hubby a real cowboy hat at Cavender's where we learned (no joke) all about the importance of beaver in the hat body (i.e., where the higher the "X" value, the greater the percentage of beaver in the felt). Who knew? Answer: Willie Nelson, probably.
Since I'm such a sucker for providing feedback, I hope that my TripAdvisor review will be posted soon. In the meantime, I'll leave you with the song that I have been singing since we arrived at our hotel that was bizarrely barren of all tourists. We had the pool, water slides, lazy river, hot tubs, restaurants, and more -- all to ourselves. Eerie. And awesome.
The best part of this trip, aside from the relative proximity of flying to Houston vs. Barbados (via Queens), was that we bookended our fabulous resort stay with a trip to NASA/Houston Space Center on the front-end and the Houston Aquarium, Chocolate Bar, the Shops at Rice University and a wonderful dinner at Prego with our beautiful granddaughter/niece/cousin Leigh on the back-end. What else? We went to the Montgomery County Fair (great for people watching -- Texans are really not like New Yorkers at all) and we bought the hubby a real cowboy hat at Cavender's where we learned (no joke) all about the importance of beaver in the hat body (i.e., where the higher the "X" value, the greater the percentage of beaver in the felt). Who knew? Answer: Willie Nelson, probably.
Since I'm such a sucker for providing feedback, I hope that my TripAdvisor review will be posted soon. In the meantime, I'll leave you with the song that I have been singing since we arrived at our hotel that was bizarrely barren of all tourists. We had the pool, water slides, lazy river, hot tubs, restaurants, and more -- all to ourselves. Eerie. And awesome.
Friday, November 19, 2010
Photo Per Day #19: Roadrunner Roadrunner
My brother is in Paris on business. His daughter is visiting him for the weekend from university in Seville.
In a similar vein, I spend my life on the road hitting all sorts of exotic locales. With the radio on.
In a similar vein, I spend my life on the road hitting all sorts of exotic locales. With the radio on.
Monday, September 6, 2010
Bon Appétit (aka Eat Fest 2010)
Note: The following blog was stolen, er plagerized, er modified from the April 2010 edition of Bon Appétit.
WHO
Friends from Syracuse University
WHERE
Hartland, VT
PARTY PHILOSOPHY
“When we're at the house, we entertain outside as much as we can—even if it’s just a picnic on a quilt.” (Bon Appétit version)
“When we're at the house, we entertain outside as much as we can—even if it’s watching a Star Wars movie projected onto a bed sheet.” (Alternate version)
Dinner for seven
Fresh Gazpacho
Champagne
Grilled Salmon with a Blackberry Buerre Sauce
Locally Grown Corn on the Cob
Beet Salad with Red, White and Orange Carrots
Almond Cake with Homemade Mint Gelato
There are certain things you can expect from a Labor Day weekend at the Craib’s place overlooking Mount Ascutney. You can look forward to tasting Vermont cheese at the farmer’s market, foraging for wild berries in the grasses beside the house, playing a round of afternoon croquet, watching Alistair dance to the White Stripes, and sharing great big dinners.
Just don't ask for chicken nuggets.
“This part of Vermont isn't really chicken nugget country,” says Bill. The open-air house with a large, dine-on porch the couple purchased just outside the little town of Hartland is perched on a hillside in the middle of the woods. And on Labor Day, they’re sticklers for Elizabeth’s (aka Lovely’s) long-held tradition of homemade ice cream sandwiches made from fresh baked cookies (using only the finest Ann Clark cookie cutters) and handcrafted vanilla ice cream. “You can't mess with beauty,” she says as she measures the sugar and puts the chocolate cookie dough in the oven. Especially, one could add, when you're literally surrounded by it. (Nod to the panoramic view and Melissa prancing around in her cute little buttoned undies.)
The view from the front porch hasn't changed a whole lot in the two years since the family first settled this spot. A stone’s throw from the front porch, just over the childproof gate and past a thicket of bushes, there’s a pasture that’s home to the beloved wiffleball field. Beyond that, gently rolling hills, dotted with leaves just beginning to turn yellow, are tucked below the lone Mount Ascutney.
The SU weekend is a traditional, informal affair for the Craib family and their gang of miscreants. Relaxed and not stuffy (but somewhat contentious during a highly competitive game of Apples to Apples – yes, Carnival Workers can be virtuous and yes, Tom Hanks does suck). It’s a gorgeous day, so they decide to have dinner on the porch. “Whenever we can, we'll eat all three meals outside,” says Elizabeth. The candles are lit on the chandelier above the old farm table along with the tea lights that surround the porch. She sets the table with her family china, along with artisanal wine glasses that she found at a local glass blower. When friends arrive, Elizabeth sends all the kids on a wild berry hunt while the grown-ups are greeted with glasses of champagne.
Elizabeth and Bill, who are both entrepreneurs/business executives, have a well-honed system for collaborating on special menus. And because the inveterate hosts love to cook, they can't help mixing things up just a bit. Today, elk bratwurst with ale from the local Harpoon brewery add a note of novelty to the table alongside classic holiday dishes.
Thanks to the Craib family for hosting such a fabulous weekend. Wejushluvya.
WHO
Friends from Syracuse University
WHERE
Hartland, VT
PARTY PHILOSOPHY
“When we're at the house, we entertain outside as much as we can—even if it’s just a picnic on a quilt.” (Bon Appétit version)
“When we're at the house, we entertain outside as much as we can—even if it’s watching a Star Wars movie projected onto a bed sheet.” (Alternate version)
Dinner for seven
Fresh Gazpacho
Champagne
Grilled Salmon with a Blackberry Buerre Sauce
Locally Grown Corn on the Cob
Beet Salad with Red, White and Orange Carrots
Almond Cake with Homemade Mint Gelato
There are certain things you can expect from a Labor Day weekend at the Craib’s place overlooking Mount Ascutney. You can look forward to tasting Vermont cheese at the farmer’s market, foraging for wild berries in the grasses beside the house, playing a round of afternoon croquet, watching Alistair dance to the White Stripes, and sharing great big dinners.
Just don't ask for chicken nuggets.
“This part of Vermont isn't really chicken nugget country,” says Bill. The open-air house with a large, dine-on porch the couple purchased just outside the little town of Hartland is perched on a hillside in the middle of the woods. And on Labor Day, they’re sticklers for Elizabeth’s (aka Lovely’s) long-held tradition of homemade ice cream sandwiches made from fresh baked cookies (using only the finest Ann Clark cookie cutters) and handcrafted vanilla ice cream. “You can't mess with beauty,” she says as she measures the sugar and puts the chocolate cookie dough in the oven. Especially, one could add, when you're literally surrounded by it. (Nod to the panoramic view and Melissa prancing around in her cute little buttoned undies.)
The view from the front porch hasn't changed a whole lot in the two years since the family first settled this spot. A stone’s throw from the front porch, just over the childproof gate and past a thicket of bushes, there’s a pasture that’s home to the beloved wiffleball field. Beyond that, gently rolling hills, dotted with leaves just beginning to turn yellow, are tucked below the lone Mount Ascutney.
The SU weekend is a traditional, informal affair for the Craib family and their gang of miscreants. Relaxed and not stuffy (but somewhat contentious during a highly competitive game of Apples to Apples – yes, Carnival Workers can be virtuous and yes, Tom Hanks does suck). It’s a gorgeous day, so they decide to have dinner on the porch. “Whenever we can, we'll eat all three meals outside,” says Elizabeth. The candles are lit on the chandelier above the old farm table along with the tea lights that surround the porch. She sets the table with her family china, along with artisanal wine glasses that she found at a local glass blower. When friends arrive, Elizabeth sends all the kids on a wild berry hunt while the grown-ups are greeted with glasses of champagne.
Elizabeth and Bill, who are both entrepreneurs/business executives, have a well-honed system for collaborating on special menus. And because the inveterate hosts love to cook, they can't help mixing things up just a bit. Today, elk bratwurst with ale from the local Harpoon brewery add a note of novelty to the table alongside classic holiday dishes.
Thanks to the Craib family for hosting such a fabulous weekend. Wejushluvya.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Higher Ground
In 1994, I spent "Holy Week" with my girlfriends Melinda (American) and Margaroo (Australian) visiting another friend, Anita (Irish), in London. I put it in quotes 'cause there was nothing particularly holy about that week for us. We spent the days shopping and the nights in restaurants and/or at shows.
Just being elsewhere is fun. Yet being anywhere with Melinda is fun. I could tour a rendering plant with her and get the giggles. Melinda is the epitome of the loud American; however, thankfully, she's also beautiful so she can get away with it. Big smile. Warm personality. Non-stop entertainment.
Anita's flat, at the time, was in Croydon which is a short train ride into the London city center. So every day Melinda would unintentionally have the entire train car laughing at her antics. Everyone loved her. Young men. Old women. Babies. Margaret and I thought it was hilarious. Anita, on the other hand, was absolutely mortified.
Having had enough of us toward the end of the week, Anita went out with other friends so we were left to fend for ourselves. Not knowing what to do, we walked into Croydon that evening looking for a pub. Being Holy Saturday, everything was closed. They're clearly more observant in Croydon than expected or desired. We were directed by a passerby to a disco but, upon arriving, weren't allowed in because we were in jeans. Oh no, where else can we go? The bouncer told us that there was only one other bar open that night: The Blue Anchor. Okey dokey. Sounds good to us!
So there we were: three fresh-faced girls in bright, preppy clothes, including Melinda in a short, vivid red raincoat, stepping over a large number of barely visible people who were splayed across the floor in a blackened hallway (doing God-only-knows-what) just to get into the only pub that would serve us. We entered a dark pub filled to the brim with leather coated, tattooed, grimacing, metal heads. Hi! It's us! (Can you spot the tourists?) As difficult as it was to get to the bar, we somehow managed -- where there's a will, there's a way. And then we never left. We spent the night fully immersed in dangerously high decibels of Green Day, Faith No More, Nirvana, STP, Hole, Radio Head and the Red Hot Chili Peppers. At some point we started dancing with the locals. We were finally kicked out at closing time.
Whew! Happy Easter!
We awoke on Easter Sunday with neck aches from a night of head banging. Literally. I could barely move my noggin from violently shaking it due to an abundance of overindulgent, "when in Rome" dance-like-the-natives moves. To recover, slowly, we went to the cold, gray beach in Brighton with Anita and her snobby, self-absorbed, not-fun-at-all friends who refused to partake in any of the arcade games.
Even 16 years later, this ranks as one of the best nights ever followed by a dreary day jam-packed with colossal buzz kill. And to this day, I would much rather be noticeably embarrassed with happy-go-lucky friends than invisibly carrying on a boring, politically correct conversation with elitist wannabes.
I just want to dance.
I'm so darn glad He let me try it again,
'Cause my last time on earth I lived a whole world of sin.
I'm so glad that I know more than I knew then.
Gonna keep on tryin' till I reach the highest ground.
Just being elsewhere is fun. Yet being anywhere with Melinda is fun. I could tour a rendering plant with her and get the giggles. Melinda is the epitome of the loud American; however, thankfully, she's also beautiful so she can get away with it. Big smile. Warm personality. Non-stop entertainment.
Anita's flat, at the time, was in Croydon which is a short train ride into the London city center. So every day Melinda would unintentionally have the entire train car laughing at her antics. Everyone loved her. Young men. Old women. Babies. Margaret and I thought it was hilarious. Anita, on the other hand, was absolutely mortified.
Having had enough of us toward the end of the week, Anita went out with other friends so we were left to fend for ourselves. Not knowing what to do, we walked into Croydon that evening looking for a pub. Being Holy Saturday, everything was closed. They're clearly more observant in Croydon than expected or desired. We were directed by a passerby to a disco but, upon arriving, weren't allowed in because we were in jeans. Oh no, where else can we go? The bouncer told us that there was only one other bar open that night: The Blue Anchor. Okey dokey. Sounds good to us!
So there we were: three fresh-faced girls in bright, preppy clothes, including Melinda in a short, vivid red raincoat, stepping over a large number of barely visible people who were splayed across the floor in a blackened hallway (doing God-only-knows-what) just to get into the only pub that would serve us. We entered a dark pub filled to the brim with leather coated, tattooed, grimacing, metal heads. Hi! It's us! (Can you spot the tourists?) As difficult as it was to get to the bar, we somehow managed -- where there's a will, there's a way. And then we never left. We spent the night fully immersed in dangerously high decibels of Green Day, Faith No More, Nirvana, STP, Hole, Radio Head and the Red Hot Chili Peppers. At some point we started dancing with the locals. We were finally kicked out at closing time.
Whew! Happy Easter!
We awoke on Easter Sunday with neck aches from a night of head banging. Literally. I could barely move my noggin from violently shaking it due to an abundance of overindulgent, "when in Rome" dance-like-the-natives moves. To recover, slowly, we went to the cold, gray beach in Brighton with Anita and her snobby, self-absorbed, not-fun-at-all friends who refused to partake in any of the arcade games.
Even 16 years later, this ranks as one of the best nights ever followed by a dreary day jam-packed with colossal buzz kill. And to this day, I would much rather be noticeably embarrassed with happy-go-lucky friends than invisibly carrying on a boring, politically correct conversation with elitist wannabes.
I just want to dance.
I'm so darn glad He let me try it again,
'Cause my last time on earth I lived a whole world of sin.
I'm so glad that I know more than I knew then.
Gonna keep on tryin' till I reach the highest ground.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Prayers Selfish Prayers
I woke up super early this a.m. and, instead of going to the gym, decided at the very last minute to pack for vacation tomorrow. I felt convicted to go to Bible study tonight and start my vacation off right.
Instead, our flight to NYC was canceled for tomorrow and we're re-booked on a flight this afternoon. Hello urgent rush. Laptop backup. Financial proformas, income statements, balance sheets, graphs, working capital, cash flow analysis on hold . . . carry laptop? Do in hotel?
So I have two prayers:
1) Thank you God for insisting that I pack this morning!
2) Please, please, please let us get out of JFK safely before the storm arrives
Oh, did I say two? Make that three:
3) Please let us travel safely throughout our adventure and have heaps o' fun!
EBITDA can wait. Pina colada cannot. I know my priorities.
Instead, our flight to NYC was canceled for tomorrow and we're re-booked on a flight this afternoon. Hello urgent rush. Laptop backup. Financial proformas, income statements, balance sheets, graphs, working capital, cash flow analysis on hold . . . carry laptop? Do in hotel?
So I have two prayers:
1) Thank you God for insisting that I pack this morning!
2) Please, please, please let us get out of JFK safely before the storm arrives
Oh, did I say two? Make that three:
3) Please let us travel safely throughout our adventure and have heaps o' fun!
EBITDA can wait. Pina colada cannot. I know my priorities.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Morning Awkward
I was riding the elevator down to the hotel lobby yesterday morning with a business man who was roughly my age. We stopped on the 11th floor where a younger dude wearing a navy pinstripe suit stepped in the elevator and gave the first guy a forced "hello."
Going against unwritten elevator protocol, he never turned around to face the door. Instead, he stared right at the first man and said, "I heard some men had fun at the casino last night."
Dead silence.
"Were you one of them?"
Pause. Eyes averted. Focus on the floor.
"Well, I was there."
Nothing more was said. The doors opened and the pinstriped man walked away briskly.
Now I want to know: what the hell happened at the casino?! And why wasn't I invited? Had I been prescient enough to feel this man's shame and embarrassment prior to the unspoken reprimand, I could have passionately chimed in (like in the movies), "No, he was with me."
Yeah, that would have been better. What happens in Milwaukee stays in Milwaukee?
Going against unwritten elevator protocol, he never turned around to face the door. Instead, he stared right at the first man and said, "I heard some men had fun at the casino last night."
Dead silence.
"Were you one of them?"
Pause. Eyes averted. Focus on the floor.
"Well, I was there."
Nothing more was said. The doors opened and the pinstriped man walked away briskly.
Now I want to know: what the hell happened at the casino?! And why wasn't I invited? Had I been prescient enough to feel this man's shame and embarrassment prior to the unspoken reprimand, I could have passionately chimed in (like in the movies), "No, he was with me."
Yeah, that would have been better. What happens in Milwaukee stays in Milwaukee?
Monday, November 16, 2009
DocAdvisor
According to a recent New York Times article entitled "Looking Abroad for Health Savings,"
Better yet, what about introducing an insurance carrier that significantly reduces its monthly (or annual) premiums by coordinating your care with low-cost, high-quality international options? Sure, that would mean even more jobs leaving the U.S. (and, in this case, those associated with highly qualified, well trained professionals) but, really, paying less than a tenth of the cost for a commensurate surgery (and saving $120K per procedure) might just alleviate our nation's escalating health care costs. Or, at the very minimum, provide a serious wake-up call to our big insurance firms.
As always, I'm sure there are major flaws in my logic. Feel free to point 'em out. If it takes a while for me to respond, it's because I'll be in Vietnam getting a face lift.
- A heart operation that might cost $130,000 in this country could cost $18,500 in Singapore or $10,000 in India.
- Estimates of the number of Americans traveling abroad for treatment — “medical tourism,” some call it — vary widely, from 75,000 to 750,000 last year. But many experts consider it a growth industry.
Better yet, what about introducing an insurance carrier that significantly reduces its monthly (or annual) premiums by coordinating your care with low-cost, high-quality international options? Sure, that would mean even more jobs leaving the U.S. (and, in this case, those associated with highly qualified, well trained professionals) but, really, paying less than a tenth of the cost for a commensurate surgery (and saving $120K per procedure) might just alleviate our nation's escalating health care costs. Or, at the very minimum, provide a serious wake-up call to our big insurance firms.
As always, I'm sure there are major flaws in my logic. Feel free to point 'em out. If it takes a while for me to respond, it's because I'll be in Vietnam getting a face lift.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Mini-Weekend: Day 13
Thirteen! Never thought it would get this far. And it's May 13: my sister's birthday. Happy Birthday Susie!
Today I went to the dentist, swam, did a bit o' yoga in the steam room, relaxed in the sauna, got my haircut, read in the hammock and (yes!) bought el cheapo glasses and sunglasses at BJ's Wholesale after realizing that I was about to drop more money on worthless pseudo-fashion than I would spend on a week in Europe.
I'm driving to the airport right now.
Today I went to the dentist, swam, did a bit o' yoga in the steam room, relaxed in the sauna, got my haircut, read in the hammock and (yes!) bought el cheapo glasses and sunglasses at BJ's Wholesale after realizing that I was about to drop more money on worthless pseudo-fashion than I would spend on a week in Europe.
I'm driving to the airport right now.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Green Alligators and Long-necked Geese
Last weekend, I met a couple at my mother's house who is about to leave on a trip to Ireland. They were talking about the long, winding roads with hedgerow or cobblestone walls on either side. The vast number of sheep in the road where traffic comes to a halt. The remote areas where English is barely spoken. The street signs pointing in a million directions toward towns you cannot pronounce.
I suddenly wanted to go to Ireland. I want to stay in little inns, drink Guinness in old pubs and eat fresh fish pulled from the sea that morning.
The first time I stepped foot on Ireland was Easter of 1974 when I was nine. I remember the endless green scenery, my dad driving on the wrong side of the road directly into the path of a large tour bus (almost annihilating our entire family), picnics on the side of the road (during which my sister was mortified) and one inn where we put money into the bed and it shook (ah, nothing screams family vacation like a pulsating bed!).
I also remember our American cheeseburger-oriented family entering one B&B that served prix fixe meals where a little boy was running down the hall filled with excitement, "Mummy, mummy, they're serving salmon and lamb. Salmon and lamb!" At the time, we were all thinking "WTF?" and began sulking. My poor parents. At what may have been the same inn, my father swore at the dinner table and the entire restaurant turned to look at him. I think he had difficulty slicing a particularly rough cut of meat and it landed on the floor. The next morning, during breakfast, it was still there. Yum!
And lastly, I remember my brother Mark and I calling out the name of our hotel in Cork for days, The Arbutus Lodge, but we stressed the long vowel: Arbuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuutis.
I posted about my second trip to Ireland, actually just to Dublin, last year. That was merely a long weekend when we were living in London that served as an extended drinking binge vs. a cultural visit. Fun, yes. Memorable, perhaps, depending on the brain cells at any given moment.
My last trip was during the fall of 1986 when I was with two Irish girlfriends from Drogheda. We had just spent what little money we had traveling through Europe and ending up in Lagos, Portugal where we ate fresh rolls every night filled with cheese and mustard. It was our only meal of the day. By the time we arrived in Ireland, we were penniless and down to eating just the mustard out of the jar. I stayed for less than a week at their parents' house but it was glorious. We went to Dublin for the day shopping and sightseeing (i.e., they now had money again thanks to their parents) but, for the most part, we stayed in and around Drogheda. We went out for tea, attended a church service with their parents, hung out with their friends, went to the blistering cold beach and had ploughman's lunches at pubs in the countryside.
One friend lived across from the butcher in town where she could hear the little hooves of the animals click-clacking up the stone streets in the pre-dawn hours, hear their bleating as they cried out and saw streams of blood running down the drain outside after they were killed. It was the first time I grasped that there were real animals hiding in my food . . . not that I ate lamb anyway. Not even mint can help that flavor.
I now yearn to go back and revisit that trip from 1974. Right now. Travel all over with my family and see the sights -- most for the first time. I wonder if, in today's age of Playstation 2 and Nintendo DS, my kids would be even more jaded than we were. Would I be driving around Ireland looking for water slides and hotels with X-box? I hope not. But I'd like to find out.
I suddenly wanted to go to Ireland. I want to stay in little inns, drink Guinness in old pubs and eat fresh fish pulled from the sea that morning.
The first time I stepped foot on Ireland was Easter of 1974 when I was nine. I remember the endless green scenery, my dad driving on the wrong side of the road directly into the path of a large tour bus (almost annihilating our entire family), picnics on the side of the road (during which my sister was mortified) and one inn where we put money into the bed and it shook (ah, nothing screams family vacation like a pulsating bed!).
I also remember our American cheeseburger-oriented family entering one B&B that served prix fixe meals where a little boy was running down the hall filled with excitement, "Mummy, mummy, they're serving salmon and lamb. Salmon and lamb!" At the time, we were all thinking "WTF?" and began sulking. My poor parents. At what may have been the same inn, my father swore at the dinner table and the entire restaurant turned to look at him. I think he had difficulty slicing a particularly rough cut of meat and it landed on the floor. The next morning, during breakfast, it was still there. Yum!
And lastly, I remember my brother Mark and I calling out the name of our hotel in Cork for days, The Arbutus Lodge, but we stressed the long vowel: Arbuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuutis.
I posted about my second trip to Ireland, actually just to Dublin, last year. That was merely a long weekend when we were living in London that served as an extended drinking binge vs. a cultural visit. Fun, yes. Memorable, perhaps, depending on the brain cells at any given moment.
My last trip was during the fall of 1986 when I was with two Irish girlfriends from Drogheda. We had just spent what little money we had traveling through Europe and ending up in Lagos, Portugal where we ate fresh rolls every night filled with cheese and mustard. It was our only meal of the day. By the time we arrived in Ireland, we were penniless and down to eating just the mustard out of the jar. I stayed for less than a week at their parents' house but it was glorious. We went to Dublin for the day shopping and sightseeing (i.e., they now had money again thanks to their parents) but, for the most part, we stayed in and around Drogheda. We went out for tea, attended a church service with their parents, hung out with their friends, went to the blistering cold beach and had ploughman's lunches at pubs in the countryside.
One friend lived across from the butcher in town where she could hear the little hooves of the animals click-clacking up the stone streets in the pre-dawn hours, hear their bleating as they cried out and saw streams of blood running down the drain outside after they were killed. It was the first time I grasped that there were real animals hiding in my food . . . not that I ate lamb anyway. Not even mint can help that flavor.
I now yearn to go back and revisit that trip from 1974. Right now. Travel all over with my family and see the sights -- most for the first time. I wonder if, in today's age of Playstation 2 and Nintendo DS, my kids would be even more jaded than we were. Would I be driving around Ireland looking for water slides and hotels with X-box? I hope not. But I'd like to find out.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Mini-weekend: Day 5
Another week -- another day off. Missed last week but it's okay because today I'm packing (yea!) for a week in Sanibel. I just wish the weather report looked a bit warmer. I love intense heat and it's only showing low 70s. Anyhoo, nobody likes a whiner. Time to pack the Snuggie.
Highlight of today: a fresh mani/pedi.
Potential highlight of the trip: a spring training game betwixt the Red Sox and the Pirates. Somehow this Mets/Yankees family spawned a Sox fan. Not sure how this DNA mix-up occurred but Son #2 is beside himself with anticipation. My wallet is anticipating a "Can I get a hat?" hit followed immediately by the "Hey, he got a hat. That's unfair. What can I get?" doublewhammy.
I simply cannot wait to hit the beach, relax, read a book, have an umbrella-laden cocktail and, I hope, enjoy the sunshine.
In unrelated travel news: TripAdvisor posted my review of our hotel in NYC. Not much to write about; therefore, not much to read. But I always feel compelled to share my two cents perhaps because I get so much value from that site. How did anyone plan trips before it?!
Highlight of today: a fresh mani/pedi.
Potential highlight of the trip: a spring training game betwixt the Red Sox and the Pirates. Somehow this Mets/Yankees family spawned a Sox fan. Not sure how this DNA mix-up occurred but Son #2 is beside himself with anticipation. My wallet is anticipating a "Can I get a hat?" hit followed immediately by the "Hey, he got a hat. That's unfair. What can I get?" doublewhammy.
I simply cannot wait to hit the beach, relax, read a book, have an umbrella-laden cocktail and, I hope, enjoy the sunshine.
In unrelated travel news: TripAdvisor posted my review of our hotel in NYC. Not much to write about; therefore, not much to read. But I always feel compelled to share my two cents perhaps because I get so much value from that site. How did anyone plan trips before it?!
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
The Best Job in the World
Caretaker of the Islands of the Great Barrier Reef. What will I have to do? Blog for Tourism Queensland! Hey, I can do that!
Other duties: feed the fish, clean the pool, collect the mail.
It also pays ~$100K for a six-month assignment. Hello!
What they're looking for:
I can home school the kids on the beach for six months, right? And I could hang with Margaroo when she comes to visit from Brisbane every single weekend, right?
But would I have to learn how to cook?
Other duties: feed the fish, clean the pool, collect the mail.
It also pays ~$100K for a six-month assignment. Hello!
What they're looking for:
- Excellent interpersonal communication skills
- Good written and verbal English skills
- An adventurous attitude
- Willingness to try new things
- A passion for the outdoors
- Good swimming skills and enthusiasm for snorkeling and/or diving
- Ability to engage with others
- At least one year’s relevant experience
I can home school the kids on the beach for six months, right? And I could hang with Margaroo when she comes to visit from Brisbane every single weekend, right?
But would I have to learn how to cook?
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Magic Bus
Happy New Year!
As I wrote the last post, I began thinking of that ill-fated bus trip from Athens to London during the summer of '85. It was on a coach line really called the Magic Bus and it amounted to roughly three days riding in a rotten, stinking bus mainly with junkies who were shooting up in their seats and, without a bathroom on board, peeing in old Coke bottles. We, of course, spent hours in pain dying to go to the bathroom -- especially since we shared a bottle of wine each night in an attempt to catch some shut eye.
Given that we had no running water for a shower for days prior to departure, we weren't exactly the cream of the crop during that adventure either.
We encountered our first real potential problem as we entered what was then Yugoslavia and Oliver and I were Americans without visas. The bus driver was ready and more-than-willing to leave us at the border. I'm still not exactly sure what ensued as we couldn't understand a word they were saying; however, at the last moment possible, we were allowed back on the bus and the driver was angry at us for the delay.
The next day we stopped at a gigantic, clean rest stop where we bought apples, cheese and more wine. I entered the ladies room to find Gail with her head in the sink attempting to wash her hair. The dirt was coming out in thick, dark, tar-like rivulets. I helped her get the tar out; she did the same for me and Oliver.
Minutes later, the driver wouldn't let us on the bus again. At first we couldn't comprehend why then we realized what was wrong: he didn't recognize us. Fresh faced girls sans grime. I think it was our accents that saved us.
Somehow we made it back safe and sound and headed off to Jersey, Channel Islands upon our return for a warm bed and some pampering from Gail's parents. Two weeks later, I was back in Rochester, wearing professional attire as I sat behind a desk at my internship at Eastman Kodak Company. I think, at that point, I missed the stink . . .
As I wrote the last post, I began thinking of that ill-fated bus trip from Athens to London during the summer of '85. It was on a coach line really called the Magic Bus and it amounted to roughly three days riding in a rotten, stinking bus mainly with junkies who were shooting up in their seats and, without a bathroom on board, peeing in old Coke bottles. We, of course, spent hours in pain dying to go to the bathroom -- especially since we shared a bottle of wine each night in an attempt to catch some shut eye.
Given that we had no running water for a shower for days prior to departure, we weren't exactly the cream of the crop during that adventure either.
We encountered our first real potential problem as we entered what was then Yugoslavia and Oliver and I were Americans without visas. The bus driver was ready and more-than-willing to leave us at the border. I'm still not exactly sure what ensued as we couldn't understand a word they were saying; however, at the last moment possible, we were allowed back on the bus and the driver was angry at us for the delay.
The next day we stopped at a gigantic, clean rest stop where we bought apples, cheese and more wine. I entered the ladies room to find Gail with her head in the sink attempting to wash her hair. The dirt was coming out in thick, dark, tar-like rivulets. I helped her get the tar out; she did the same for me and Oliver.
Minutes later, the driver wouldn't let us on the bus again. At first we couldn't comprehend why then we realized what was wrong: he didn't recognize us. Fresh faced girls sans grime. I think it was our accents that saved us.
Somehow we made it back safe and sound and headed off to Jersey, Channel Islands upon our return for a warm bed and some pampering from Gail's parents. Two weeks later, I was back in Rochester, wearing professional attire as I sat behind a desk at my internship at Eastman Kodak Company. I think, at that point, I missed the stink . . .
Like a Rolling Stone
Hunkering down inside today given that we're having another 12-17" of snow. It's beautiful.
The other night, when the hubby's family came for Christmas, we began talking about Crete because my sister-in-law's best friend married a Greek man who now lives barefoot and begrudgingly on Long Island.
My girlfriends, sister and I were barefoot and begrudgingly poverty stricken on Crete many moons ago. After spending a few days in Athens seeing the sights, we had taken an industrial tanker to Crete and slept on bunk beds overnight just to save a buck. What we hadn't counted on was that there wasn't another cheap return to the mainland for another few weeks. So, after a number of days at the beach and nights at the disco, my sister and my roommate Bae flew back to London. I can't remember exactly when the others left. I just know that my girlfriends Gail and Oliver stayed in the little town of Malia with me until we could take the next tanker off the island.
Highlights of our visit included a) the creamy yogurt, b) the freshly made moussaka, c) dancing to "Vamos a la Playa" which was a big Eurotrash hit at the time, d) Oliver getting kissed on the lips by some Greek geezer who said, "You have such big, strong legs" (over which she was distraught for weeks -- not the kiss from an old man, mind you, but the fact that "he said I had big legs") and e) getting propositioned as we walked down the street by every guy who saw us (i.e., a crowd of young blonds and one gorgeous redhead). "Are you American?" "Will you marry me?" (Why not? Let's just skip the boring getting to know each other part.)
Once we finally arrived back in Athens, we found out that the bus we were planning to take to London was broken so we scored a fleabag hotel for approximately $1/night (i.e., $0.33/each). It had cockroaches the size of a man's shoe on the steps and the water didn't run. There was enough of a trickle in the sink to brush our teeth but no showers were to be had. We didn't have enough money to do much so we saved it for grilled cheese sandwiches each night in the deli across the street.
(Note: I'm sure our parents would have helped had they known but this was pre-cell phones and international ATMs. On a side note, the only call we did make from a payphone was to Scott Spezzano at Rochester's own WPXY because we heard "Sister Christian" one day and no one could remember the band. For those keeping score, it was Knight Ranger.)
Every time we walked in for "dinner," the owner of the restaurant would immediately play Dylan in the jukebox and call out "Three Cheese of America Sandwiches" as if he had known us for years.
How does it feel
To be on your own
With no direction home
Like a complete unknown
On our last day, we were trailed through the city by some middle eastern guys and we became a little fearful. When they hopped on the bus that we took to the beach, sat a few seats behind us, jumped off where we did and followed us onto the beach, we were scared to death. As the first group of guys we passed called out to us, Gail threw her towel and bag down and pretended we were the best of friends. "Hi!" Oliver and I followed and we ended up spending the day at the beach with these kind strangers who ensured our safety and drove us back to the hotel.
The next morning, we awoke to the cops outside. Our hotel was being condemned and we were being evicted. Oh well. When you got nothing, you got nothing to lose.
The other night, when the hubby's family came for Christmas, we began talking about Crete because my sister-in-law's best friend married a Greek man who now lives barefoot and begrudgingly on Long Island.
My girlfriends, sister and I were barefoot and begrudgingly poverty stricken on Crete many moons ago. After spending a few days in Athens seeing the sights, we had taken an industrial tanker to Crete and slept on bunk beds overnight just to save a buck. What we hadn't counted on was that there wasn't another cheap return to the mainland for another few weeks. So, after a number of days at the beach and nights at the disco, my sister and my roommate Bae flew back to London. I can't remember exactly when the others left. I just know that my girlfriends Gail and Oliver stayed in the little town of Malia with me until we could take the next tanker off the island.
Highlights of our visit included a) the creamy yogurt, b) the freshly made moussaka, c) dancing to "Vamos a la Playa" which was a big Eurotrash hit at the time, d) Oliver getting kissed on the lips by some Greek geezer who said, "You have such big, strong legs" (over which she was distraught for weeks -- not the kiss from an old man, mind you, but the fact that "he said I had big legs") and e) getting propositioned as we walked down the street by every guy who saw us (i.e., a crowd of young blonds and one gorgeous redhead). "Are you American?" "Will you marry me?" (Why not? Let's just skip the boring getting to know each other part.)
Once we finally arrived back in Athens, we found out that the bus we were planning to take to London was broken so we scored a fleabag hotel for approximately $1/night (i.e., $0.33/each). It had cockroaches the size of a man's shoe on the steps and the water didn't run. There was enough of a trickle in the sink to brush our teeth but no showers were to be had. We didn't have enough money to do much so we saved it for grilled cheese sandwiches each night in the deli across the street.
(Note: I'm sure our parents would have helped had they known but this was pre-cell phones and international ATMs. On a side note, the only call we did make from a payphone was to Scott Spezzano at Rochester's own WPXY because we heard "Sister Christian" one day and no one could remember the band. For those keeping score, it was Knight Ranger.)
Every time we walked in for "dinner," the owner of the restaurant would immediately play Dylan in the jukebox and call out "Three Cheese of America Sandwiches" as if he had known us for years.
How does it feel
To be on your own
With no direction home
Like a complete unknown
On our last day, we were trailed through the city by some middle eastern guys and we became a little fearful. When they hopped on the bus that we took to the beach, sat a few seats behind us, jumped off where we did and followed us onto the beach, we were scared to death. As the first group of guys we passed called out to us, Gail threw her towel and bag down and pretended we were the best of friends. "Hi!" Oliver and I followed and we ended up spending the day at the beach with these kind strangers who ensured our safety and drove us back to the hotel.
The next morning, we awoke to the cops outside. Our hotel was being condemned and we were being evicted. Oh well. When you got nothing, you got nothing to lose.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Tropical Rain Forest
My boss just got back from eight days in Costa Rica where she and her daughter had a blast. Her daughter sent a bunch of pictures of the rain forest, monkeys, crocodiles, butterflies, beaches, yachts and waterfalls. But my favorites were those of my boss, post zip-lining in the rain, with her face absolutely covered in grease and monkey poo. I used one as the background on the main office computer because it's hilarious.
Many years ago, I left my girlfriend Bridget in Tasmania where we were working, and went to travel Australia alone. I made my way from Melbourne up to Alice Springs and Ayers Rock over to Cairns and up to Cape Tribulation before heading back down to Byron Bay and ultimately Sydney where I arrived, penniless. I then borrowed money from my girlfriend Kris' now husband John so that I could afford two more weeks in Tahiti on my way home. Shameless! During my travels, I barely ate and spent my nights in backpackers' hostels that were, at times, covered floor-to-ceiling in geckos. I met heaps of great people, and literally ran into a couple I knew from Tasmania on the beach in Byron Bay, but really just wanted to be by myself for the most part.
I was thinking about all of this yesterday when leafing through the photos because one morning, while in northern Queensland, I awoke early so I could take a long hike through the rain forest. It was vibrant, green and lush. The ferns were dripping with moisture and the sounds were indescribable. It felt so otherworldly and luxurious to me. As I got further and further into the forest, I began to get a little fearful until one point where there was this gigantic lizard blocking my path forward -- which totally unnerved me. I didn't know what to do. Could I step over it? Was it a man-eating lizard? Would it please move? I somehow made my way past it but by then I was freaking out. I felt so alone and knew that I could be the only person in this part of the world for miles. Who would find my scattered remains? And when?
A second later, I entered a clearing that was littered with empty cases of beer, potato chip bags and other remnants of a recent party.
So much for the feelings of isolation and grandeur. My exotic rain forest experience vanished instantly on the heels of an Aussie frat party. And, to make matters worse, I arrived a few hours too late.
Many years ago, I left my girlfriend Bridget in Tasmania where we were working, and went to travel Australia alone. I made my way from Melbourne up to Alice Springs and Ayers Rock over to Cairns and up to Cape Tribulation before heading back down to Byron Bay and ultimately Sydney where I arrived, penniless. I then borrowed money from my girlfriend Kris' now husband John so that I could afford two more weeks in Tahiti on my way home. Shameless! During my travels, I barely ate and spent my nights in backpackers' hostels that were, at times, covered floor-to-ceiling in geckos. I met heaps of great people, and literally ran into a couple I knew from Tasmania on the beach in Byron Bay, but really just wanted to be by myself for the most part.
I was thinking about all of this yesterday when leafing through the photos because one morning, while in northern Queensland, I awoke early so I could take a long hike through the rain forest. It was vibrant, green and lush. The ferns were dripping with moisture and the sounds were indescribable. It felt so otherworldly and luxurious to me. As I got further and further into the forest, I began to get a little fearful until one point where there was this gigantic lizard blocking my path forward -- which totally unnerved me. I didn't know what to do. Could I step over it? Was it a man-eating lizard? Would it please move? I somehow made my way past it but by then I was freaking out. I felt so alone and knew that I could be the only person in this part of the world for miles. Who would find my scattered remains? And when?
A second later, I entered a clearing that was littered with empty cases of beer, potato chip bags and other remnants of a recent party.
So much for the feelings of isolation and grandeur. My exotic rain forest experience vanished instantly on the heels of an Aussie frat party. And, to make matters worse, I arrived a few hours too late.
Monday, August 25, 2008
OMG GNO!
Flew to DC for my girlfriend Kim's bachelorette party, stagette night, or more simply: girls' night out (i.e., GNO). It was great to meet her friends and even more awesome to (finally) meet, and spend some time with, the man of her dreams -- who is setting the bar a bit high for other men on this planet. Very thoughtful, intelligent, caring, handsome, normal, attitude-less and so on. What the ? Sensitive without being uh, how do you say, a sellout? Or wimpy? Definitely a hard balance that he's somehow perfected (at least more so than your average bear).
Even when we were getting ready to go out, they were covertly trying to figure out how they could somehow meet up later that night. Reinterpreting the whole GNO theme, I daresay.
Anyhoo, we had a really, really, really nice weekend. Totally chill. Sightseeing and shopping in Baltimore. Buying faboo new dresses at an edgy boutique: Form (hey mine was marked down to $129 from almost $500 -- score!). Hanging out at a couple of DC neighborhood bars. Relaxing over breakfast at an amazing restaurant that is part groovy lounge (old couches/crystal chandeliers) and part Polish diner (e.g., Kielbasa and egg breakfasts). Laughing a lot. Um, not to mention getting a little (!) emotional over their upcoming wedding. Chicks & love . . .
But my favorite line of the weekend came from Kim who toasted herself and her upcoming nuptials by happily exclaiming, "Here's to sleeping with the same guy for the rest of my life!"
Awesome! All of the married women at the table, perhaps me more than the others, were laughing their heads off.
Even when we were getting ready to go out, they were covertly trying to figure out how they could somehow meet up later that night. Reinterpreting the whole GNO theme, I daresay.
Anyhoo, we had a really, really, really nice weekend. Totally chill. Sightseeing and shopping in Baltimore. Buying faboo new dresses at an edgy boutique: Form (hey mine was marked down to $129 from almost $500 -- score!). Hanging out at a couple of DC neighborhood bars. Relaxing over breakfast at an amazing restaurant that is part groovy lounge (old couches/crystal chandeliers) and part Polish diner (e.g., Kielbasa and egg breakfasts). Laughing a lot. Um, not to mention getting a little (!) emotional over their upcoming wedding. Chicks & love . . .
But my favorite line of the weekend came from Kim who toasted herself and her upcoming nuptials by happily exclaiming, "Here's to sleeping with the same guy for the rest of my life!"
Awesome! All of the married women at the table, perhaps me more than the others, were laughing their heads off.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Wild Cat
Wow! According to Youniverse, my personality is a "wild cat." Wishful thinking? Adventurous soul, taste for the good life, unconventional. Sound like me? I'm not sure.
In short . . .
Fun = Thriller: love to be far away from everyday life, enjoy flirting, holidays should be indulgent
Habits = High Time Roller: like to get dressed up, go out, and be seen in all of the glamorous haunts (yeah, Thirsty's?)
Social = Socialite: can't imagine life without best friends
Speaking of which, off to "girls' night out" on Keuka Lake. Yea! Have a great weekend.
In short . . .
Fun = Thriller: love to be far away from everyday life, enjoy flirting, holidays should be indulgent
Habits = High Time Roller: like to get dressed up, go out, and be seen in all of the glamorous haunts (yeah, Thirsty's?)
Social = Socialite: can't imagine life without best friends
Speaking of which, off to "girls' night out" on Keuka Lake. Yea! Have a great weekend.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Anything for a Buck
For whatever reason, this guy cracks me up.
For $1, he will think about you for a minute and send you an email. Or he'll take a picture of the sky and email it to you. For $20, he'll send you a rock from the Hudson River.
Or you can put money down (along with others) to fund many of his larger ventures. He has raised just over $200 to get his MFA and he's raised $25 to go to Taketomi (an Okinawan island) and gather star sand. He's currently seeking money to travel to South America, Newfoundland, Perth, New Haven, Los Angeles and Iceland. (So am I, for that matter!)
Thanks to the generous donations of visitors to his site, he has visited a psychic, gone to West Saugerties to find the house where Bob Dylan recorded the Basement Tapes, fed the homeless, read the Little Prince on the steps of the NYSE, and sold some of his secrets to others.
To date, he hasn't become rich off this scheme (to the best of my knowledge) but I would venture to guess that his life has become more interesting.
With that said, if anyone wants to send me money, please don't hesitate. I will most definitely attribute the source and what it funded on this enormously popular blog of mine. Big fish/small pond notoriety at its finest.
(Note: Mom, unless you recommend otherwise, your generous donations will remain under the radar screen. There are already way too many to mention but I can easily change all of that with a quick tap-tap-tap on the keyboard. Just last week, new socks, another guitar for the boys to compete with one another on Guitar Hero, free babysitting, a book called "Fit for God," a bottle of Prosecco, etc. Yet that's just the tip of the iceberg . . . )
Speaking of funding, my boss recently offered to pay for a full back tattoo if I wanted one. She specifically indicated that she wanted it to be a giant, fire breathing dragon or maybe an eagle. Given that I still don't have pierced ears, I think she made a somewhat safe bet. Won't she be surprised when she gets the bill?!
For $1, he will think about you for a minute and send you an email. Or he'll take a picture of the sky and email it to you. For $20, he'll send you a rock from the Hudson River.
Or you can put money down (along with others) to fund many of his larger ventures. He has raised just over $200 to get his MFA and he's raised $25 to go to Taketomi (an Okinawan island) and gather star sand. He's currently seeking money to travel to South America, Newfoundland, Perth, New Haven, Los Angeles and Iceland. (So am I, for that matter!)
Thanks to the generous donations of visitors to his site, he has visited a psychic, gone to West Saugerties to find the house where Bob Dylan recorded the Basement Tapes, fed the homeless, read the Little Prince on the steps of the NYSE, and sold some of his secrets to others.
To date, he hasn't become rich off this scheme (to the best of my knowledge) but I would venture to guess that his life has become more interesting.
With that said, if anyone wants to send me money, please don't hesitate. I will most definitely attribute the source and what it funded on this enormously popular blog of mine. Big fish/small pond notoriety at its finest.
(Note: Mom, unless you recommend otherwise, your generous donations will remain under the radar screen. There are already way too many to mention but I can easily change all of that with a quick tap-tap-tap on the keyboard. Just last week, new socks, another guitar for the boys to compete with one another on Guitar Hero, free babysitting, a book called "Fit for God," a bottle of Prosecco, etc. Yet that's just the tip of the iceberg . . . )
Speaking of funding, my boss recently offered to pay for a full back tattoo if I wanted one. She specifically indicated that she wanted it to be a giant, fire breathing dragon or maybe an eagle. Given that I still don't have pierced ears, I think she made a somewhat safe bet. Won't she be surprised when she gets the bill?!
Sunday, December 30, 2007
My Dream Job
Wouldn't it be fabulous to travel the world, a la Anthony Bourdain, eating amazing meals at all of the consummate (but not necessarily upscale) restaurants in each locale? To spend your life enjoying the best that life has to offer? And make heaps of money in the process?
The fact that Anthony is an avowed Ramones fan is just icing on the cake. As Mr. Burns would say, "I like the cut of his jib."
Given that he already owns that niche, I want to claim the same format but cater to those seeking spiritual adventure. I won't get to booze it up nearly as much (well, on camera that is) but I could take viewers to places where filming is rarely allowed. And not to spas and resorts -- which are always highlighted on travel programs -- but to lesser known ashrams, Siberian shamans, and Tibetan nunneries.
Would I love to visit Bhutan? You bet. But I could also share places closer to home like the Abbey of the Genesee where 30+ contemplative (a.k.a. Trappist) monks reside and offer monastic-style retreats throughout the year. Or Rochester's own Zen Center where my girlfriend and I spent one of the best days of our lives in an introductory workshop on zazen meditation.
I guarantee that in every city across America, as well as villages and towns throughout the world, there is something awe-inspiring to showcase. And I'm just the right person to share it with you! Come on Travel Channel, make my dreams come true.
The fact that Anthony is an avowed Ramones fan is just icing on the cake. As Mr. Burns would say, "I like the cut of his jib."
Given that he already owns that niche, I want to claim the same format but cater to those seeking spiritual adventure. I won't get to booze it up nearly as much (well, on camera that is) but I could take viewers to places where filming is rarely allowed. And not to spas and resorts -- which are always highlighted on travel programs -- but to lesser known ashrams, Siberian shamans, and Tibetan nunneries.
Would I love to visit Bhutan? You bet. But I could also share places closer to home like the Abbey of the Genesee where 30+ contemplative (a.k.a. Trappist) monks reside and offer monastic-style retreats throughout the year. Or Rochester's own Zen Center where my girlfriend and I spent one of the best days of our lives in an introductory workshop on zazen meditation.
I guarantee that in every city across America, as well as villages and towns throughout the world, there is something awe-inspiring to showcase. And I'm just the right person to share it with you! Come on Travel Channel, make my dreams come true.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Travel Writing
It only took seven months for me to get my act together but I finally submitted my review of our February trip to the Dominican Republic to Trip Advisor. Not sure it was needed because most of the reviews for this hotel were glowing and it's currently ranked #1 of the 55 hotels in Punta Cana but what the hey? Every review helps, right?
I would also offer up my review of my trip last summer to Jersey, Channel Islands in the UK but I think it may frighten most tourists. Unless, of course, they enjoy drinking to excess with girlfriends, smoking cigarettes, and hanging out at surf clubs. We did somehow manage a day of shopping in St. Helier but a) most things were imported from the US and b) I couldn't afford anything anyway. But sightseeing? Hmmm. I guess so in the sense that, as long as you have your eyes open and you're relatively sober, you can't help but sight see.
The island is a gorgeous mix of English countryside, tan cows with long eyelashes, lavender fields, old castles, tiny roads flanked by cobblestone walls, and miles and miles of beaches. All of this seen mainly from the road betwixt pubs. There was time spent at Jersey pottery, a frigidly windy hike up to the lighthouse at Le Hocq and a day spent basking on the beach (with horrific hangovers) at St. Brelade's Bay.
But, the best part, was simply being with friends with a bit of reminiscing thrown in given that I lived there for five months after graduating from college in '86.
One night, as we were sitting outside at a pub in St. Aubin, a homeless-looking young guy walked past. Gail, my girlfriend who lives on the island, immediately said, "I'm a magnet for derelicts." Sure enough, this destitute man with long hair, wearing all camouflage, came in, sat with us, and told us about his boat, life at sea, rich ex-girlfriend and children. Yes, children. And then he began singing a song with the melodious refrain: "life seeds I sow." Just before he peed in his pants all over the floor under our table and we all ran for the next stop on our drinking tour, he said that he sat down with us because he is always drawn to spiritual people. And he pointed at me.
Later, this led to an interesting (and at times heated) discussion about Christianity. One friend was mostly ambivalent about the topic, one took exception to something I had said to her on a prior occasion and the third surprisingly seemed somewhat interested. We agreed, as one does when drinking too much, to go to church on Sunday -- except the ambivalent friend who said, "I'm not stepping foot in a church unless they're serving alcohol."
The next day, as we were driving out of town, we noticed a church that was advertising something akin to a "sermon and cider" series (cider being an alcoholic drink in England). Per usual, I took it as a sign from God. Look! Now we can all go! We all laughed. But alas, twas not meant to be . . .
I would also offer up my review of my trip last summer to Jersey, Channel Islands in the UK but I think it may frighten most tourists. Unless, of course, they enjoy drinking to excess with girlfriends, smoking cigarettes, and hanging out at surf clubs. We did somehow manage a day of shopping in St. Helier but a) most things were imported from the US and b) I couldn't afford anything anyway. But sightseeing? Hmmm. I guess so in the sense that, as long as you have your eyes open and you're relatively sober, you can't help but sight see.
The island is a gorgeous mix of English countryside, tan cows with long eyelashes, lavender fields, old castles, tiny roads flanked by cobblestone walls, and miles and miles of beaches. All of this seen mainly from the road betwixt pubs. There was time spent at Jersey pottery, a frigidly windy hike up to the lighthouse at Le Hocq and a day spent basking on the beach (with horrific hangovers) at St. Brelade's Bay.
But, the best part, was simply being with friends with a bit of reminiscing thrown in given that I lived there for five months after graduating from college in '86.
One night, as we were sitting outside at a pub in St. Aubin, a homeless-looking young guy walked past. Gail, my girlfriend who lives on the island, immediately said, "I'm a magnet for derelicts." Sure enough, this destitute man with long hair, wearing all camouflage, came in, sat with us, and told us about his boat, life at sea, rich ex-girlfriend and children. Yes, children. And then he began singing a song with the melodious refrain: "life seeds I sow." Just before he peed in his pants all over the floor under our table and we all ran for the next stop on our drinking tour, he said that he sat down with us because he is always drawn to spiritual people. And he pointed at me.
Later, this led to an interesting (and at times heated) discussion about Christianity. One friend was mostly ambivalent about the topic, one took exception to something I had said to her on a prior occasion and the third surprisingly seemed somewhat interested. We agreed, as one does when drinking too much, to go to church on Sunday -- except the ambivalent friend who said, "I'm not stepping foot in a church unless they're serving alcohol."
The next day, as we were driving out of town, we noticed a church that was advertising something akin to a "sermon and cider" series (cider being an alcoholic drink in England). Per usual, I took it as a sign from God. Look! Now we can all go! We all laughed. But alas, twas not meant to be . . .
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