BORDEAUX, France — In a city with a mix of students, the weekend starts on Thursday in Bordeaux. A night of drinking and dancing begins in the Place de la Victoire, where the crowd tends to be younger and livelier. Very popular with students is Le Titi Twister (76 Rue Leyteire), which as one insider described as “cozy inside with a Belgian/Dutch pub feel to it…and a good selection of world beers.” Other spots for entertainment include Place St-Pierre, Place du Parlement, and Place Gambetta.

Also in the vicinity is Café des Moines (12 Rue Menuts), a great place with a wide selection of beers and wines, and live music nearly every night. Nearby is Au Chat qui Peche (50 Cours de la Marne), something of a speakeasy where they play live music of jazz, rock and blues until midnight. However, the place is almost always packed until 4 or 5 a.m.

Bordeaux’s nightlife has a funky sophistication and its own chic that cannot be compared with Paris. Really, Bordeaux is the center of the world in wine commerce. These Frenchies know how to drink, and they know the quality of what they drink.

But don’t think you won’t be able to find a beer in this city: the Chartrons district has a rich Irish history, and there are plenty of Irish and British Pubs, such as The Cambridge Arms (27 Rue Rodé). At Connemara (14-18 Cours d’Albre), one can enjoy open-mic nights, karaoke, games and good pub food.

If gambling, drinking, dining and people-watching is more your ticket, then check out the Casino de Bordeaux, in the Hotel Sofitel Bordeaux Lac (rue Cardinal Richaud). If anything, the free admission is great if all you want to do is have a look around. To enter the formal gaming rooms, you will have to present your passport or identity card. Usually Fridays around 8 p.m. there is live entertainment. A brasserie on the street level is informal and has a fixed price menu of 25€. The restaurant above has menus beginning at 35€.

Or, if you’re the cultured type, a play or an opera at the Grand Theatre, place de la Comedie, could start your evening. Formal attire is required, and the cheapest tickets are best bought in advance. If jazz is what your soul is feeling, head over to Le Comptoir (14 Rue Temple), which is located near Gare St. Jean. For sure, this club attracts the 30-something crowd who have a taste for a little more sophistication and less wildness.

If you are looking to schmooze and network while listening to good music, Chez Pom-Pom (4 Cours Verdun ) is respectable, if not charming. The loud music and close space will lead to intimate conversations with handsome strangers (only the good looking people seem to go here).

Place Camile Julian is where the entertainment is, though. Cinema Utopia is “the best thing since sliced bread!” says an English teaching assistant living in Bordeaux.

If you are interested in salsa dancing, head to La Casa Latina Bar (59 Quai Chartrons ) in the Chartons. Another trendier bar is L’Absolute Lounge (rue de la Devise). There, you will be able to twist and shake to merengue and bachata, and occasionally enjoy live electro-jazz concerts.

Along the quai du Paludate or the old abandoned Wet Docks (Bassins-a-Flots), night owls can hibernate in bars and clubs until the early morning while listening to techno dance beats.

Iboat (Bassin à flot n°1, Quai Armand Laland) is located along Bassin-a-Flots with other major nightclub players like Pier 6 Deck (Rue Lucien Faure, Bassin à flot n°2), Dame de Shanghai (1 Quai Armand Lalande ) and Ice Room (19 Quai de Bacalan). Be prepared for a selective bouncer who will judge you on your guy-to-girl ratio and heel size. This is a crowd of 20-somethings in their first professional jobs or blowing off some end-of-the-week university steam.

As the parties end and dawn breaks across the quai, be certain to make one of your final stops at a street kebab stand, a portable late night food perfect for sharing with friends. Or if you feel like lingering, rest a little at a smaller café. If there’s anything the French know better than their food and wine, it is their coffee. And after a night of dancing, drinking, singing and dancing some more, a fresh cup of coffee and some talk will begin your Sunday morning.

(Images are original photography for Blast. Image credits: JenniferRose Photography; model, Alena Karabina; hair and makeup by Janeen Jones; styling by Nicoletta Marie Lyons; clothing provided by Conrad Lamour).

Blast writer Katy Dycus at the steps of the Vivekananda Memorial.

NAGERCOIL, India — At the southern tip of peninsular India, the Bay of Bengal, the Indian Ocean and the Arabian Sea meet. Rather than facing off at a sharp point, the meeting spot curves around a lush landscape, where slender wooden fishing boats punctuate the multihued sands texturing the shoreline. True sculptural design lies in the way wind and sand mold flexible contours of land and sea. This is India’s Kanyakumari district, the geographical end of the subcontinent. It was also the point that marked a new beginning for me.

Last summer, I spent two months living in south India. Primarily based in Nagercoil, Tamil Nadu, I lived among a people who valued their state’s language, Tamil, over the national one, Hindi. I worked with pharmacists in the Dr. Jeyasekharan Hospital for nearly eight weeks. I heard my co-workers speaking Tamil to one another, but the artistic gravity of written Tamil did not take hold of me until one Saturday when I ventured out to Kanyakumari with my friend Gitu, with whom I was staying in Nagercoil. It is one thing to hear a language, and it is an entirely new thing to see it.

Before boarding the boat that would take us out to an island where many make their pilgrammage every year, Gitu and I fitted each other for neon orange life jackets. Mine hung about me loosely, a physical reminder of just how much weight I had lost in the previous 10 days. The severity of my “traveler’s sickness” heralded from a combination of things—new spicy foods, jet lag, lack of sleep and the joyful yet exhausting experience of extreme excitement. But thankfully, I was living with a gastroenterologist who encouraged all of us in the house to openly discuss bowel movements, constipation, diarrhea. Frankly, or maybe ironically, I found this openness quite refreshing. Where else could I speak so honestly about the body?

That morning in Kanyakumari, I let the sultry air whip my hair into a frenzy while the boat rocked against waves tossed by the wind. It felt good to be outdoors. Heck, it felt good to be somewhere other than the bathroom. As the noisy boat carried us off shore to the Vivekananda Rock Memorial, I let anticipation build up inside me. Competing with the sound of the boat’s engine, Gitu explained that the memorial commemorated the life of Swami Vivekananda, a wandering monk who practiced austerity on this island we were entering. My mind instantly conjured up an image of a barefooted man meditating in solitary confinement (cross-legged, of course), humming some dull chant over and over. I began to feel sleepy.

In my two months in India, I had seen, heard, and smelled more bare feet than ever before—enough to make feet my least favorite body part. As I stated before, the body and the way it functions or malfunctions had never presented to me a real occasion for disgust. You would know this if you were to overhear some of the comfortable conversations between the gastroenterologist and I. However, India was giving me a reason to develop a distaste for feet.

Gitu at Thiruvalluvur's feet.

I should have known that at the entrance of the Vivekananda Rock Memorial, I would have to remove my sandals, or “Jesus sandals,” as my co-workers called them. This familiar ritual characterized my experience of the Mysore Palace, cathedrals in Chennai, a rustic summer palace outside Nagercoil. In India, shoes, and to a lesser degree, feet, have unclean associations. I’ve noticed Indians on the train making a simple gesture of apology if they accidentally touch someone with their feet. Shoes must be removed for places of worship or commemoration, when visiting people’s homes and sometimes even in some shops and businesses. Even though I learned about these cultural practices before coming to the subcontinent, I approached the removal act with resistance every time. I became hypersensitized to the sweat, dust and grime beneath my toenails.

At first, as I walked around the memorial barefoot, I crept along on my tip-toes. Then, when that becoming tiring, I walked gingerly on the sides of my feet. I probably looked like a lost, lame duck. As long as only a fraction of my feet were touching the ground, I decided, there was a lesser chance of contracting a deadly foot fungus. Was it an irrational fear? Everyone’s feet shuffled along silently and inobtrusively, so why did I build the fear up in my mind to be larger and louder than it was? I felt a momentary pang of guilt for elevating my fears above the virtuous ground upon which this memorial was established. It was in the waters surrounding this island, during the month of December 1892, that Swami Vivekananda swam daily. On this rock he meditated about India’s past, present and future conditions, struggling with thought as his muscles braved the strong seas. It was here that enlightenment came. Gitu pulled me aside for a photograph before I could reach temporary enlightenment.

“Stand over here, Katy. I’ll get the Thiruvalluvar Statue in the background,” said Gitu.

Gitu snapped the photo seconds after I pulled my hair back into a ponytail, useless because of the way the wind blew strands of hair into my mouth and into my line of vision.

Before boarding the next boat, which would take us from the Vivekananda Memorial to the Thiruvalluvar Statue, Gitu and I put our shoes back on. I made a silent apology to my shoes, which now had to wrap themselves around my disgustingly filthy feet. One thing was for sure: in India, people have the misfortune, or, as some would see it, the luxury, of shared experience in their ability to “trod” common ground. As we neared the next island, the Thiruvalluvar Statue grew into eminence until it pierced the sky. Moments later, the boat inched closer, farther from the Vivekananda Rock and closer to Shripada Parai—the statue’s island. It is an island where the remembered life of India’s most celebrated and recited poets shades into the poetic verse he created.

Aphorisms at the entrance to the Thiruvalluvar Statue.

The curly, eloquent script of the Tamil language adorns the walls marking the entrance to the Thiruvalluvar Statue, which stands at 133 feet, denoting the 133 chapters the Tamil poet authored in the “Thirukkural.” On Jan. 1, 2000, the monument was officially erected, bringing in the new year, a new millenium. Gitu told me that part of her school training was memorizing these classic couplets or aphorisms contained in the “Thirukkural.” These words were meant to inspire wisdom in India’s young, hoping that one day they would rise up to be a generation characterized by virtue and not corruption.

The foot of the monument literally depicts Thiruvalluvar’s larger-than-life feet, large enough for visitors to wrap their arms around a toe and still not reach all the way around. The 38-foot -tall pedestal represents the 38 chapters of “Virtue” contained in the “Thirukkural,” where the 95-foot-tall statue atop the pedestal represents “Pleasures” and “Wealth.” The construction itself contains the idea that wealth and love can only be obtained or laid upon a solid foundation of virtue. The idea was novel to me, as one who considers Biblical love and Christ-centered truth to form the foundation upon which virtue can hold any real meaning. The feet of Thiruvalluvar constructs a foundation of virtue then, while the feet of Christ-followers inspires virtue, as “beautiful feet” represent one who brings good news, who proclaims peace, who brings good tidings, who proclaims salvation (Isaiah 52:7).

Either way, I determined, feet don’t have to be a negative thing. Never before had I made such an honest connection between feet and beauty, or truth, or virtue. Architecturally and conceptually, the Thiruvalluvar Statue offers up ideas to visitors about not only a life, but a way of life. The “virtuous” feet at the base of the statue gave me a reason to reevaluate my fears and misgivings and to put them beside a discussion of faith. Given my disgust of feet and the conspicuousness of feet in India, I was hesitant to consider possible merits. But the Thiruvalluvar Statue demanded just that. It forced me to consider the things that we lay foundationally—to any situation, idea or life. “What foundation am I laying?” I asked myself.

***

Blast writer Katy Dycus at Thiruvalluvur's feet.

Ptolemy, an ancient Greek-Roman citizen and scholar of Egypt, designated the Kanyakumari region as a center for pearl fishery.  After visiting the Vivekananda Memorial and the Thiruvalluvar Statue, the boat returned us to the subcontinent. Gitu and I were weary from our little journey and were hungering for fresh fish and parotta, a layered flatbread. It took me a couple minutes before I realized Gitu wasn’t walking beside me; she had stopped at a small jewelry stand by the roadside, which looked so small compared to the pink Ghandi memorial behind it. I remained where I was, allowing the gentle breeze to ruffle my kurta.

When Gitu finally caught up with me, I barely noticed the tiny pearl necklace she placed in the palm of my hand. It was so delicate.

“You’re spoiling me,” I told her, pretending to return the gift.

“No, I’m not giving you enough,” she remarked, which was just so “Indian” of her.

The rope of pearls glued to my skin with the humidity, and the grimey sand felt like part of the necklace itself. When Gitu clasped the pearls at the back of my neck, it felt stickier still. Maybe this was just one more example of how something so ideally lovely and rare can also feel uncomfortable. Like feet, I thought. Formed in the dark of mollusk shells, pearls glow with an inner radiance. There is nothing radiant about feet, except when feet represent a commitment to virtue, as in Thiruvalluvar’s case, or in mine—to the proclaiming of good news as a result of an inner conviction; one so alive that it glows.

Kanyakumari is a place where one can witness the sun rise from the sea in the morning and set into the sea come evening. The movement produces a brilliance of color at this convergence. The point where three waters meet, where sun meets water, where water meets land, where Swami Vivekananda met peace, where Thiruvalluvar caused love and wealth to meet virtue. It is also the topographical end of a colorful land, a point where land is no more and where feet cannot tread. The place where waves brush up against more waves as far as the eye can see.

SELFOSS, Iceland — The two rock walls on either side of me towered up toward the sky. My Arizona roots have made me very familiar with mountains and rock walls, but these felt different. And, apparently, they were different.

“These walls are the edges of the American and the European continental plates,” Inga said, as she, her sister Bryndis and I walked between them. “It’s the only place in the world that isn’t under the ocean where you can stand between plates.”  I stopped in my tracks, feeling like someone punched me in the gut. Inga and Bryndis didn’t notice and kept walking.

Inga and I met while going to school in Scotland three years before, when we both were newly living in Glasgow and didn’t know a soul in the whole country. We were lucky enough to have been placed in the same flat, and we met my third day in the country. We have been best friends ever since.

I stared at Inga’s grey windbreaker and Bryndis’ blue one, becoming temporarily mesmerized with the colors. I lifted my arm, which was covered in a blue windbreaker matching Bryndis’, to push the hair out of my face. It was June, but it felt like an unseasonably cold winter day in Arizona.

Inga and Bryndis were way ahead of me, as I was stopping every few feet to snap another picture of the wall. I knew they thought it was cool, but they had been coming to this place since they were little. I wondered if the novelty had worn off for them.

For me, though, it felt like a magical place. To my right was the edge of the American plate; to my left, the European. I took a few deep breaths and looked to my left. Then to the right. And back to the left again. From my spot directly in between America and Europe I had a sinking realization that that spot—that exact area—was a more perfect metaphor for my life than I could ever make up on my own.

I expect to feel at home in Scotland. After the year of living there and the next two spent wishing I lived there, I know that I can always go and still feel like I belong. I never expected to feel so at home in Iceland, though. Even through the moments when I felt completely American–like having to shower in front of a locker room full of naked Icelandic women before going into the Blue Lagoon–I still felt strangely comfortable. Emphasis on strangely.

In my one week stay in the country, we traveled through some of the most amazing sights of natural beauty I have ever seen. Glacial waterfalls, leftover ash from the volcano, and hot springs are just a few of the natural wonders of this amazing country. Once, while driving up a two-lane highway (pretty much every highway in Iceland is only two lanes), we rode alongside a herd of horses running on the edge of the road. Grays blended into whites, which gave way to reds, and came back around to blacks. I made eye contact with a particularly beautiful silver-coated steed and I could have sworn he smiled at me. I had my camera in my hand, trying to capture the moment visually, while at the same time knowing that it wasn’t possible. The real beauty could only be experienced in person.

On my last night in the country, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling. I had an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. I unknowingly exhaled loudly.

“What is it?” Inga asked.

“I just don’t want to go back,” I said.

In the past three years, we’ve had this conversation many times, but the leaving never gets any easier. That’s what happens when you meet your best friend while studying in a country that is foreign to you both. When neither one of you stays in said country, even though you both want nothing else. When the only time you get to spend together is when one, or both, of you throws down a lot of money in order to meet up in another country.

“We just have to make a plan for the next time we’ll see each other,” she said quietly. I could tell by the tone of her voice that her eyes were also open.

“Yeah,” I agreed, half-heartedly. I thought back to the day when we stood between the continental plates. America and Europe. Right or left. Either or.

I turned onto my right side, facing the wall.  I knew that the sun was still shining behind the curtains, even though it was the middle of the night.

“We’ll make a plan,” I said.

The Lincoln Memorial

WASHINGTON — A travel bug recently nestled itself into my consciousness with a specific appetite for affordable, easy-to-get-to weekend trips to destinations on the Eastern seaboard. I’d indulged that little guy a few weeks ago with a jaunt up to Boston, land of my college existence and my first “big girl” job out of school. But this is the story about one place and one place only, one of this nation’s best-kept vacation secrets, Washington, D.C.

I’d heard the perfunctory, “It’s a great city” from friends and family and wanted to see for myself what this metropolis had to offer a long-weekend visitor. And what better time to head down to the resident city of all of the country’s political leaders than President’s Day weekend?

My first step was figuring out the logistics of my transportation. I wanted to travel quickly and, I hoped, as inexpensively as possible. I’d been a sporadic Bolt Bus rider for a little less than a year and began checking the website regularly for tickets. This was no more than a month before my departure, but the following notification loaded after searching for itineraries leaving on the Thursday before President’s Day weekend: “Bolt Bus schedules for the date you have selected are not available at this time on our system. We try to keep 4 to 6 weeks of schedules available at all times.”

But that was an empty promise. So I bided my time, strived for a bit of patience, and when the dates finally were available I immediately booked for one reason and one reason only: I had managed to secure the highly coveted, ultra elusive, $1 Bolt Bus fare. All was forgiven.

We arrived no more than 10 minutes past the estimated time and I was plopped in the middle of Union Station. And then I realized I’d never traveled to this city alone and didn’t know anything about the public transportation system. Poor planning on my part. Or was it?

The Library of Congress atrium

A Metro system of a different color

At 25 years old and with fairly extensive foreign travel experience, I think I have a strong navigational grasp. But this was a true test of “am I an autonomous fly-by-the-seat of my pants gal who could wing it and stay calm and alert before broadcasting that I might be a pickpocket’s dream target?” Gumption kicked in and I wandered around the low-ceilinged but clean and friendly Union Station, D.C.’s equivalent to New York’s Penn Station, only it was a fraction of the size and no one seemed to be in that much of a rush.

After finding the Metro station and getting some cryptic instructions from the friend I’d be staying with about taking the red line toward Glenmont but getting off at Silver Spring, I faced a piece of machinery that I don’t think Steve Jobs could’ve figured out how to use. Bewildered by what seemed like an archaic piece of equipment, I stared blank-faced and completely stumped on how to obtain a ticket for the train or what the cost of a ride might be. Ha, joke was on me because as it turns out you pay by distance and not per ride. This was a bizarre system for a New Yorker who’d only ever lived in Boston, where we ride for $2.50 and $1.75 a trip, respectively.

A kind soul took pity on me, and in the gentlest way possible got me a ticket for what she believed to be the approximate amount of money for my stop. I thanked her and headed through the gate, scanning my paper ticket. Safely on the platform, I tried to decode the digital updates, which made no sense. Time of arrival I understood, but the number of cars on each train? I still can’t figure out why that’s relevant. For anyone. As I tried not to stare and advertise the fact that I was indeed a tourist, the same sweet stranger who had helped me purchase my ticket caught up with me to “make sure I got on the right train.” Hello, kindness! So good to see you crop up in the least expected of situations. This gorgeous woman must’ve taken pity on my ragged appearance (I was sporting a red Jansport that I used to rock in high school, embracing the whole “traveler” style of luggage and all). Right then and there, I dubbed this a friendly and helpful city.

But I was out of my element. The people and the whole vibe in the metro station were “off.” The metro felt futuristic but in an old school way, similar to the subterranean train systems in Brussels or Prague. There was carpeting in the train cars and the seats were made of fabric. I couldn’t help but let the thought of bed bugs and unsanitary and unsavory thingamabobs fill my mind as I counted the stations rush past as the train barreled toward Maryland.

At the Smithsonian National Zoological Park

Piece of cake, or pizza

Finally reunited with my college friend after a day of traveling, a low-key night was in order. The New Yorker in me was craving pizza for some odd reason since I’d just left the land of all that is holy when it came to the Italian street food. We ordered a delicious wonderment of woodsy goodness, appropriately called the Edge of the Woods pizza from Pete’s Apizza. While overpriced at $24.95 for a large, the combination of sauteed savoy spinach, caramelized onions, Ricotta cheese and fried Italian eggplant was divine. And lasted for at least three to four meals/snacks between the two of us that weekend. Craving = satiated.

Animals, for free!

The next day we ventured out in the early afternoon to the zoo, but this is not just any zoo. It’s the Smithsonian’s National Zoological Park, the official zoo of this fine country. And shock of all shocks, it’s free. That’s right, no entrance fee. No gates, even. You just walk right in and can walk right out at your leisure. It’s really a marvel coming from a six-year stint in the land of cover fees to go to even the lamest bars (I’m talking to you Boston) and the city that never sleeps, where the rents are high and the groceries even higher. The weather was mild, in the low 50s and partially sunny. It was a pleasant, short walk from the Mount Pleasant neighborhood to the zoo, and every staff member was knowledgable, answering questions even when we didn’t ask. They even let their elephant go on independent walks on a serene, enclosed path uphill through the woods, I kid you not. I don’t know who was more enthralled by this slow-moving spectacle, my friend Alyson St. Amand and I well into our 20s or the toddlers at the zoo that day.

Fairly empty for a random Friday in February, the zoo was a playground for silly picture taking and getting the best views of the pandas, monkeys, and scary creepy crawly creatures in the reptile house. Worth a visit if you’re in the D.C. area.

Labneh dip appetizer at Tryst

Heading to Tryst for a late lunch was the perfect way to end a day outdoors. Everything about this Adams Morgan neighborhood food destination was pretty amazing. It had a low-key vibe and lots of telecommuters typing away on their laptops, sipping their coffee like it was an IV filled with creativity.  Tapping in to my Arab roots, we ordered the Lebneh dip as an appetizer. The Tryst menu describes it pretty well, “A Lebanese tangy yogurt served with za’atar—a blend of oregano and thyme—olives and lavash.” This strained yogurt is thick like cream cheese, but has a more savory taste profile. It tasted truly authentic, like having Sunday morning breakfast with my parents.

I ordered the Rodney sandwich, overflowing with flavorful and tangy curried chicken salad, lettuce and tomato on toasted multigrain bread slices that were dotted with sunflower seeds on the edges. Toasty and comforting only begins to capture the essence of the sandwich, and the textures and flavors were all delivering the perfect lunch experience. I paired my meal with a cocktail they call a “Peach and a 1/2,” made with Tito’s organic vodka, Dolin Blanc, fresh orange and peach bitters. I was satiated and relaxed thanks to the coffeehouse-style decor of cluttered mismatched tables, chairs and couches in a long room with a pastry and coffee counter on one side of the large dining area.

Not being able to resist dessert despite my jeans trying to resist staying closed, I indulged in the strawberries with warm Nutella for dipping. I’ve been a sucker for that hazelnutty chocolate goodness since my summers living in Frankfurt, Germany. With an iced latte to go, Tryst sent me off in delicious style.

At the Hirshorn Sculpture Garden

Hike it off

In the true spirit of shaking things up, I jumped at the chance to go hiking. Not too many good trails in Manhattan. Plus, after that indulgent meal at Tryst, what better way to burn calories than in the gorgeous, albeit brisk, D.C. outdoors? We headed out in the early Saturday morning hours to Rock Creek Park, a lengthy forest-like expanse for hiking, biking, and in some parts, horseback riding. During two hours of aimless meandering up and down the trails, we barely saw any fellow mountaineers. But we did stumble upon the creek and the horse stable, where they let us pet a gorgeous brown-haired mare. Channeling my inner five-year-old I embraced the moment, jumping up and down like a pre-teen being told she was literally getting a pony for her birthday.

To the hill, Capitol Hill

Next up on the agenda was a visit to the world’s largest library with more than 151.8 million “literary items” on about 838 miles of bookshelves. Sigh. A writing and reading maven’s dream come true. The free iconic landmark I needed to visit was, of course, the Jefferson building of the Library of Congress. Ornamented with stained glass windows and gold-trimmed crown molding, the central foyer was a feast for the senses. Colors of light swam fancy-free throughout the building and the Roman-serifed typeface of infamous literary quotes dotted the walls. One of the highlights of the visit was standing in the middle of an exact recreation of Thomas Jefferson’s actual library, a circular glass encasement of leather-bound classics organized in the most intriguing way.

Ulysses S. Grant Memorial

Right across the street is The Capitol, one of many great photo opps on the National Mall. The Ulysses S. Grant Memorial stands sentient over a large pool of water, facing west toward the Washington Monument, and well past that, the Lincoln Memorial. Fun fact: it’s the second-largest equestrian statue in the United States. Who knew?

The National Mall is a veritable treasure trove for anyone seeking art and culture, flanked on either side by countless national museums and galleries. Being late in the afternoon on a Saturday, many of the museums were getting ready to close (all free with the exception of the Newseum, which I’m dying to visit). Luckily, thanks to the outdoor Hirshorn Sculpture Garden outside of the Hirshorn Museum, I got to indulge my art craving without concern for closing times.

A little Spain in my mouth

Never one to turn down an invitation for tapas, we headed to Churreria Madrid in Adams Morgan, a restaurant, bar and tapas hole-in-the-wall. It legitimately looked like a rundown building that formerly housed a mediocre deli, but like Aladdin it was a true diamond in the rough. Authentic and completely unpretentious, this Spanish restaurant was inviting and warm–literally and figuratively. Upon walking in I was greeted in Spanish, which didn’t cease the entire night. I don’t know what it is about me that makes people think I’m fluent in Spanish. Luckily, I am, so I faked it throughout the entire meal. With the TV blasting “Sabado Gigante,” the classic Saturday evening Spanish-language variety show on Univision, and only one other couple dining when we first entered, the atmosphere was classic “townie.” I felt that the waiter was my lifelong friend and the subsequent couple and small family that entered after us were members of my extended family.

Churros con chocolate from Churreria Madrid

I know, I know, what about the food you ask? We put in an order for an appetizer platter, Entremes 4×4, which included four croquetas (chicken fried croquets), four empandillas (mini meat empanadas otherwise known as meat pies), four pieces of tortilla espanola (potato and egg omelet typically served at room temperature) and marinated aceitunas (that’s olives). As if that weren’t enough, we also sprang for a starter order of the platanos fritos con crema (fried/sauteed plaintain bananas served with sour cream in the madura style and not tostones, so they were served slightly crispy on the outside and as soft as mash on the inside). And patatas bravas. What? Too much for two people you say? It wasn’t. Plus, I’m a sucker for patatas bravas.

The real standouts of the meal were the platanos, which were exquisite in their simplistic, but perfect, execution. The croquetas also satisfied, although I would’ve like a more layered flavor experience. It was too one-note for my liking, lacking seasoning and depth. I was hoping for a kick of saffron, or paprika, or a hit of garlic. Anything, really. But still, fried goodness that was creamy on the inside and crispy on the outside. Like Bourdain says, a sneaker would taste good deep-fried.

We split an entree of pescado frito, fried red snapper with a side of arroz amarillo  (saffron rice) and patatas guisadas (roasted potatoes sauteed in a light, lemony and garlicky oil-based sauce). The fish, fried in its entirety, head and all, was light and flaky and full of simple but classic flavors. The skin was crisped and delicious, and despite being riddled with bones, the fish meat was sumptuous. Definitely worth the extra effort of avoiding fish bones to indulge in what I like to call real food–unprocessed and free of overdone embellishments.

The tapas spread from Churreria Madrid

The sangria was weak but refreshing and chock full of diced apple and peach. For dessert, por supuesto, we ordered the churros con chocolate. They aren’t kidding around with the servings here; one order of churros includes a dozen of the doughy, lengthy, pipe dream of a donut coated in sugary sweetness and served with thick, bittersweet hot chocolate dipping sauce.

I’m already dreaming of the pescado frito and platanos, contemplating a return trip.

Brunch of champions

Sunday, in my book, is the day where I pay my respects to one thing I solidly believe in: the practice of brunch. After settling into the literary and artistic haven that is the original Busboys and Poets on 14th and U, I made a ballsy brunch move choosing to combine the Neptune and

Florentine specials (essentially a crab cake Benedict and a spinach Benedict) into what can only be described as food porn (thanks again Bourdain). For now we’ll just call it Dinah’s Benedict. It was freaking delicious; the chefs here certainly know their way around a poached egg. For an accompaniment there was a choice of home fries or grits. Being in the mid-Atlantic I felt warranted a close enough proximity to the South and I went straight for the grits. Best decision of the day. With a creamy consistency that was heavy enough to stand on its own but fluffy enough to deceive my mouth into thinking it was eating clouds, they were well prepared and cheesy (yes, I asked for cheese, give me a break I was on vacation and the calories and cholesterol don’t count).

Another upside, the Bloody Marys and mimosas are $5 with brunch on the weekends, and hell, that’s a steal in NYC. These were not your typical tomato-juice based, spicy morning beverages. They were dense, not like some watery versions that are a dime a dozen. They serve them with a celery, olives and some kind of crazy pepper that I’ve never encountered before. But the best part had to be the Old Bay seasoning enveloping the rim with a sinfully spicy kick. Good morning, Maryland!

Settling in with our laptops for some writing and reflecting downtime, I caved and ordered a Thin Mint Latte, a coffee made with organic mint syrup, chocolate, steamed milk and two shots of espresso. This place is more than just simple yet elegantly cooked food and unique twists on classic drinks, but they have a bookstore and embrace a cultural and racial openness through their artwork, poetry slams and other events for the literati.

An elephant at the zoo

Packing centuries’ worth of history into one day

On my last day, fittingly President’s Day, we took in the standard D.C. sites: the White House, the Lincoln Memorial, the Korean War Memorial, and the National Mall. All free, all doused in here-and-there slivers of February sunlight, and not at all too packed with tourists. A city intricately steeped in this baby of a country’s history, Washington, D.C. seems to have an endless array of sightseeing spots. It’s similar to New York City in that way, but this widespread urban area isn’t part of any actual state (remember that third grade geography) but touches on Virginia and Maryland in an interesting mix of cultures and neighborhoods. I don’t think you could spend a lifetime here and visit every bar, restaurant, museum and gallery or walk down every street. Exactly what I love, that je ne sais quoi that keeps you intrigued and craving more of everything, the food, the people, the sights.

My departing Bolt Bus ended up leaving a whopping 20 minutes late to my, and every other passengers’, dismay. After such a great, relaxing and exploratory weekend, I felt a little disillusioned complaining. But then again, this leg of my ride was costing me $20 and not $1.

By Ashley Pierce at Emmanuel College

NEWBURYPORT — At times, living in the city can take a toll on almost anyone’s mental health. From the noise, dirty air and visions of cement in every corner, it’s easy to yearn for refuge away from the chaos.

For those living in Boston, it’s sometimes hard to remember that it’s a city within an entire region that is New England; a region known for it’s natural beauty, rich history and many tourist attractions.

However, you don’t have to travel far, or even go out of state for a New England experience. A mere forty-minute drive up interstate 95 is the only thing separating you from saving your sanity from inner-city blues.

Or if you don’t have a car in the city, like me, the Commuter Rail runs directly to the city’s train station from North Station.

Photo Credit: Tripadvisor

Newburyport, only 35 miles north of Boston, is the perfect coastal destination escape. Though anytime of year looks beautiful in this North Shore town, the fall is perhaps the most perfect time for a drive up. To some, the drive may be worth the whole trip.

If you prefer the scenic route, take the exit before Newburyport, exit 53-b, Rowley. From there, route 133 East will lead to you route 1A- a quiet and winding road, dotted with colonial homes, radiant orange and crimson hued foliage, alternating with landscapes of salt marshes and small boatyards along the river.

You know you will have reached Newburyport when the Colonial houses become more numerous, closer together, and larger in size, with 18th century old cemeteries appearing in-between.

While the smallest city in Massachusetts has a lot of history to offer, it also has a great natural resource to escape to.

Maudslay State Park is a state reservation of the Department of Conservation and Recreation, and the former home of the late Mosely family estate.

Though the park is beautiful during any season, autumn is especially flattering. With paths winding through rolling meadows and shadowy forests, stretching all the way to the Merrimack river-such natural elements make it a leaf peeper’s paradise.

As we walked the perimeter of the park, I found that not only was I enjoying nature at its finest, but I was getting a work out as well.

After our “cardio session” in the park, I appeared to work up quite an appetite. So, we packed up the car and headed downtown, to the heart and charm of the city.

While walking along the red-bricked sidewalks of High street, it was clear that there was no shortage of places to grab some grub. We were even suggested by a local to get a lobster roll at Bob Lobster, just outside downtown, for a real taste of New England flavor.
However, one glimpse at “Agave Mexican Bistro,” had me persuaded that burritos or fajitas could be the only cure to my insatiable appetite.

I thought it most logical to order the fajitas, since it was almost guaranteed to be a decent portion. I was mistaken. “Decent” was an understatement.

My plate was heaping of yellow rice, refried beans, sautéed peppers and onions, perfectly seasoned chicken, guacamole with notes of cilantro (which I’m partial to) and their -not too mild, not to spicy-house salsa; all accompanied with soft flour tortillas, perfectly warmed.

I ate most of it, with the exception of a single flour tortilla and small clumps of rice and beans.

We skipped dessert and instead washed our meals down with one of their tasty libations. Though the menu offered up to six different flavors of margaritas and 70 varieties of tequila (all along shelves back dropped by a cascading waterfall), I decided to go with the house sangria priced at six dollars, while my “research partner” went with a bottle of “Negra Modelo”, a Mexican beer with hints of honey.

After we paid our bill, which ended up to be a little pricey for our college budgets, we headed back to the car with our bellies full.

On our walk back, we peeked in the windows of the quaint boutiques and coffee shops until we came across one selling products of our interest: wine and beer. As we walked in the door of “Grand Trunk Imports”, the smell of artisanal cheese alerted us that alcohol wasn’t the only product sold here.

As we surveyed the various types of wines from all over Europe, we ended up at the grandiose beer selection, which included brews from local and European breweries. We ended up choosing “hoptimus prime”, a dark, hoppy brew, which tasted as good as the name was clever.

Jeremy, co-owner, along with his wife, offered us a taste of cave-aged cheddar, a hundred times more delicious than the grocery store offerings. He pointed us to the glass case, filled with a considerable variety of cheeses ranging from camembert to gruyere to manchego, all imported from all over Europe.

Although we only ended up purchasing the beer, we thanked Jeremy and left the charmingly rustic looking store, and headed back to the city to toast to a great day, with our new, delicious brew.

Step out of your room and right onto the beach (Blast staff photo/John M. Guilfoil)

FALMOUTH — You know all those 1950s surf music videos, where people are on the beach, playing volleyball, surfing, drinking from coolers, and generally being best friends with strangers? Yeah, that’s not supposed to happen in real life. Or, if it did, it was something unique to that era, before people in New England began to hate both strangers and local beaches.

So it was easy to go into a newly remodeled Cape Cod beach hotel with a certain amount of skepticism.

Imagine my surprise. Maybe I’ve been too cynical about our local waterfronts.

The Sea Crest Beach Hotel just underwent a $15 million renovation to smartly bring the resort back in time. From the soft, white sand on the beach, to the indoor and outdoor pools, outdoor dining, poolside bar and quaint, comfortable restaurant, the hotel offers a total package that screams vintage Cape Cod.

This is what a Cape vacation is supposed to be. This isn’t rows of tourist traps, awful gift shops and a endless line of Christmas Tree Shops stores. This is summer — or fall in my case — on a private beach, with employees who know your name and room number and bartenders who know what you’re drinking.

The other people staying at the hotel seemed to be taken away just as much as I was. People said hi as they walked by, and we did the same. Strangers held conversations and clanged glasses together.

Even the history of the hotel screams vintage and cool retro. In 1927, a young Henry Fonda, Margaret Sullivan and James Stewart and other beautiful and famous people created a summer playhouse and tea room on Old Silver Beach, where the hotel stands today. It burned down in a 1936 fire and was rebuild as the Old Silver Beach Club, a Prohibition-era speakeasy. It was destroyed in a hurricane two years later and re-built as The Latin Club, a club managed by Lou Walters, the father of Barbara Walters. There was a hiatus during World War II, but the property re-opened as a summer resort.

In 1963, a group led by Boston Celtics owner, the late Red Auerbach, purchased the resort and converted it into a year-round resort in 1971. It was purchased by a real estate venture last year.

The sun sets over the private beach (Blast Staff photo/John M. Guilfoil)

We began our Cape weekend with a visit to the Bourne Scallop Festival, one of many fall events and home to some of the best fried scallops I have ever tasted. There are also a variety of rides, games and local crafts.

We arrived at the resort mid-afternoon. The best rooms at the resort are the ground-floor rooms on the beach. You literally step out of your room, onto the beach. It is perfect for getting lost with a date, a bottle of wine, and a picnic lunch. We did. Hours passed slowly but surely as we let the late September fog roll offshore and the sun come out for one more hot day.

For the fall and winter, when it gets colder, there are a variety of fireplace rooms available. You can walk on the beach during the day and warm up by the fire at night.

Seated at the outdoor bar, I was really taken away by the facade covering the building and the blue and white awnings. I felt like I was much farther than an hour away from home. There is a real understated elegance to the Sea Crest. It’s not a cheap hotel, but it’s by far not the most expensive stay on the Cape, yet you feel like you should be spending a lot more money.

Dinner at Red’s restaurant was nice. It’s not a five-star restaurant, but the entrees are filling, the ambiance is comfortable and the service is great.

Here’s how I have to close the story: The Sea Crest hosts weddings, and even as a guy I can say it would be awesome to get married here.

The bodies that lay just beyond my front door were rigid and still, lifeless and festooned for their final farewell. For the most part the mortuary was dead quiet, especially after hours, but every now and then it would teem with inexplicable activity.

I had just put the baby to bed for the night and was indulging in the weekly magazine I saved for that quiet time when everyone had gone home or was out picking up our newest client. Just as I had settled into my corner on the couch, the floorboard outside my door creaked with the heaviness of a footstep. With a suddenly accelerated heart rate, I awaited the next step…but it didn’t come. Either someone was standing just outside my door, or I had imagined it. A loud crashing noise shook me from my frightened anticipation. Someone must have returned and was making a raucous while transferring a new body. I slowly opened the door an inch or two, keeping the chain securely fastened. Nobody was in the hallway. Upon thorough investigation of every room, I found that the mortuary was empty, save me and the baby. Walking quickly, as if followed by death, I made my way back to the apartment, heart racing, hair raised. I watched as an orb of light followed close behind my reflection in the mirror at the end of the hallway. I raced into the apartment, quickly locked the door – chain, deadbolt and knob – and returned to my corner on the couch, knees pulled up. While I rationalized the events, trying to laugh it off, it came again…the creaking floorboard.

The first thing people ask me when they read my book or hear a bit of my unlikely life story is, “You really lived in a mortuary…with dead people?” Yes, I did. And their next question is always the same…“why?”

I was newly married at twenty years old, six months pregnant and without many options for work and a home. This particular mortuary offered both and it was an offer impossible to pass up despite its obvious flaws. Needing a home and a way to provide for my new baby trumped the trepidation I had about whom, exactly, we would be living with.

The only mortuary experience I could remember before moving into that Northern California, family-owned funeral home was the service for my 92-year-old great grandma. I was barely into the double-digits of life and trembling while my grandpa firmly held my hand and walked me to the casket to pay my respects to one of my favorite people. When I got close, I was stunned by the lack of resemblance between the pasty, soulless body in front of me and the grandma who so often leaned over to peek at my cards while smiling as if she had a secret before asking, “Do you have any 4’s?” He made me kiss her cheek and I remember the smell, of what I now know to be formaldehyde, making me sick to my stomach and the cold, stiff feel of her cheek giving me the chills.

With this my only home-of-the-dead experience and the memories still haunting, I was a tad more than terrified to walk through my new front door. But as is the case with much of the unpleasant in life, I adapted. I began venturing out into the red-carpeted hallway, long and narrow, which led into the business office, casket show-room, chapels and, of course, the embalming room.

I helped after hours since I wasn’t technically an employee, only to find that it’s after hours that the place really comes to life. I ran the vacuum over every inch of carpet, at one point hugely pregnant and later with a baby dangling from a papoose slung over my shoulders. I cleaned the bathrooms, replaced the tissue boxes, collected and documented flower cards and gradually worked my way closer and closer to that room. Once inside, I came face to face with the morbid, matter-of-fact realities of death, and eventually, I painted those faces.

The first lesson I learned is one that has helped me through many uncomfortable situations. Human beings are surprisingly superb at adapting to our environments. At first mention, the idea of living with the dead was unfathomable, and I did spend many terrified moments curled up on the couch anticipating the next haunting footstep, shadow or looming light. But with time, I actually found myself unaffected by their presence, applying their make-up with the same matter-of-fact mindset I had while filing paperwork at a law firm months before, only with more cooperative clientele. I found a way to survive circumstances that had once seemed untenable, and I reminded myself of this when later faced with some of my darkest hours. I would repeat over and over the mantra, “no matter what, I’ll survive.” This mindset helped get me through a violent and at times life-threatening marriage, divorce and custody battle. It helped get me through single-motherhood. It still helps me with the uncomfortable uncertainty of life.

Life is fleeting. This is another lesson I learned from my time with death. The ironic contrast between the death that continually passed through the mortuary doors and the new life I held in my arms was unmistakable. It was terrifying, too, as I was quickly made aware that no one is immune to this certainty. Shortly after I brought my beautiful baby home from the hospital, another mother was bringing her still-born baby to our home for a service. With empathetic grief, I clung tightly to the life I would die to protect and grappled with the inevitability we must all face. I saw many ages, races and faces come through those doors. I saw natural causes and violent tragedies. Many who work in the business find themselves so consumed by death they can’t live life. Many turn to drugs and alcohol. I can’t really blame them. If death is the end of the road, life can seem futile and cruel. Luckily, before I was overwhelmed by the unforgiving and unrelenting reality of death, I caught a glimpse of what would become the most valuable lesson of all.

Any of us can play dead. It is, in fact, recommended as a useful tool while being mauled by bears. Hollywood goes to great lengths to recreate its likeness. But, the truth is, we can’t recreate it. It is undeniable that something is missing when you look at and touch a body that once was a living, breathing person. No matter how much make-up, glue or formaldehyde you use, you will often hear the family say that the body before them is not their loved one. They are most certainly gone…but where to? What is missing that made them who they were? These questions were ever present, and as haunting as the whispers in the hallway. It had been a long time since I had considered the Christian faith I was raised with. But the questions were demanding my attention. I began seeking answers and ironically, that place of death would become the beginning of a new faith and as a result, a radically new life.

Despite the many hair-raising events I suffered while living in that mortuary, I gained a lot from my time there. It was life-changing.

So if you are planning on taking up residence in your local funeral home, I have some advice: brace yourself for what might pass you in the hallways. And be respectful of the dead and their loved ones – for it will, most definitely, be you one day.

Rebecca’s book, “All the Wrong Places” is available on Amazon, Barnes and Noble online, and the Rebecca’s website in both paperback and e-book format.

This is second in a year-long series of articles about an American living and working abroad for a month in 12 different countries. Click here for the WorkAway RSS feed!

URSWIL, Switzerland — I’ve now been in Switzerland one week and by the time you are reading this it will probably be closer to two, maybe more. For those of you in a time crunch, use the following helpful guide to this article (free of charge):

-If you want something humorous, go to I (Animals).

-If you want information on the people of Switzerland, go to II (People).

-If you want something more contemplative, go to III (Tools).

I. Animals

I have a wide variety of jobs on the farm, but by far the most interesting ones involve the animals. As it is a dairy farm, this means cows. Forty cows to be exact (the most of any farm in this area and a large number for a Swiss farm). My day begins and ends with these cows.

Let me say first off: I like cows. I really do. And when I heard I would be working not with just one or two, but with forty of these majestic creatures, I was, I’ll say it, overjoyed. I’ve always found them hilarious and sort of adorable. I suppose in the same way I imagine a Neanderthal child must have been adorable. At the very least, I find them interesting.

In fact, I would even go so far as to say that if you don’t like cows, you’re almost forced to at least admire them. There is a dumb endurance in their attitude, a brute and ungraceful inertia that seems to say “Yup. Here’s Life. Again,” in a way that, to my, 20-something, neuroses-riddled, over-imaginative, widely-concerned, hyper-attentive, politically motivated, liberal-arts-educated, brain sounds, well, enviable. I say all this is to make sure you, dear readers, realize what side of the (excuse the pun) fence I’m on, when it comes to cows. In the hope that you’ll be more empathetic and understanding of my predicament.

Because, despite the Mr. Hogett meets James Herriot image I had created for myself (I would, of course, feed and milk the cows, but only as a break from the deep, meaningful interactions and mutual respect we would spend our time sharing), it turns out there is really one main role when it comes to the care of these ungulates. One that overshadows the rest. One which, perhaps, best defines my current role in the universe. I start the first hour and end the last half hour of each day the exact same way. And I’m going to be pretty hard pressed to come up with enough professional synonyms for it to last me the whole section. But I’ll try.

Let me approach this from a more mathematical perspective. Imagine, if you will, a stable. Four rows of stalls (each housing ten cows) run lengthways – one along each wall and two back-to-back in one row down the middle. Each stall is separated by a small metal divider, and in the two rows between the stalls are concrete areas for moving about. The whole area is roughly 50 x 100 feet in size, not including the feeding, milking, and milling about areas, which easily add another 7500 square feet. And it is this rather massive expanse where my destination lies each morning when I wake from my sleep. It is here where I am called to task. And it is here where I have had hours of time to devote to the observation of bovine culture at its finest. If the sociologist in me attempted to describe a system of rules or ethics of cow culture based on my observations, they would come up, every time, as follows:

1. Eat whenever you can. If something looks like food, try it out. Doesn’t matter if it is walking

around/six feet tall/trying to communicate with you. Go ahead, give it a lick.

2. Do not moo as a form of communication. Moo at inconsequential things. Use it only to disrupt the serene silence of the day. If you are mooing, you are important.
3. Everything is a toilet.

There is little I can do about the first two. However, it is for this last task that I have been trained. It is here I seek my glory. It is here where the duties of two species meet. I stand primed at the cusp of thousands of years of human evolution; centuries of progress all leading up to this moment, perfecting me for this and this alone. And so…I clean.

The whole preparation is a process as well. By 8:30 each morning I am sporting a multi-layered full body red and blue suit, water-proof green boots, and a slick pair of what look like dish-washing gloves – I look, in short, like a Ghost Buster from the 70′s. Then I get my scraper, my shovel, my other scraper, my pride…wait, scratch that, and I begin the long and tedious process of restoring order where anarchy has struck. In these moments I am many men at once. I am Don Quixote, charging at unconquerable windmills, I am a knight errant on a fool’s quest, I am a lowly monk, descending into Hell to cleanse the demons at its heart. I work with the resolve of Atlas, but the heart of Sisyphus, because I know no matter how perfect a job I do, no matter how well I clean, how faithfully I shovel, when I return in the morning, my task will await me anew, and the gods will be laughing.

And it would be one thing if the job came with some sort of thanks. Even a meaningful look, or a moo in my direction. But that’s the thing. After many, many, gregarious attempts (in English, in German, in guttural grunting) on my part to befriend these creatures, I have come to an ego-shattering conclusion: They. Don’t. Care. About. My. Existence. The thought is as destabilizing as the surfaces upon which I trod. As part of my station I had presumed a kinship with these creatures, I had thought we should find, in the filth of common experience, a shared language by which to communicate. Perhaps they would see me as one of their own. I thought, As long as they love me it will be worth it. And so I try to talk to them. Nothing. I smile in their direction. They look at me with a self-righteous indignation.

And this goes on. Day after day:

“Hey” I say. They walk by me

“Nice to see you,” I say. Disgusted, they move away.

“Nice weather,” I say. They relieve themselves close to my location.

“Don’t do that there, please,” I say. They do that there.

It would border on an abusive relationship, if they even knew I existed.

I guess I always assumed a pretty clear power dynamic on farms. There was the farmer, the overlord, and the various animals, his subjects, which would produce for him his desired goods. A sort of more restrained Genesis 1:28. But the question of just who rules whom becomes a little less cut and dry when you’re the one trotting around dutifully with a shovel.

Nietzsche writes in his Genealogy of Morals, of Ressentiment, that unique response the “slaves” in his master-slave morality feel towards the life affirming, will-utilizing, go-getters: those that forge for themselves a reality they desire, sometimes at the expense of others. The “slaves” grit and grind their teeth,decrying the actions of the “masters” as evil. Meanwhile, the “masters” are so focused on their own lives and enjoying what they are doing that, guess what? They barely notice the “slaves” and their moralizing. So all the “slaves” think about all day is the stupid, ungodly, habits of the “masters”, while the “masters” are blissfully unaware. Sound familiar? This is, admittedly, a gross (again, excuse the pun) oversimplification. But it is an oversimplification that I live every day.

I spoke of the magic of the cows’ neuroses free existence earlier. And it’s true. In the grand cosmic scheme of things, theirs is not to wonder why. Theirs is not to discover. Theirs is not the existential dilemma. Theirs is to chew their special mix of hay, digest it in record time, show complete and utter disregard for any sense of cleanliness or tact, and then, always free from the haunting memories of the past, to do it all again, as if for the first time.

And my purpose? The process of rebuilding my fractured ego has led me to this exact question. Camus writes of the optimism of Sisyphus: how, no matter how bleak the situation, it is the freedom to choose one’s outlook that gives the existentialist’s life meaning and, ultimately, hope. I won’t be so bold as to claim the former in my current station, but perhaps, I can strive for the latter. Let me then say, here and now, with pride:

I am a scooper, I am a shoveler, I am a scraper! I beautify what others would deface! I am no more than an afterthought of the bovine collective.

Summer’s in full swing, and New Hampshire’s ski resorts promise to bring fun, adventure and relaxation all year-round, whether you want an adventure or a relaxing getaway. Taste award-winning cuisine, take in the spectacular views, explore your wild side and experience how the state’s best ski spots turn into summer destinations!

Relaxing isn't difficult at Attitash, with its hotel spa and this spectacular view.

Attitash

Located in Bartlett, Attitash offers something for everyone. Take a 2,800 foot ride down the Nor’Easter Mountain Coaster or slide down North America’s longest Alpine Slides, splash around at the water park, enjoy the scenery on horseback, relax in the heated outdoor pool and get a massage at the Attitash Grand Summit Hotel spa or shop ’til you drop at the over 200 tax-free factory outlet stores nearby.

Route 302, Bartlett
603-374-2368
www.attitash.com

The Balsams Grand Resort Hotel

Named one of America’s 10 best family resorts by Family Life magazine, the Balsams Grand Resort Hotel sits on 15,000 acres in New Hampshire’s White Mountains. Savor award-winning cuisine or take a culinary class to learn for yourself. Don’t forget to hone your palate at a wine tasting. Enjoy the weather and spend time outside fishing, golfing, white water kayaking and rafting, mountain biking, hiking or on a garden tour. If you prefer air conditioning, play billiards, dance at the nightclub, listen to a lecture or go shopping. There are even supervised activities for the kids (age 5 and up) if you want some romantic alone time!

Route 26, Dixville Notch
800- 255-0600 (U.S. and Canada); 800-255-0800 (NH)
www.thebalsams.com

Black Mountain

Those looking for a rustic experience will find plenty to do at Black Mountain. Take in the gorgeous views on horseback (or a pony ride–we won’t judge) and go on an overnight horseback excursion to a cozy cabin and a campfire; they’ll even provide the s’mores! Take the kids canoeing, kayaking, tubing or fishing and climb the nearby Jackson Falls.

Route 16B, Jackson
603-3834490
www.blackmt.com

Enjoy a game of golf or explore the Adventure Center at Bretton Woods.

Bretton Woods

Adventure seekers will fit right in at the Bretton Woods Adventure Center, which offers a 3-hour guided good time through zip-lines, platforms and sky bridges. Bretton Woods, part of the Omni Mount Washington Resort, also offers climbing walls for experienced and inexperienced climbers alike. Take a romantic lift for the view or take a lift to a mountain biking destination. Play golf or tennis, go swimming or horseback riding, or enjoy the resort’s 25,000 square foot spa. The kids (ages 4 to 12) will be kept entertained with arts and craft, hiking, sports and more at the Omni Kids’ Club.

99 Ski Area Rd., Bretton Woods
800- 258-0330 or 603-278-1000 (NH)
www.brettonwoods.com

Cannon Mountain

Walk through the flume gorge or check out the Old Man of the Mountain museum at Cannon Mountain.

Cannon Mountain offers a uniquely “New Hampshire” experience, with a tramway climbing 2,180 vertical feet to the summit of the mountain, where you can take in a breathtaking view of four states and Canada. Go camping, bike riding, kayaking, or canoeing and walk through the spectacular Flume Gorge. Check out the remnants of the Old Man of the Mountain (may he rest in peace) and visit the Old Man Museum and the New England Ski Museum.

Franconia Notch Parkway, Franconia
603-823-8800
www.cannonmt.com

Ride the mountain coaster or tackle the new adventure park at Cranmore Mountain Resort.

Cranmore Mountain Resort

Fun-seekers will not be disappointed at Cranmore, with its mountain coaster and brand new adventure park, which features a giant swing, tubing, mini golf, a bungy trampoline, bouncy houses and an 18-hole disc golf course. The mountain’s Aerial Adventure Course offers rope courses, zip-lines and air bridges.

1 Skimobile Rd., North Conway
603-356-5544
www.cranmore.com

Eastman Cross Country Center

At Eastman, golfers can practice at the driving range or play the 18-hole championship golf course where the NH Golf Association Men’s State Am Championship took place in 2010. You can get creative and paint, enjoy a wine tasting, do some gardening, go hiking, play tennis at one of the 14 courts, go sailing on the lake or sunbathe at one of the six beaches.

Exit 13 off I-89, Grantham
603-863-4500
www.eastmannh.org

Great Glen Trails Outdoor Center

Wilderness lovers can take in the gorgeous mountain scenery, the fields of wildflowers and the wildlife at the Great Glen Trails Outdoor Center, located at the base of the historic Mount Washington Auto Road. Get active outdoors and go mountain biking, Nordic walking, running, canoeing or whitewater kayaking, and you might even spot a bear or a moose!

Route 16, Pinkham Notch
603-466-2333
www.greatglentrails.com

Gunstock Mountain Resort

This is the summer to go to Gunstock, which recently unveiled new attractions and an expanded campground. Have a blast on the Aerial Treetops Adventure Course, mountain Segway tours with he fancy new Segway X2, and the ZipTour, which boasts the longest zip lines in the continental United States. There’s also a skate park, mini-golf and climbing walls, not to mention mountain biking, kayaking and horseback riding.

719 Cherry Valley Rd. (Route 11A), Gilford
800-GUNSTOCK or 603-293-4341
www.gunstock.com

Loon Mountain

Zip-lines, climbing walls, Segway tours, horseback riding and “lost gold” treasure hunting for the kids are just a few of the activities Loon Mountain offers. Be sure  to take the Gondola Skyride to the summit, where you can take in the view at the observation tower, go on a nature walk and check out the glacial caves (hint: you just might find treasure there)!

Route 112, Lincoln
800-229-LOON
www.loonmtn.com

Mount Sunapee Resort

Hike to Sunapee’s summit or take an aerial sky ride to the top and enjoy the scenery. While you can’t take a dip in Lake Solitude, a pristine glacial lake preserved for wildlife, it sure is pretty to look at. Don’t miss the 78th Annual League of NH Craftsmen’s Fair from August 6 to 14, with over 200 booths, demonstrations, workshops, tours, seminars and live music.

Route 103, Newbury
603-763-3500
www.mountsunapee.com

Take the kids to family-friendly--and family-owned--Purity Spring Resort.

Purity Spring Resort

Family-friendly (and family-owned since the early 1900s) Purity Spring Resort, 1,000 acres between the Lakes Region and the White Mountains, offers activities for all ages, including waterskiing, kayaking, hiking, biking, tennis, archery, a rock climbing wall, basketball courts, arts and crafts and nature walks. There’s also an indoor pool and hot tub, a fitness center and four beaches. Don’t miss the lobster bake every Thursday evening or the breakfast cookout every Monday morning.

Route 153, East Madison
800-373-3754
www.purityspring.com

 Ragged Mountain

This ski destination becomes a golfer’s paradise in the summer, with an 18-hold championship golf course with views of the mountain and holes “designed to test the golfer’s ability and placement.” Feeling competitive? Then enter one of the golf tournaments at Ragged this summer.

Route 104, Ragged Mountain Road, Danbury
603-768-3600
www.raggedmountainresort.com

Sunset Hill House

At Sunset Hill House, named “Editor’s Choice” by Yankee Magazine, play golf at the state’s longest operating 9-hole course, explore the trails and spot moose or deer, take a dip in the heated mountainside pool and have “New Hampshire’s Very Best Spectacular Meal,” raves New Hampshire Magazine, in the dining room.

Sunset Hill Road, Sugar Hill
603-823-5522
www.sunsethillhouse.com

Waterville Valley Resort

Guests at Waterville Valley won’t run out of things to do, from golf, tennis, chairlift rides, mountain biking, skateboarding, boating, swimming and even indoor ice skating. Summertime here also offers live concerts and day camp for kids and teens ages 4 to 16.

1 Ski Area Rd., Waterville Valley
800-GO-VALLEY
www.waterville.com

Wildcat Mountain

Take in the gorgeous views of the Tuckerman Ravine and Mount Washington on Wildcat’s ZipRider and the gondola skyride. Play alpine disk golf at the new 9-hole course, fish in a pond stocked with trout, have a picnic, see the Thompson Brook Falls or walk along the Appalachian Trail.

Route 16, Pinkham Notch
603-466-3326 or 888-SKI-WILD
www.skiwildcat.com

This is first in a year-long series of articles about an American living and working abroad for a month in 12 different countries. Click here for the WorkAway RSS feed!

APPROACHING URSWILL, Switzerland — Switzerland, France, Scotland, Wales, Sweden, Finland, Germany, Austria, Italy, Greece, Australia, New Zealand. That’s the itinerary. With one month in each. But we’ll get to that in a minute.

This is the first time I’ve had even a second to sit down in the past three weeks, and it just so happens to be, of all places, in row 27J of an Iberia plane, some several thousand miles above the Atlantic Ocean. Or, at least I think that’s where I am. What was once a highly informative flight-screen displaying everything I would ever care to know about our current speed, distance to destination, time, and air temperature, has now become a series of advertisements for what appear to be Spanish day-time dramas- except that every once in a while, apropos of nothing, a short clip involving Will Smith appears on the screen. It is always from a different movie and never for more than thirty seconds. I have no idea why it is there, and without headphones on me, I probably never will. It is disorienting to say the least. Let us say, then, with the only quantitative information available to us, that I am 10 Will Smith appearances out of Boston, and God knows how many until Madrid.

But the strange comfort of Will Smith’s familiar face on the plane is, perhaps, the least disorienting thing to have happened in the past few weeks. In the last month, I’ve left my job teaching high school English in Baltimore, sold off most of my possessions, and said goodbye to my students, coworkers, friends, and the city I’ve called home the past couple of years. There is a weird sort of temporal vertigo that sets in, a living in the future and the past that brings an excitement about what is to come and a nostalgia for leaving that, in turn, evokes prior leavings, prior nostalgias. (Are we every really not leaving somewhere or something? Isn’t that integral to, in some sense, becoming ourselves? And isn’t this reason enough to, good or bad, cherish everything, even as we move from it, whether that be at thousands of miles an hour over a vast, strange, night-black ocean, or at the snails pace of daily decisions, changes, and loss?) It all sort of gets mixed up. And sitting here in J27, leaving behind everything that speaks of stability and comfort, I find old questions resurfacing. Questions about how many places one can truly call home, what home even is, and where it may be possible to find or recover it.

But who knows, maybe that’s all just the recent slew of vaccinations talking.

A brief word about these vaccinations.

As any good traveler knows, one should get immunizations so one’s exciting trip is not interrupted or delayed by a painful death. I received mine (the vaccinations) from a kindly woman named Amalia, who managed to combine the verbal rapidity and persuasiveness of a car salesman, the neurotic worry of a Jewish mother, and the frenetic order of a generation Y multitasker all in one body without exploding. She was awesome. Except for the fact that idle chit chat would often be interspersed, in the same whimsical tone, with litanies of the different ways in which I could die.

A sample conversation went like this:

Me: So, what’s the worst that happens if you get Japanese Ensephilitis?

A: OH NO!!!

Me: (heart rate skyrocketing to 100+. She tended to have this affect on people) What? What??? Is it that bad?

A: (who, unbeknownst to me had been acting like the multitasking pro she was and checking emails while she filled out the vaccinations I was requestion.) Huh? Oh, no, just something from work.

Me: (Recovering from a 60 point pulse drop, but relieved) Oh, ok, I was worried. In that case I guess I don’t need-

A: With Japanese Ensephillitis your brain swells up until you die.

Me:….

————————–

This is just a long way of saying that everything leading up until now has been sort of a preface, or, more aptly, a whole bunch of disparate prefaces, and now, for better or worse, it is more or less congealing. I’ve called this first post Introductions and Farewells and with good reason. I’m well aware that in addition to a number of people I know reading these accounts, there will be those who do not know me. So this entry serves a dual purpose. With that in mind, we’ll get to the itinerary.

Side note: This might be a good place to note that Will Smith has not appeared in a while. I can only assume that either time itself has completely stopped, or something is wrong with the TV)

The Plan:

July – Switzerland – Working on dairy farm in Luzern

August – France – Working on a farm in the south and a Green Hotel in the north.

September -Scotland – Odd variety of jobs, but living near a castle which makes any job they require me to do worth it!

October – Wales – Working on a stud farm.

November- January – Finland – Working as a dogsledder in Finnish Lapland.

January – Germany – Still deciding.

February – Stopping off in Prague and then being a nomadic Shepard in the Austrian Alps for two weeks with a man named Hans! (Side note: This experience simultaneously fulfills my two main goals in life- to be a nomadic shepherd and to befriend a man named Hans.)

March – Greece – Working on Olive Farms.

April – Australia – Working with injured kangaroos on an animal farm.

May – NZ – still deciding.

If you’re wondering how I’m managing to do this, I can dispel any notions right now that I am either independently wealthy, or an internationally renowned dogsledder/olive picker/farmer. I’ve set this all up through the website workaway.org, a social-networking site that is used to find and contact host families around the world (membership for 2 years is like 20 euros, but even without the membership you can still see the different hosts available) and get free room and board in exchange for whatever labor they need. Amount of work varies depending on the host. For example, in in Scotland I’ll only be working 25 hours a week and have a lot of time to explore, while in Finland I will be working roughly 18 hour days, 6 days a week.

And this, ultimately, was the way I wanted to see each place – far from the city centers, learning new skills and trades, and trying to adapt and live in the natural rhythms of each country and its people. And, of course, you’ll be able to follow along. I will post articles at least once every two weeks and more if internet connections are available. I hope that, along with documenting my attempts to learn each trade, I can capture even just a slice of the beauty of the places I’m going, the culture, and the people.

I mentioned, before, the question of how many places one can call home. Last summer, while living in Ireland, I made a list in my personal notebook of all the places I have called home. It came to 5, yet at the same time it seemed infinitely more and comparatively less. More, because of the wealth really is a of the experiences that “5” can’t begin to denote, and less, because, in some way, even in some contradictory way they are all at home in who I have become. And I suppose, sitting here in good old 27J, with the Spanish baby crying three seats in front of me, and the tired mother fast asleep across the aisle; with memories of past homes at once hazy and vivid in my sleep-deprived mind, I am reminded, once again, that home, more than any place or setting, is the people you encounter, those that you are fortunate enough to leave little bits of yourself to along the way. And this, I think, is a good thing, because there is no rock, no city, that could hold our heats as faithfully.

And so, I look forward to the people I will meet in this coming year. I look forward to leaving pieces of myself behind and picking new ones up. I look forward to, at some point, it all becoming confused and disorienting, and impossibly hard to pin down. In the end, I suppose, not too much unlike those brief flashes of Will Smith on the TV – the comfort of a face that speaks of a life I know, but one speaking what I can only imagine is Spanish or German, and both of us, (Will and I that is) hurtling through the air in a giant winged piece of metal over no continent at all. It all seems at once comforting and strange and contradictory and confusing. But I’d have it no other way.

And on that note, thank you for reading. To any new readers I do not know, welcome, and I hope you continue to follow my adventures.

To the friends I love, who I leave behind, I say only this: do not doubt that you are with me at every turn – I mark your presence in each of my movements, and it is in thoughts of you that my endless explorations, find not only replenishment, but purpose. I hope you are more than well.

To everyone, wherever you are: be safe, be happy, try, always, to be full of wonder.

Seoul at night (Media credit/lroderick7 via Flickr)

The fact that most yishipdae weren’t afforded the opportunity to socialize with the opposite sex until they reach college creates a feeding frenzy of sorts within the nightlife scene in Seoul. From a startlingly early age, these young men and women have been disciplined to study, study, study. Failure is simply not an option in South Korean life. In fact, some students spend 6 months or longer with no outside contact, just to prepare for the college entrance exams. To them, getting into the right school is their ticket into the social hierarchy of South Korea and is at the same time a predictor of the success and achievement they will experience for the rest of their lives. With all this “stressure” as some folks call it, it seems there wouldn’t be much time to play for the yishipdae.

While cutting loose isn’t socially acceptable in public in South Korea, there are plenty of places where young people can express themselves behind closed doors. There are all different kinds of “bangs,” or rooms where people can enjoy anything from a few bottles of Soju, the national drink (similar to the Japanese drink, Sake) to a night of karaoke or even pop into one of the taboo “love rooms” where people can use their credit card to check into an hourly hotel-style room and escape the prying eyes of their parents or the outside world in general. If you’re feeling frisky, Sinchon-dong is a neighborhood built around the major universities of Hongik, Ewha Women’s and Yonsei. Hongik is like the Harvard of South Korea. If you graduate with a degree from here, you’re set for life. With the highest density of clothing and accessory stores in Seoul, as well as a bustling night life scene, Sinchon-dong is the hot spot for the yishipdae of modern day Seoul.

The yishipdae are strikingly similar to the 20-somethings of America. They are fiercely independent, have a fascination with pop culture that is unrivaled (just look up K-pop in google), and absolutely love to make eating and drinking their biggest social endeavor. After a night out at any one of the beer halls, bars or nightclubs in Sinchon-dong, the yishipdae flood the streets and hit up late night “pochangmachas,” street vendors famous for their use (some say overuse) of charcoal in homemade half-barrel grills. At night, the air in Seoul is filled with the tantalizing scent of street meat and sweet potatoes, as well as the sounds of a new youth culture, less concerned with the conservative traditions of their parents generation and more concerned with forging their own identity and lifestyle, however similar it may be to our own here in America.

CORK, Ireland — It’s summer in Ireland (or what constitutes summer in Ireland) and it has roused our irrepressible instinct for superstition. For all our desire to become one of the smart economies, we are still ultra superstitious. We flail about the streets to avoid stepping on cracks or under ladders. The sight of a flock of magpies triggers frantic bouts of counting (one for sorrow, two for joy, and so on). Umbrellas left open indoors is an antecedent to hysteria. We don’t even talk about shattered mirrors.

Having recently rolled through the summer solstice, the longest day of the year, our minds are now secretly ticking forward to July 15: St. Swithin’s Day. We know nothing about this Swithin character except that if it rains on the date named in his honor, we are, essentially, fooked. The saying goes that if it rains on St. Swithin’s Day, we’re doomed to another 40 days of rain. Weather is a serious matter to Irish people and it occupies a space of utter mysticism in our minds. We all know the kind of monsoon event that Irish summers can be and we believe, deep down, that low pressure and all its symptoms are the result of some portentous force having a laugh at our expense. Be honest, you blame Rihanna for summer 2007. I know I do. Swithin’s Day looms as large on our horizon as Budget Day, and every fine day between now and then will be ruthlessly enjoyed.

About a month ago the country was overcome with a week’s worth of sunshine. Boyfriend and I stared at Evelyn Cusack’s smiling face as she waved her arm over the multitude of cartoon suns that hovered across the map of Ireland. That was all it took.

A few photons of light energy breaking through the clouds set in motion a form of migration to rival that of the Antarctic penguins and the red crabs of Christmas Island.

It is a phenomenon that we all participate in. Tartan-patterned flasks that have been passed from one attic to another for generations are unearthed and dusted off. Bread is buttered, filled, and foiled. Wardrobes are plundered in search of swimwear that has not been worn for years. Rugs and towels are rolled up. Cars are loaded as though in preparation for the apocalypse. And then, following a comprehensive check-list, there is a hemorrhaging of people from our urban centers to our blue-flag coastlines. For me, it was Garretstown in west Cork, but the routine is the same everywhere.

The second the handbrake is yanked, you stumble from the car, ninja-stripping across the car park in a frantic clamber for your own square of sand. It is as though you have discovered and claimed el mundo nuevo. You drop your cooler box, your backpacks, your rugs, your newspaper—everything except the bucket and spade that you secretly, desperately, wanted to bring but couldn’t. Now that you have cordoned off your own zone, you begin the process of factoring up. It’s not really that you’re pale in that cool Scandinavian way and you want to preserve it. In fact, you’re more… grey in that malnourished Irish way, but you still can’t ignore the internal “you’ll get skin cancer” caveat that your parents barked at you as a kid. And anyway, nothing says summer quite like the scent of UVA protection and a stranger’s second-hand cigarette smoke (which is inescapable on blustery Irish beaches).

You sit down on to your rug with all the grace of a subsiding structure and wait out the obligatory 30 minutes for your skin to absorb the sun cream. To pass the time, you whip out the newspaper. Supplements, crosswords, and Sudokus were invented for just such an event. There is no free wifi here. No means for your devices. This is a time for the wholesome art of reading, of informing yourself on national and international issues that you feign to understand, and for some slightly academic entertainment.

You open the first page and the whole thing lifts like a kite into the air. From that moment, you engage in a ferocious wrestling competition with your broadsheet publication (tabloids are less susceptible to breezes, and in any case, are no great loss). You haul its wilting pages back and pin it down to the rug with your body. This is an improvement but it still does not permit page turning and the sand is now blowing into your eyes. You content yourself with the cover page even though you read that part in the car on the journey over. You glimpse the upper right corners of subsequent pages, grasping a word here or there, headers, page numbers. Fascinating stuff. You stick at it mindlessly for a while until you estimate that you are, probably, UVA’d.

Buoyed by the warmth of the sun, you rise to your feet and march towards the water. It could be childhood memories or it could be sunstroke, but either way you have shrugged off those adolescent insecurities that once had you creeping awkwardly, surreptitiously to water’s edge. You know you are not perfect. No amount of recessionary jogging, Junior C championship training, or mechanical erosion has been able to shift that stubborn cellulite. Your legs are bruised and potholed after last week’s league encounter with that beast of a corner-back, but you don’t care. Your blindingly white skin is crying out for vitamin D, having been deprived of it for the best part of a decade. The water is inexplicably appealing, as though its salty tang is calling to the fish buried deep in your evolved genes. However, this is as far as the allure goes.

Your body nearly spasms when it laps coldly around your ankles and it takes every fiber of muscle to swallow back a whimper. You lurch forward a step or two, perhaps even hallucinate icebergs on the horizon. The gentle swell of water that washes a little further up your legs towards your knees is confirmation. That’s deep enough thanks. This is the Atlantic Ocean after all and I think I’ve been brave enough for one day. You retreat quickly, stumble back to the rug, and grab a towel to stave off frostbite. You might engage in some very athletic bat-ball, flinging yourself lithely across the unforgiving terrain, grunting with the effort and the feel of those sea-shells biting into your feet. After some competitive rallying and your body temperature now normalizing, the time comes to plunder the cooler box.

Those ham sandwiches, naturally salted with some rogue sand, are ever so tasty after your exploits at sea. The rice crispie cakes too. It all goes down a treat with some tea from a tartan patterned flask. You tackle the dog-eared edge of your side of the rug, weigh it down with a nice stone-formation, and lie back. You sling Boyfriend’s t-shirt over your face as reprieve from the glare of the sun and nod off for a short while, twitching softly at the occasional nose-diving fly. It is 19 degrees Celsius, which is pretty perfect for our delicate Irish blood. Any lower and you’ll be reaching for the fleece you bought for 20 cent in Penney’s; higher, you might actually pass out.

You rest your eyes for an hour or so, then gather up your belongings and trudge back to the car. Your hair is suitably wind-swept. You have a salt line on your shins and sand between your toes. You feel the right amount of plantar fasciitis underfoot — just enough to know you have spent the day in flip-flops.

It was, perhaps, not the success you had hoped for, yet you leave with the proof of the coast in your bones. You join the queue of traffic and begin the slow process of transfusing the cities again. Tomorrow you might need to wear a scarf and come July 15, you may need to purchase a boat, but today was as good as any. Yes, the summer is here.

HAWORTH, England — For anyone wanting to immerse him or herself in emerald beauty of the English countryside, the quaint Yorkshire town of Haworth is a perfect destination, but for literary fans of authors Emily and Charlotte Brontë, it is a must.

The hometown of the literary sisters most well known for Wuthering Heights and Jane Eyre, is nestled between undulating green pastures and wild moorlands.

The town, which according to the Visitor Information Centre received 160,000 visitors in 2010, retains it’s 19th century charm thanks to a cobbled main street dotted with shops, tea rooms and pubs. A stroll through the center lends stunning views of the surrounding countryside, known for its many hiking and cycling trails and a steam railroad.

For those wanting to pay homage to the Brontë legacy, the Brontë Parsonage Museum and the hike to Top Withers should be top on the list.

The parsonage, the Brontë family’s home from1820 to 1861 where the sisters lived, wrote and died, looks as it would have when Emily and Charlotte composed what have since become classic works of English literature. The museum features manuscripts, letters and family possessions.

“If they’re at all interested in the Brontës, you’ve got to pop into the parsonage,” said Ray Tallon, a museum assistant who lives in Haworth.

“It’s like visiting London and seeing Big Ben,” he said, noting that the museum draws visitors from as far away as Brazil, Russia and Japan, both casual tourists to the English countryside as well as PhD students and researchers on pilgrimages to the Brontë landscape.

Visitors can also enter the church where the sisters are buried and the town’s old apothecary. It sells medicines, candy, bath salts and other old fashioned products as it would have in Charlotte and Emily’s day.

After obtaining a map from the Visitor Information Centre on main street, visitors can hike to Top Withers, the location believed to have inspired Emily Brontë’s Wuthering Heights. The six-mile loop crosses the windy moorlands, the setting of Emily’s novel, and although difficult at times, the hike is worth the challenge.

The first two miles lead to the Brontë stone chair, waterfall and bridge, a location where the sisters came to reflect.

“It’s a good place to go and clear your mind and get in tune with the Brontës,” Tallon said.

The final one and a half miles to Top Withers is a steep trek up dry, rocky moors. The view from the top is as serene as it is forlorn and isolating, and plunges hikers into the novel’s landscape, with Haworth completely erased from view.

“You’ve got to go and see. It gives you a good sense of how desolate it would have been,” said Tallon.

Along the trail last week were Pam and Ken Hart of Rotherham in South Yorkshire.

“It’s the wildness of them and the romance,” she said, explaining the intrigue of Wuthering Heights.

Also along the trail were Margaret Hanley and Margaret Collier two friends from Bolton, England.

“We want to be outside,” Collier said, recalling the first time, 51 years ago, she hiked the trail to Top Withers with her classmates after reading the book and acting in a school production of Jane Eyre.

The moorland trail was also dotted with new groups of students as well as mountain bikers, runners and picnicking families.

In the center of town tourists enjoyed refreshments and browsed shops including Venables and Bainbridge Books, Haworth’s second-hand bookstore.

Douglas Bainbridge, the shop’s co-owner who has lived in Haworth for 27 years, said his customers aren’t always looking for Brontë literature.

“There’s more to Howorth than the Brontës,” he said, recommending the steam railway, plethora of hiking and biking trails and proximity to larger cities like Leeds and Manchester.

He also recommend The Fleece, a Haworth pub frequented by locals and travelers alike. He said the locals’ keenness for a pint stems from the town’s long history in the textile and quarrying industries.

Alison Dean of the Haworth Tourist Information Centre also said the pubs are an integral part of Haworth’s many themed weekends throughout the year, which include 1940’s weekend, 1960’s weekend, Christmas and Halloween weekends and Yorkshire Day in July.

“It’s all in good fun and everybody gets together and has a drink,” said Dean.

To partake in the other English drinking tradition – tea time – locals recommend The Stirrup, a tea room and restaurant located on the main street. It offers tea, coffee, hot chocolate and a selection of homemade scones and cakes as well as hot meals and sandwiches.

The Fleece Inn and Pub, which serves hearty traditional English breakfasts and meals throughout the day, also has a full bar menu and an extensive selection of English cask ales.

Bed and breakfasts line the main road and recommendations can be found at websites such as bronte-country.com.

John Davis (Media Credit/Wildlands Network)

John Davis, 47, dropped his paddle in the water and, with one stroke, moved his kayak forward. At that moment, on Feb. 3, in Key Largo, Fla.’s John Pennekamp Coral Reef State Park, with a simple ripple of bright blue water, he said an abrupt goodbye to daily routine for 10 months.

During those months, Davis will be kayaking, hiking, cycling and skiing through the wilds of the eastern United States until he emerges in Quebec, well north of Montreal and directly above New Brunswick, Canada, at the Gaspe Peninsula. The 4,500-mile expedition’s aim is to raise awareness of the need for a north to south eastern “wildway,” a connected habitat that would allow safe passage for native wildlife needing room to roam.

“I hope people will view this journey from afar and feel better connected with the lands and wildlife they love,” Davis said. “I hope they will feel inspired to help save and restore these places and species, and will learn ways they can do so.

“There are a few simple ways this can be done,” he continued. “One is to build overpasses so that animals can safely cross roadways. There are also far too many dams that serve no purpose in the community that can easily be taken down.”

The journey is being sponsored by the Wildlands Network organization, and is being referred to as TrekEast. There will be frequent updates about Davis’ journey on Twitter, Facebook and the Wildlands Network’s website.

The motivation behind the trip is manifold. On the surface, the journey through 13 states and provinces is simply a logical, albeit aggressive, step in a long career dedicated to conservation. John studied environmental ethics at St. Olaf College in Minnesota and has learned the intricacies of biology through reading textbooks and picking the brains of the vast number of scientists he calls friends. Professionally, Davis has held many titles, all dedicated to nature in some way. In the 1990s he co-edited “Wild Earth” magazine. Since then he has served as biodiversity and wilderness program officer for the Foundation for Deep Ecology and, until recently, wildlife conservation director for the Adirondack Council.

Yet the desire to act on the trip now, a journey that Davis has been concocting for years, stems from a need to ensure that it is a shared event between family members. Both of Davis’ parents are elderly, and his mother has terminal cancer. He feels a need to make sure that they can experience the trip vicariously. “Most, if not all, of my family have a strong inclination towards helping nature. It goes way back to my childhood and was fostered by my parents, who would take me for walks,” Davis said. “My mother is very ill. I wanted to do something to honor my parents and I hope that she can experience this and see me finish. It motivated me to get going.”

TrekEast will include “Trail Break” stops in cities along the meandering route north. During these breaks, Davis will be speaking with the media and making public presentations.

Acknowledging the dangers of such a trip, Davis points out that he will not be alone for much of the time. As he traverses the Adirondacks, local experts will guide him. However, the biggest threat on the trip may be ticks, as Davis was stricken with Lyme disease on a previous outing.

Davis feels that for nature preserves to be really effective in the long run, we need to create this broad wildlife corridor to ensure a natural food chain, with no overpopulation that could result in the spread of disease and that would allow wildlife to migrate at their own accord. According to Davis, this is feasible, but a lot of the general public has a complacent and/or cynical view of nature preservation; people think that rampant urbanization has rendered it impossible to incorporate the well being of animals into modern life. Davis hopes that this trip will change that common view. “A wild adventure and the exhilaration of motion can attract outsiders to the noble cause of protecting wildlife habitat,” he said.

This trip is at once an endpoint and a launching pad, proof to his parents that he has lived his life in accordance with the way he was raised and that their values will carry on. Despite the daunting task, he will be spending the better part of the next year following his heart into the wilderness. But on those inevitable long stretches of loneliness and fatigue, something much smaller will be motivating him and keeping him going. “I want to do right by my parents,” Davis said, “which is something I think a lot of people desire to do.”

Travelers and vacationers are all familiar with hotels such as Holiday Inn, Best Western, Sheraton and Hilton. These are typical accommodation options for the home away from home, and when staying there the traveling experience often lies outside the hotel doors.

But five hotels scattered throughout the globe exceed guest expectations with their uniqueness. How many people can say they’ve stayed in a hotel completely made out of trash, such as Ha Schult’s Beach Garbage Hotel? Unfortunately, that hotel was open for just a few days, but luckily for adventurous travelers, the world is full of imaginative hotels that are the destination.

Giraffe Manor

A giraffe mingles with guests at Kenya's Giraffe Manor (Media Credit/Fairmont123 via tripadvisor.com)

Right outside of Kenya’s Nairobi city center lies Giraffe Manor, a six bedroom estate on 12 acres of land. The accommodation was built in the 1930s and is home to a herd of endangered Rothschild Giraffes.

When guests eat breakfast in the sun room, all the windows are open so that the giraffes can come through and join the party. Guests are allowed to go out onto the terrace and hand-feed the friendly animals.

Originally, the estate was set up by the African Fund for Endangered Wildlife as a breeding center for Rothschild Giraffes, but now various other animals including warthogs, bushbuck, and 180 species of birds dwell within. Excursions may be arranged to the Kenyan National Museum, the Maasai Market and Nairobi National Park, but visiting Giraffe Manor and waking up to a scenic vista of the Ngong Hills is an experience by itself.

Sweden's ICEHOTEL blends art and nature (Media Credit/Ragnar Th. Sigurdsson)

The ICEHOTEL

In Jukkasjärvi, Sweden, the ICEHOTEL is constructed each year out of ice and snow harvested from the Torne River, the hotel’s source of inspiration. The igloo-like hotel is the first and by far the largest ice hotel in the world.

Yngve Bergqvist, the founder of the establishment, began building the ice hotel in the 1970s and has been continuing the tradition under Kaamos, a tourism company.

Tourists flock to the ICEHOTEL for famous events such as the Northern Lights and the Midnight Sun. The temperature inside the hotel is around 23 degrees Fahrenheit. Guests enjoy amenities including hot lingonberry juice, breakfast buffets, morning saunas and ice beds that are lined with toasty reindeer skins. This hotel, which combines art and nature, is available to travelers up until its closing in April each year.

PJ’s Underground Bed and Breakfast

At Australia's PJ's Underground Bed and Breakfast, sleep beneath a 64-million-year-old roof

The Australian outback may look like nothing but rock formations for miles and miles, but deep in the White Cliffs are cozy underground rooms dug out of the opal stone that dates back to the Cretaceous period.

PJ’s Underground Bed & Breakfast in New South Wales, Australia, has 30 underground rooms that are chiseled into 64- million-year-old earth. The walls of the rooms, or “dugouts,” are left unpainted so guests may appreciate the natural beauty of the precious opal rock. The White Cliffs that house PJ’s Underground Bed & Breakfast are also home to a variety of fossilized Plesiosaurs and Ichthyosaurs.

Guests wake up to freshly baked bread and homemade jam. They’re free to explore the two surrounding national parks, the Mutawintji Aboriginal grounds and the Paroo-Darling National Park, a wetlands habitat. The bed and breakfast is also accompanied by the White Cliffs Opal Pioneer Tourist Park and the Underground Bar and Restaurant.

Sleep inside man’s best friend at Idaho’s Dog Bark Park Inn

Dog Bark Park Inn

Any traveler who has ever wondered how man’s best friend views Cottonwood, Idaho, can now get in the head of a beagle and experience the real deal.

Since 1997, Dennis J. Sullivan and Frances Conklin have been running the Dog Bark Park Inn, home of the world’s biggest “beagle.” The inn sleeps only four, but this accommodation in the Camas Prairie is one of a kind. Guests enter the body of Sweet Willy, the dog building, and sleep in the head of the dog. The head is a loft room and the muzzle of the dog provides extra sleeping space for guests.

Apart from the various activities available, such as exploring Lewis and Clark country and whitewater rafting, Sullivan and Conklin sell a wide variety of chainsaw carvings in their mom-and-pop operation. All who visit the Dog Bark Park Inn Bed and Breakfast can leave with the “prairie’s best” fruited granola and over 60 different breeds and poses of dog chainsaw carvings.

The Lizzie Borden Bed and Breakfast

Staying at the Lizzie Borden Bed and Breakfast in Fall River, Mass., is the ultimate haunted house experience

On Aug. 4, 1892, Andrew J. Borden and his wife Abby Borden were found brutally murdered in their beautiful Victorian home in Fall River, Mass. The only suspect was their youngest daughter Lizzie, who was ultimately found not guilty. If Lizzie didn’t kill her parents, who did?

Ghost hunters and travelers are invited to sleep in any of the eight rooms available in the restored Borden homestead. Guests may even sleep in the exact same bedroom in which Mrs. Borden’s body was discovered by police. The Borden home will soon be part of an in-house Ghost Cam project, where subscribers can conduct their own virtual paranormal investigations via Web cams.

In addition to amenities such as free Wi-Fi, daily tours and admission to the Lizzie Borden Museum are provided. When guests wake up they are treated to a breakfast consisting of bananas, johnnycakes, sugar cookies and coffee, similar to the meal that the Bordens enjoyed on the fateful day of their deaths.

Tutankhamun, affectionately known as King Tut, is arguably the most famous pharaoh of ancient Egypt, and if you’ve ever dreamed of visiting his tomb, you’d better hurry up. It’ll be closed to the public by the end of the year.

The “Guardian” is reporting that Egypt’s Supreme Council of Antiquities is closing Tut’s tomb because of the damage caused by the countless number of people who have visited the tomb since its discovery in 1922.

In its place will be a replica of the tomb for visitors to admire, but it undoubtedly will not be the same experience. But maybe King Tut, who took the throne at the age of 10 and died mysteriously at the age of 19, can finally rest in peace. Oh, and you won’t have to worry about falling victim to the infamous mummy’s curse.

In 2007, King Tut's mummy was transferred to a climate-controlled glass chamber for public display (Media Credit/Kenneth Garrett, National Geographic)

S-Bahn sign in Karow, a small village on the periphery of East Berlin. (Taylor M. Miles for Blast Magazine)

BERLIN — It all started with a bang.

The sound of the neighbor’s fuerewerk (firework) at 4:30 in the afternoon behind this modest house in Karow, a small “village” on the periphery of East Berlin shook the large-rimmed wine glasses on the kitchen table, or at least this American girl anxiously anticipating the New Year’s celebrations in a foreign city, and running on eight hours worth of jet lag.

My friend’s mother explained to me that she didn’t like to go to certain parts of Berlin on New Year’s Eve.

“It’s like a war,” she said, laughing in a contagious rhythm as she took another sip of her splashing red wine.

Fireworks are essentially prohibited 364 days out of 365 days in Germany and New Year’s is that exceptional day. The fiery explosions of brilliant colors would follow us around like a soundtrack to our own film, of which everyone around us was coincidentally a part. We spent the night traversing from café, to bar, to our final destination: Kulturbrauerei, an old brewery that houses about 10 clubs and bars, but tonight would host an outrageous New Year’s… how do I say “bash,” in German?

Things were still relatively tranquil as the S-Bahn (above ground, street subway) led us to the seriously-no-one-is-joking-it’s-really-that-yellow U-Bahn (underground subway) where we would exit the train to find ourselves in the downtown East Berlin neighborhood of Prenzlauer Berg, which my German friend hesitantly described as “alternative,” but becoming increasingly more “mainstream” (as a clarifier, all of these conversations taking place between said German friend are in broken Portuguese; it’s a long story).

I joked that the bar we entered, Kaffee am Meer, was a place “to see and be seen,” as the seemingly pretentious owner moved us from the snazzy pillow seats upstairs to the slumpy couches on the first floor because the couches were “reserved” for some cute glasses-wearing young’ns. I have had the unfortunate conversation several times, in several countries, about what a “hipster” is in the United States. My friend, however, said my sense that I wasn’t welcome by the owner and waiter was probably more a cultural misinterpretation than I thought. He then explained, genuinely, that rather than participating in ironically similar and superficial trends, as the term “hipster” seems to imply in the United States, it still can involve sincere individualism in Berlin. I shut up.

An apartment building in Prenzlauer Berg. (Taylor M. Miles for Blast Magazine)

After some bier with lime and a caipirinha topped with brown sugar, we were soon eating fresh falafel from a paper slip next door and racing onto an S-Bahn before the doors could close on us and destroy our beautiful, cheap, and fast food. We got off the train at Eberswalder Straße, which is still in Prenzlauer Berg, and I pulled the green envelope containing our 27 Euro tickets to the Kulturbrauerei out from my purse, handed them to the security guards and we were in, well, still outside in the ice and snow, but in.

We immediately began wandering from building to building, meaning from music theme to music theme. I cringed as the sound of Aretha Franklin greeted us in the central area outdoors, only to be followed by the lyrics: “Celebrate good times, come on!” echoing at an unnecessarily loud level throughout the plaza. This was apparently the American “party songs” section. Just a few minutes earlier my friend had covered my ears to avoid hearing Schlager, a more traditional German music, which he found just as embarrassing, as we passed the older Kulturbrauerei attendees.

While the party officially started an hour earlier at 9 p.m., clearly it was not yet time to get down on the dance floor because, well, no one was. Beyonce awkwardly called for all of her single ladies to put their hands up, as the flashing red lights circled the empty floor of what must have been the seventh room we passed through as we wove in and out of the different-themed rooms. The bar tenders stared at us uncomfortably, while the attendees stared at us hopefully—maybe we would get things started (We wouldn’t). After making our way in and out of the different large red brick industrial buildings, we settled for a game of pool before heading back out to the main area outdoors (remember, the one with the horrible American music) to really get things started German style with some Glühwein, which is warm red wine with vanilla and cinnamon.

“Zwei Glühwein, bitte.”

I had just spoken my first German phrase to a stranger, and though he understood me, I had no idea what he said in response; thus I smiled, pointed to my friend and twirled the other direction to play off my lack of German skills as intentional, cute. He asked if we wanted additional alcohol in our drinks, which meant additional Euros–apparently, we did not. Zwei (two) Glühwein later and somewhat recent Killers songs were entertaining a large crowd in the club towards the makeshift entrance; two shots of tequila later and electronic music was electrifying a crowd in a room one door over; one shot of tequila later and “R n’ B” was bumping in the room below it. After a few failed attempts to ask passersby what time it was in German, I soon discovered successfully that there were 15 minutes until 2011 by a man physically showing me his watch. We walked, or, wait, shoved our way through the dancing halter tops and mini skirts in the zero Celsius weather to a central spot in the outdoors plaza in order to ensure a good view of the fireworks:

“Zehn. Neun. Acht. Sieben. Sechs. Fünf. Vier. Drei. Zwei. Ein. HAPPY NEW YEAR.”

The New Year greeted us with a bang. And the words of my friend’s mother, “It’s like a war,” rang in my head, as part of a firework burst and tumbled upon the woman next to me, singing her black winter jacket. The fuerewerk were only a few feet above us on the rooftop of the warehouse and as one after another exploded in the dark, cold sky, I thought about the fireworks I see on a yearly basis for the fourth of July—you know, the ones that are so far away from people due to safety precautions that for one to fall upon someone he or she would have broken a guarded barrier. Minutes later, though, the woman with the singed jacket was back smiling with the rest of us, as the sound of the last fuerewerk drifted gently from the plaza and we all headed back inside the old brewery to continue the never ending dance party.

Artwork outside a store in Prenzlauer Berg, East Berlin. (Taylor M. Miles for Blast Magazine)

I pushed past the security guard and drunken crowd and was again overcome with anger by the English words ricocheting throughout this Berlin New Year’s party: “I don’t want to hear songs in English!” I yelled, in English. Aw, yes. Expressing my true American frustrations towards what, globalization (?), and the unfortunate proliferation of our entertainment culture across seas—the romantic desire to experience the undiscovered culture of the place in which you’re traveling. Within 20 minutes, however, I demanded we got “fly like a G6” and woke up like Ke$ha, or rather, P. Diddy after a bottle of Jack, as I dragged my friend onto the dance floor during these two songs. It’s funny how my musical and general immaturity follows me across seas.

We would spend the majority of the evening upstairs, where the electronic dance music fit nicely with the New Year’s excitement and the elevated center stage seemed to focus the madness. But 3:30 a.m. arrived with the exhaustion of continuous movement and sore legs, and after one last cruise among the clubs, we broke out of the Kulturbrauerei security gates and back into the “vild,” the streets of East Berlin. As my feet dragged up the ice-engulfed stairs to catch the U-Bahn, we could hardly make our way past the crowds heading the opposite direction.

“Their night is just beginning,” my friend said to me in Portuguese (I don’t speak German. English is his third language). We slid into the yellow train headed back towards Karow and the two doors had just shut together as someone set off a fuerewerk inside the station. The New Year’s celebration ended with a bang.

Your favorite toy could be here!

Giving your pets the star treatment is so passé. The newest way to pamper one of the little fuzzballs in your life? Send your favorite stuffed toy on a fun-packed week-long sight seeing adventure in New York City.

“You send us the toy and we do the rest,” said Irina Kot, co-founder of Stuffed in the City. “Your toy meets fellow tourists, takes pictures with New York City landmarks and gets VIP treatment by our staff.”

We know you’ll miss Teddy while he’s gone, but not to worry; proud toy moms and dads will receive mid-trip updates of how their little fuzzy one is doing, a CD and printouts of images from the trip, a travel certificate and a surprise souvenir from the Big Apple.

So how much does it cost to pamper your stuffed animal? The traditional week-long tour costs $100, but if you can’t bear to be away from your toy for that long, the company offers a New York Full Throttle tour, which lasts just three days and costs $25.

The company boasts that toys will return home “newly enriched, inspired and grateful.” After enduring all of your – or your child’s – tea parties, mid-sleep drooling and incessant squeezing, doesn’t Teddy deserve it?

More information about Stuffed in the City can be found here.

LAVAL, France — On the first of November in France, florists are the only stores open for business.

The Roman Catholic holiday of Toussaint, known in the US as All Saints Day, is when the French, a country steeped in Roman Catholic tradition, remember deceased relatives by placing flowers on their graves.

Yesterday in the small town of Laval, in western France, cemeteries were vibrant with bouquets of flowers.

Before making a trip to the cemetery, many French attend the Toussaint mass.

After Christmas, Toussaint, which falls towards the end of a two-week school vacation, is the day when church pews are fullest, according to Rev. Frédérique Foucher, a priest at Saint Vénérand Catholic church in Laval.

“It’s the fear of death that makes us come to the church today. We all have within us the desire that there is something after,” Foucher said.

Xavier Chesne, 27, of nearby Gorron, who hovered in the back Saint Vénérand during the mass, said he came out of respect for his recently-deceased grandmother.

Describing himself as “believing, but not practicing,” Chesne said he, along with most young people he knows, comes to church only three or four times a year.

“It’s the evolution of the culture that has changed,” Chesne said.

“We go more easily to the cemetery than to church,” he said, adding that he would visit his grandmother’s grave after the service.

Others, however, seem to defy the stereotype of secular Europeans altogether.

Dominique and Anne Fortin, who attended the Toussaint mass with their grown daughter Claire, said they live outside Laval but make the drive to Saint Vénérand every Sunday.

“It gives the feeling of being part of a community,” said Dominique Fortin, who said they often spend Sundays with church friends.

“We really like being with others, staying after the service to discuss ideas with others and talk with people about our joys and sorrows.”

His wife Anne said for her, Toussaint is important because it commemorates not only the official saints recognized by the Catholic Church, but also individuals who try to live saintly lives.

“We are not all saints, but we try,” she said, adding that this year is particularly poignant because of her mother’s recent death.

Foucher said Toussaint is celebrated on November 1st because it is the day with the shortest amount of sunlight of the year.

“It’s not the night of death that is going to win but the light of life. That’s what we celebrate at Christmas,” Foucher said.

Christmas, the most-attended church holiday, occurs when the amount of sunlight begins to augment again.

“Toussaint, for French Catholic culture, is the day when we think about all our dead who we think are close to God, and it’s for that reason that there is always many people (in church,)” he said.

“Within man there is a desire that life never end.”

Jean Michel Emery lives in Rennes but came to Laval with his wife Isabelle, to the cemetery where both their sets of parents and grandparents are buried.

“We have them always in our hearts, but to maintain a connection with them, we come here to see them,” Jean Michel said.

Both Jean Michel and Isabelle grew up in Laval and said they make the 45 minute drive multiple times a year.

Today they put flowers by the family tombstones.

Max Dialale, who lives in Laval but is originally from the island of Reunion, said he comes to this cemetery not only to visit the grave of his brother-in-law, but to remember his mother, who is buried on Reunion.

“It’s a normal day, not always a day of sadness. I benefit a little from coming here,” Dialale said.

He said he does not need a special holiday to remember his loved ones.

“It’s a normal ritual,” said Dialale, who said he comes every other week to the cemetery.

“The people who are dead are always there. It’s a day for them.”

BOGOTA, Colombia — We were lost. Only 15 minutes after stepping off our Avianca flight, and 90 minutes of driving through Bogota’s jungly rush hour traffic (which makes New York City look like Fargo) were slightly misplaced. Moments before, our taxi driver informed me that the address I’d slipped him — the apartment building our high school friend was living in — on a torn piece of paper upon entering his cab, did not exist.

To say we were panicky might be overdoing it. Attentive is a better description; certainly on our toes and with our heads on a swivel. In the days leading up to our trip, I’d stumbled across an old joke Colombians like to tell:

God had made their land so beautiful, so rich in every natural way, that it was unfair to the rest of the world. He evened the score by populating it with the most evil race of men.

And this is where we were lost. Two tiny dots in a city of eight million people. But today’s Colombia is a million miles away from where it was in the 90s and decades before that. The government is more than stable compared to that of its South American neighbors, crime is considerably down, and foreign relations with countries such as the United States have never been better.

Our driver, a man in his 20s with a boyish face hid behind an unkempt beard, turned and smiled. In broken English he told me not to worry, then drove us to a nearby convenience store to use a pay phone. Not expecting this dilemma, neither of us had change in our pockets, rendering that option useless.

Our driver, who followed us into the store, began telling the husband and wife behind the counter our story and the couple quickly offered us their cell phone. We called our friend, solved the problem (the real address was about 45 minutes away), and the five of us shared a quick laugh.

That last part sounds strange. Patience was replacing annoyed eye rolls, flat out refusal of service, and even a threatening gesture or two. It just didn’t seem like the appropriate reaction: We were looking for Times Square in the middle of Staten Island.

“Lo siento, lo siento,” we pleaded over and over again, to which our driver responded with his unchanged smile and a gentle wave of the hand.

Over the next four days, this was the normal reaction Colombian people had for almost every moment of communication. Generosity seemed to float over every smiling face like a halo.

While in Colombia I stayed in the cities of Cartagena and Bogota. The first being the country’s very own Miami, the second, its mixture of New York City and Washington D.C. What was most evident upon leaving each was that right now, the nation’s perception is drastically, and unfortunately, far from its reality.

To most citizens of the United States who are older than 30, Colombia is as notorious a country as exists. Its most famous citizen once blew up a commercial airliner; Less than 25 years ago, city judges perished in car bombs on a daily basis; its country side is infested with FARC rebels and Guerilla Soldiers armed with AK-47s; and in a game of word association, the most synonymous utterance to the very word “Colombia” would be cocaine, the country’s most noted export. A drug that’s ruined as many lives as there are grains of sand on a small beach.

Despite its threatening reputation and homing a citizenry that ranks behind Sudan as the second highest displaced population in the world, in 2008 Colombia was named the third happiest country in the world from a University of Michigan study by its Institute for Social Research.

How can a nation scarred by some of the most horrendous, crippling violence the world has seen stake claim to the happiest citizens? The question falls short of vexing, but remains unanswerable. Is it the women or weather? The appreciated fruits and beautiful landscape? Is the answer nurtured in a family oriented and overtly religious culture?

To trap a universal definition for happiness under your thumb is impossible, but the behavior I witnessed certainly reflected the studies to be true.

Nestled between the Andes mountains to the east and Bogota River to the west, South America’s third largest city is made up of over 20 districts and 1000 neighborhoods. The city’s streets run on a grid, making everything easy to find; basically, if you can count, you can navigate Bogota.

Above the bustling streets is an unchanging atmosphere. With clouds rolling in over the eastern mountains almost every day, the city’s temperature dances between 60 and 70 degrees throughout the year.

GALVESTON, Texas — This island in the Gulf of Mexico has been host to pirate and pioneer alike, and has withstood Mother Nature’s awesome attempts at returning the surfaced sandbar to the sea floor, and let legends lie. The city of Galveston, Texas is part haunted house and tourist hide-away.

The possession of Galveston as the jewel of the Gulf has continually evolved since its original Native American inhabitants, to a short lived colonized life in Spanish hands, just shy of two hundred years ago, and passed into Mexican ownership and established as a port-town, which lead, eventually, to serving the Texas Navy and earning her honorary Miss Texas banner as the Republic’s capital. This constant changing of the guard lends the island and city of Galveston to have a European swagger, as well as a pleasant nostalgia and continues its tradition as a vacation destination for many since the late 1800s. What makes Galveston a must-see destination now, however, is the chance that this old gal may not survive another hurricane.

The famous Strand and bayou-breezy atmosphere of the shops and wide Victorian streets make Galveston an ideal weekend get-away. Fly into Houston, and drive down the causeway an hour for a quiet, seemingly secluded weekend. However, every weekend the lazy coastal town erupts in the late spring and summer in festivals, concerts, and historical tours — Texans and tourist alike flock to soak in the sun and surf. Many camp on the beaches, but there are plenty of historic dive-motels and chain hotels to house the not-so-hippy.

The Strand offers a Victorian styled shopping gallery, along what was once a main thoroughfare, and often the giant cruise ships are docked in the background, waiting to take aboard its next wash of adventurers, dwarfing the port around them. Galveston has a high number of historical buildings on the National register, and you can find many tours to take a step back into coastal Texas as a new frontier.

Being so near Mexico there is a variety of homespun taco-huts to satisfy the Tex-Mex and cold cerveza you’re craving, and the Strand has a few excellent ice cream and candy shops. There is a variety of well-known chain restaurants; Landry’s Seafood calls the area home, with the shrimp-rich waters of the Gulf, and they have built up enclaves of themed restaurants in the Fisherman’s Wharf-image, like the more well-known Joe’s Crabshack.

After stuffing your face, waddle out onto a spot on Galveston’s 32 miles of beach. The shallow waters surrounding the island make an ideal location for swimming, surfing, kite surfing, and fishing. The waters warm up the most in the fall, so if you are in the mood for a swim or if the weather isn’t cooperating, visit the local water park, one of the world’s best,Schlitterbahn Galveston Island Waterpark is a 26-acre oasis featuring the world’s first indoor/outdoor 70,000 square-foot heated-convertible park.

On the Texas-side of the island is Moody Gardens, which you will have noticed on the drive in, as three gleaming-glass pyramids. Each pyramid is a different approach to science–the Discovery, Aquarium and Rainforest environments allow interaction at its best. The complex also has a Golf Resort, Hotel and Spa, and 3-D IMAX theater.

Galveston Island is small in size, but has a huge personality to make up for it. History buffs and beach blanket bunnies will feel at home while under the warm glow of the Texas sunshine.

(Media credit/miamism via Flickr)

ALICE TOWN, Bahamas — Fifteen fortunate Floridians were 50 miles away from Miami, but they were much farther than that in spirit.

On a steaming-hot Saturday last fall, they were in Bimini, the westernmost district of the Bahamas, sailing on two 30-foot white Contenders that trailed a yellow catamaran from Big John’s Marina to Honeymoon Harbor, a secluded sandbar in the district.

The crews were tough but hungover.

It was early afternoon, but felt like dawn, really, after last night’s bar crawl and junkanoo, a musical street parade. The caravan rode easily over the calm sea; the rays of the sun pierced the ocean’s surface and pin-balled off the shallow sea floor, illuminating an underwater light show that was either cool or spectacular, depending on the sunglasses being worn. Every color of the spectrum from lemon-lime to royal blue fought to outshine all others as the dominant blue-green shade.

Honeymoon Harbor was only one downed rum and Coke from the starting point at Alice Town, the populated part of North Bimini. The tiny, half-moon shaped harbor — normally quiet, peaceful, and vacant — was within easy reach of the entire fleet that had crossed the Gulf Stream for a vacation weekend.

Nearing the harbor, the catamaran’s captain, noticed that The Concrete Ship, a half-submerged shipwreck, popular for fishing and snorkeling, was surrounded by more boats than ever. A lot of people had come to Bimini this weekend, many more than usual, even for a long summer weekend, when the weather is typically better for crossings.

Artist Guy Harvey’s resuscitation of the legendary Big Game Club was one possible reason for the influx of boaters, having reopened that weekend after a long closure, and drew a large crowd. Another factor that may have contributed to the large number of visitors was the growing popularity of Bimini Bay, a giant new development that had displaced precious mangroves. The mangroves had been, since the founding of Bimini, the birthplace of practically every species of fish in the area. Fishermen and environmentalists agreed that it was the most asinine spot for development since the home built on Indian burial grounds in the movie Poltergeist. Calamitous oceanic repercussions were guaranteed. Nevertheless, folks flocked to its pastel townhouses, and this glorious Memorial Day Saturday, whatever the reason, saw markedly more marine traffic than usual.

When our flotilla reached Honeymoon Harbor, we found that there were 80 vessels, rather than the typical dozen or less, already in port. The leading catamaran slowed to idle speed and cautiously weaved around hulls, anchor lines, and swimmers. The trailing Contenders traced her line until they all reached an open patch. Veterans of the Miami sand bar experience, the three captains and their respective crews, quickly secured side-by-side anchorage. With that, it was time to refresh the rum drinks, reapply sun block and climb the cat’s tower to assess the situation.

Honeymoon Harbor is what it sounds like: a beautiful place for doing nothing. The sandy bottom of the waist deep water is patrolled by docile stingrays that languidly cruise around anchor lines.

Even the rays seem to be doing nothing but enjoying the weather.

A semi-circle of rocky brush and eroding beach provides shelter from rough, deeper water. The sun rises over the Bahamas east of the harbor, and sets over the Gulf Stream to the west. Without humans at Honeymoon Harbor, there is no sound. Today, there was the cacophony of a dozen stereos blaring 12 different musical genres within earshot of our setup. The Toots and the Maytals Pandora selection was overpowering, even for those on board.

Still, were relieved not to hear any reggaeton.

It did not take long for things to get weird. On our port side, an elegant, 35-foot cruiser arrived with a man dangling from its bow, clutching the anchor like Tarzan on a jungle vine, as the captain zigzagged for several minutes. The man intended to hand-place the anchor, but the indecisive skipper took him on a tour of the harbor instead. Off the starboard side, a 31′ open-fisher with an obscene 1,200 horsepower engine sported a tacky paint job advertising a boat painting service.

And there were beautiful women everywhere.

That cat’s passengers, four mid-20s sophisticates in designer bikinis, hit the bow to tan and resume their “oh, no, she didn’t, I don’t gossip but” girl-talk. Some industrious guys sorted gear so two tenders could trek to nearby spear fishing grounds. The ladies, and the remaining, already useless guys, stayed to catch sunburns and a buzz.

Directly astern, a group of adolescent girls stood on the bow of a 45-foot Hatteras yacht and started setting and spiking a volleyball.

The ball took less than two minutes to hit the water. An eager, pudgy boy, the lone male with these older girls, unmistakably their mascot, Carped Diem and hurled himself over the railing to rescue and return the ball. The girls laughed and applauded and knew instantly, psychically, that the object of their game was now to wear this kid out with fake clumsiness. Like the first person who threw a stick and had it returned by a nearby terrier, the breakthrough was too obvious to miss. The kid might be part Jack Russell considering the tireless commitment he proceeded to show.

Then the music got incredibly loud; 10 times louder than any other music. The first notes of the Black Eyed Peas song, remixed Miami style. All the way across the harbor a purple speedboat had hauled out twin Shaq-sized speakers to blast every other speaker-set into submission. The track had an extended lead-in, which was memorable because technical difficulties repeatedly cut it off after 45 seconds, only to have it resume from the beginning every few minutes as they troubleshot the problem.

The sun punished the Purple Speedboat with relentless heat, making everyone else collateral damage. Still, nine other boats tied onto the Purple Speedboat, perplexingly validating the strategy. Two boats over, another speedboat featured a one-armed fat man in the classic Miami jet-ski-ninja uniform. He had the wife-beater, gold chains, long black shorts, and shades with fluorescent-tipped neck straps. His buddy’s goatee demonstrated an even greater commitment to the look. They were accompanied by six thick but proportional, provocative, shot-pounding Latinas in thongs. There was a pang of recognition and civic pride, like seeing a Dolphins jersey on a tour bus in China. “That’s… from home!”

Suddenly a gorgeous, light blue, 38-footer carrying, at minimum, one teenager-per-foot, glided triumphantly into view. Kids were hanging off the T-top or grooving on coolers like featured strippers. Its sister ship materialized behind it with an equal number of Kalik-clutching teens (a Bahamas-made beer).

Any Miami water-cop would have sacrificed a two ton drug seizure to be the one to bust these kids. He would have had to quit the force the next day; his ultimate dream scenario achieved, he’d never feel fulfilled as a water-cop again.

Comfortably outside anyone’s jurisdiction that cared, the teens’ floating party proceeded unencumbered all afternoon. As did everyone else’s, as all basked in warm water for swimming, with cold beers, or whatever, to drink. Throughout the harbor, assorted individuals tossed Kaliks to waiting, wading belligerents. Boisterous and joyful conversations rambled everywhere as the sun angled down towards the horizon, the heat assault gradually relenting.

Honeymoon Harbor is a hotspot of chill like Starbucks is a hotspot of WiFi. It is a positive energy source. Ridiculously drunk revelers can connect to the source and stay somewhat coherent. It is a place where everyone is their best, or at least their most relaxed self, and therefore everyone’s company becomes immensely enjoyable. Strangers form fast friendships with easy banter, while old friends need few words to express and process their deep, mutual affection. They are free to communicate, at last, without the normal distortion of life’s anxieties.

The hours did not fly by, nor were they long. Honeymoon Harbor was hijacked by the Miami element for an afternoon, but it did not lose its essential chillness.

CHARLESTON, S.C. — There are some things Bostonians are just not accustomed to: Palm trees, $3 beers and mushy green beans, to name a few. But head to the Lowcountry and you just might find yourself foregoing Maine lobster for some Carolina crab.

Charleston could be considered the Boston of the south. With a rich history, a growing culinary scene and renowned universities, the similarities are clear. Still, the city recently closed down due to a dusting of snow and you’re more likely to hear someone drawl “Park the car, y’all” rather than “Pahk the cah.” But if you consider yourself a die-hard Yankee (not the baseball kind, of course) then Charleston might be your perfect southern getaway.

Historically, Charleston has a lot to offer. Most notably, the first shots of the Civil War were fired in the city, and the bombardment of Fort Sumter took place here as well. Once the largest city in the south, Charleston still holds the title of The Holy City, due to the numerous church steeples that dot the skyline.

Charleston also gives the Boston intellectuals a run for their money. Home to The College of Charleston (the 13th oldest university in the country), Charleston School of Law, Medical University of South Carolina, The Citadel (a military institution) and more, you’ll fit right in with that Harvard sweatshirt — even if it’s tied around your shoulders (Charleston’s fashion scene is surprisingly preppy).

The two major areas to check out are downtown and Folly Beach. Old houses and cobblestone streets lie adjacent to King Street, the major shopping destination downtown, boasting mostly high-end shops. But head to the North South Market and you’ll find all kinds of things your wallet will appreciate. Once there, check out the variety of hand-woven baskets, but be prepared to shell out the big bucks. And make time to stop in at the Market Street Winery for five tastings for five dollars, plus a souvenir glass. Afterward, take a walk along the Battery to take in the million dollar waterfront mansions.

Folly Beach is beautiful and the neighborhood is a little bit classier than the typical resort area. Walk the super-long pier, which extends about 1,050 feet into the ocean and which dolphins often swim alongside. The beach is perfect for everyone; college kids, relaxed adults and families each stay in their own little areas. For a bite and some beer, the outdoor, oceanfront Blu bar is paradise on the water.

Now on to the good stuff. Southern cooking takes some getting used to, but the rich flavors, though admittedly unhealthy, are fantastic indulgences. You’ll find shrimp and grits on practically every menu, from upscale to down-home. But the crab is where it’s at. Crab legs, crab balls, deviled crab, fried crab – it’s all here. Head to The Crab Shack on Folly to try them all.

Charleston is also known for great barbecue. At Jim ‘N Nick’s on King St., you’ll find a loaded baked potato smothered with BBQ pulled pork alongside $3 margaritas. A few other southern favorites include pimento cheese, southern style green beans (mushy, salty goodness) and refreshing sweet tea.

If you’re looking for a fancy dinner, Cypress will surely impress. The friendly and accommodating waitstaff sound like culinary experts and the food, such as expertly prepared pork belly and salmon wellington in a silky, to-die-for sauce, is exquisite. And, for an upscale restaurant, the prices dip well below five-star Boston joints.

The nightlife in Charleston doesn’t disappoint either. The Market Street Saloon is the type of place you’d find in Faneuil Hall – scantily clad college girls with hammered frat boys, all watching the Coyote Ugly-type dancers shake it on the bar. Charleston Beer Works is a little more low-key and the Red Sox decor will make you feel right at home. But a walk down King Street and side streets nearby will offer you a wide variety of laid-back Charleston style bars.

For a tourist-y good time, visit the stunning gardens of Magnolia Plantation. The grounds are breathtaking and romantic. You can tour the house itself, and don’t miss the gift shop – they have great souvenirs that far surpass the tacky keychains and t-shirts you’ll find at Folly. If you’re looking to relax, the slow boat tour will guide you around the swamp where you’ll see alligators galore. It’s not the most exciting ride (the average age of tourists on the boat seems to be about 70), but the scenery is beautiful.

So when the Northeast serves up those dreary spring days, head down south to Charleston where the food is indulgent, the beach beckons, and the Yankees are finally far enough away.

A plover chick. (Media credit/The Massachusetts Audubon Society)

DUXBURY — For someone with no experience bird-watching, it may seem like an uneventful way to spend an afternoon. However, my two summers as a bird monitor at Duxbury Beach on the South Shore showed me otherwise. I spent my days observing and recording the habits of the threatened piping plovers.

After a couple of weeks observing the plovers, I began to notice the many birding groups that frequented the beach. They intently observed the natural world that other beachgoers seemed to take for granted. My job as a bird monitor required the same intense observation. Because of the plovers’ small size and ability to blend in with their surroundings, I would sometimes spend hours just looking for movement in the sand. Then, when I finally lifted the binoculars to my eyes and saw their fluffy cotton ball-sized bodies, I felt a great sense of pride and accomplishment. I was witnessing something that most people don’t see.

According to an email interview with Lee Schlesinger, an associate professor of literature at The State University of New York at Purchase, and an avid birder since the late ’60s,”birding is in part a way of seeing.” He finds “that birding makes (him) more attentive, observant, and alert.” That is one of the greatest joys of birding; it offers a glimpse into the natural world that we so often overlook.

Gear

For those of you wishing to seek entry into the eye-opening world of birding, you must first arm yourself with the right equipment. A good pair of binoculars is essential to learning the basics of birding. Because the price of binoculars can range from $100 to $1000, Schlesinger recommends going to a store that carries binoculars and telling the clerk how much you are willing to spend. The clerk will then be able to show you what the store carries that suits your budget. He urges first-time buyers to test out the binoculars to see which models work best for them. “[Look for] clarity of image, truth of color, good feel in the hand, and [whether they are] light enough and easy to adjust,” he says.

Once you have your binoculars hanging comfortably around your neck, it’s time to buy a field guide. These are books with illustrations of different bird species and tips for identifying them. There are numerous guides to choose from, but one of the most popular is The Sibley Guide to Birds. Among longtime birders, David Allen Sibley’s guides are the most highly recommended. “[Sibley's] books are excellent, informed by current information and research, well laid-out, and attractive,” comments Schlesinger. He encourages beginners to purchase the field guide, which is small enough to carry in a large pocket. However, Schlesinger also recommends shopping around, as there are many different guides available that cater to specific birding interests. One appealing aspect of birding is that it is a relatively low-cost hobby. Schlesinger points out that another way to keep costs down is to remember, “libraries are also good resources. One might not be able to afford so many books, but checking them out of the library is an easy alternative.”

Where and When

With field guide and binoculars in hand you are ready to head out on your birding excursion. The Massachusetts coast is littered with scenic places teeming with avian wildlife. “Duxbury is probably one of the best, especially because there is a variety of shorebird and other bird species using the beach year-round,” says Becky Harris, director of the Mass Audubon Society’s Coastal Waterbird Program. She recommends visiting the beach in the late summer or early fall, as that is when the birds are resting and foraging in preparation for their migration south. Harris also suggests a couple of sites in the Greater Boston area, such as Winthrop Beach. She notes “Winthrop is especially good for migratory shorebirds later in the summer, and also has an American Oystercatcher pair that nests on the south end of the beach from March through August.” The raven birds, with their bright red bills, are not to be missed. According to Harris, the Boston Harbor Islands can be a great place to see heronries, the breeding grounds for “nesting wading birds such as the Glossy Ibis, Snowy Egret, Great Egret, and Black-crowned Night Heron.” And birding doesn’t have to leave you stranded on the shore. “These birds are visible from kayaks around islands such as Sarah Island in Hingham Harbor,” says Harris. She suggests that May through July is the best time for such an island excursion.

Schlesinger highlights that the beaches on Cape Cod are great places to see birds that stay out over the water, specifically First Encounter Beach, the National Seashore beaches, and the Wellfleet Bay Wildlife Sanctuary. He is partial to Cape Ann and other spots north of Boston, like Crane Beach in Ipswich and Plum Island in Newburyport. But, he  says, even more urban beaches in Revere and Plymouth can be worth a birding visit. It is always important to keep in mind that no place should ever be completely off the list of birding possibilities. “A surprise bird in your backyard is as exciting as a standard list of birds from a more distant place,” says Schlesinger. So remember to always keep your eyes open, no matter where you are.

In the Field

Before you head out on your first birding trip, it is important to adjust your binoculars. “It is harder than you think to fix things in your field of vision,” says Schlesinger. “It is especially hard to fix things in your field of vision when those things fly, which often means fly away,” he adds.

Once you are actually out in the field, stop for a minute, close your eyes, and listen. What do you hear? According to Schlesinger, paying attention to any sounds and call notes you may hear is key. “Experienced birders rely on hearing at least as much as sight, and probably more,” he says. “Hearing a bird alerts you to his presence and directs you where to look.” While you may be eager to use your pre-adjusted binoculars, listening to a bird’s call first will direct you exactly where to point them.

It is also important to take some time to record every bird that you see. Specific notes to jot down include the bird’s species, when and where you spotted the bird, whether the bird is male or female (if you can tell), and a note about what the bird’s call sounds like. Pete Thayer of www.wildbirds.com recommends that even if you are on vacation or enjoying a moment of leisure, recording bird sightings wherever and whenever you see them will help you to become a knowledgeable and experienced birder. Make sure to use your guide as a resource when identifying birds, and don’t be afraid to make mistakes. “Very experienced birders [make mistakes] also, and the birding list servers are full of discussions of identification issues,” says Schlesinger.

Perhaps most importantly, be sure to respect the birds. Be careful not to get too close to their habitat. Rather than approaching birds, let them come to you. This requires a great deal of patience, but it will make your discoveries all the more rewarding.

Joining the Community

Contacting local birding groups is a great way to learn more about your hobby and meet other enthusiasts. Both Schlesinger and Harris acknowledge the advantages of local birding clubs. “It always helps to tag along with someone who knows what they are doing,” says Harris. Mass Audubon offers a number of bird walks, hikes, and information sessions. If you live in the Boston area, The Brookline Bird Club, the largest and oldest bird club in Massachusetts, is open to anyone who is interested. And for South Shore dwellers, the South Shore Bird Club places an emphasis on day trips throughout the local area. Schlesinger points out that many experienced birders are, “helpful and generous with their time.” He admits that even experienced birders like himself, “love birding with beginners; the familiar birds that I barely look at anymore are new to them, and their excitement and interest encourage me to look more generously at those birds.”

For Schlesinger, birding has helped him to see the world in a new way. “Birding has taken me to places, wonderful and interesting places I might not have gone to otherwise, and has encouraged me to see familiar things at a different angle, to see things new and oddly,” he says. The profound influence birding has on its enthusiasts is such that they will travel hundreds of miles to see a rare species. But perhaps even more meaningful, is the fact that this hobby causes them to look at familiar surroundings, such as their own backyards, in a completely new light. What at first appears to be a boring way to spend an afternoon becomes a transformative experience. “Birding has made me attentive to a world full of stuff,” says Schlesinger. “A lot of it (is) alive and vibrant and weird and interesting and often beautiful.”

This is one in a series of New England winter travel articles.

WESTFORD — For years, I’ve sat smugly on chairlifts, riding confidently to the top of mountains all over the East Coast, occasionally giggling and rolling my eyes at the poor souls going down who obviously had no idea what they were doing. They were easy to spot and often fell into two categories: the creepers, those so petrified that they inched their way down like glaciers; and the screamers, those for whom helmets were invented, who race in a straight line to the bottom, using their vocal cords as a warning beacon.

I learned to ski at age five, so I have no recollection of the terror of learning to hurl oneself down a mountain on pieces of waxed fiberglass. I have no idea whether I was a creeper or a screamer. And perhaps that’s part of why I decided one day this winter that I was ready for a new challenge: snowboarding.

The idea of braving the crowds and the cold up north didn’t appeal to me. My day would mostly be spent on the bunny hill, so being on a big mountain didn’t seem to matter much. Somewhere close to home would be significantly cheaper and more convenient.

I settled on Nashoba Valley, which offers a learn-to-ski deal several times a week: $55 for a lift ticket, rental and lesson –  everything I’d need to get started. And with Nashoba about a 35 minute drive from downtown Boston, I could spend a day on the slopes and be home in time for happy hour.

I arrived at Nashoba Valley mid-morning on a weekday, a luxury for any skier or boarder as weekdays are significantly less crowded than weekends. In minutes I’d signed up for a lesson and was directed to the rental center, where I was outfitted with boots and a board. The mountain got new skis and snowboards this season, a treat for yours truly, whose skis are circa 1998.

Founded by Alan Fletcher Sr. in 1964, the Nashoba Valley originally boasted a rope tow and four trails that were hand groomed each night by staff armed with shovels. A one-story gravel-floored lodge was heated with a pot bellied stove. Completely dependent on Mother Nature for snow, the inaugural season lasted just 14 days.

But those few days were considered a success, and over the years the Fletcher family expanded the mountain, clearing new trails, adding chairlifts, and improving the lodge. Today, Nashoba Valley boasts 17 fully groomed trails, four chairlifts, a snow boarding terrain park, a 16-lane snow tubing hill, as well as a cafeteria and The Outlook Restaurant. The result is a facility that has a little something for everyone, from seasoned skiers and boarders looking to hone their skills to those like me, who are just starting out.

Trying to look as expert as I could, I took my board and went out to meet my instructor, Sean Doyle. After some introductions, Sean assured me that he’d have me looking like I knew what I was doing by the end of the day.

We headed to the bunny hill, territory that I hadn’t traversed in decades. I was a bit humbled when Sean declared me not ready for the conveyor belt towing up all the pint-sized pupils and instead walked me over to the far corner of the beginners’ area. There, he explained the parts of the board and showed me how to strap the board to my left foot. He demonstrated how to climb up the hill with the board and how to propel myself with my free foot and glide to a stop. Before long, he had me hiking up the hill and perfecting something called J-turns, which not-surprisingly are turns in the shape of a J.

While skiing has been second nature for decades, I felt like a fish on land trying to maneuver around with a snowboard. More than once, I fell on my face trying to simply propel myself in a straight line.

After learning the basics, I stepped aboard the conveyor belt and rode to the top of the bunny hill. Sean was patient and encouraging, using each run to build upon what we did in the last. And so, while I definitely felt out of my element, I was never scared or out of control. We zigzagged down, then did C-turns (yes, that would be a turn in the shape of a C) and then S-turns.

Once I had turning down, Sean brought me to the chairlift. The bunny hill allowed for one or two turns at the most; on the big hill I could carve several, hopefully getting better each time.

I suppose I should have stopped at the top of the mountain to enjoy the view or take in my surroundings, but I didn’t. Instead, I glided off the lift, strapped into my board and followed Sean down the mountain, intent on mastering my turns. I liked how snowboarding had turned a trail that would be ho-hum on skis into a new challenge, I liked that I felt like I was using new muscles, and most of all, I liked that I was warm, despite the 30-degree temperature.

The moment I’d been dreading happened at the end of my first run on the big hill. I wasn’t going particularly fast, I wasn’t even on a steep part of the hill. I was at the bottom, on a piece of terrain as flat as the parking lot. One second I was gliding towards the chairlift, the next I was on my back, a sharp pain shooting from my tailbone to my teeth. “Oh, that hurt,” Sean said, standing over me. “You OK?”

Take a breath, I told myself. “Yeah, I’m OK,” I lied. I lay there for a minute, breathing, looking up at the sky and the trees. My tailbone throbbed. I got up slowly, happy that my hat and goggles masked most of my face. Yes, it hurt. But I was just getting the turns down, I didn’t want to quit just yet.

I managed a few more runs on the big hill and took some more spills. But each turn seemed smoother, each run less fraught, and when my lesson was over, Sean congratulated me. “You’re officially a part of the snowboarding community,” he said.

Despite the bumps, I’m looking forward to practicing what I learned, even if it means I’m likely to leave divots in the snow with my knees or to slide down the hill on my back with arms flailing. Hey, at least it’ll be entertaining to the people watching from the chairlifts.

For more information on Nashoba Valley visit their web-site: skinashoba.com

This is one in a series of New England winter travel articles.

WOODSTOCK, Vt. — When several of my friends were alerted that Woodstock, Vt. has an annual tradition, the "Wassail Weekend," most scratched their heads, and said, "What’s wassailing?" Understandable. In fact, I hardly knew what wassailing was myself, so I went to find out.

Woodstock is an adorable town about an hour shy of the capital, Montpelier, and about a four-hour drive from New York City. The drive itself was beautiful. As you head into the mountains, the scenery is forest and field, with the integrity of farmland and early-settler-village-styled towns  very much intact. Woodstock lays in a valley, surrounded by ski country, dairy farms, and still has addresses on “The Green” — a circular park which the town’s roads  wrap around. It was here that the "Wassail Parade" was to commence.

For my parade weekend stomping grounds, I chose the Woodstock Inn and Resort, which was founded by Laurance S. Rockefeller, grandson of John D. Rockefeller. As we all know, those Rockefellers were smart, forward-thinking men, and Laurance was no different. Herenovated the Inn in the early 1960s, envisioning a property that could bring sustainability to the area, not just a singular facility in the town. His family had owned property and farmland in the town for decades, and he converted the Billings Farm into a museum, and preserved 550 more acres of land to ensure that Woodstock would remain as it always had. Because of his efforts, Laurance received a Congressional Gold Medal, the first ever awarded for conservation and historic preservation. His focus is still apparent in the Woodstock Inn today; the proceeds from the Inn and the still-working Billings dairy farm go to the Woodstock Foundation in order to continue conservation efforts.

There is a purposeful connection to history, nature and tradition at the Inn and this consciousness is carried well by the courteous staff. The d©cor is rustic, but modern, with clean lines and a soft color palette, which is a nice atmosphere after spending the day out in winter’s playground. Upon entering the reception area, a grand 10-foot hearth with roaring fire warms the toes, while in the library next door, cookies, hot cider and coffee are offered to warm the soul. The extremely family-friendly facility offers Wii games, and a variety of off-site activities. The Inn boasts its own golf course, ski slope, recreation facility and a new spa, which is set to open late summer of 2010. The Inn also incorporates on-site award-winning restaurants, The Red Rooster and Richardson’s Tavern. The former carries a large variety of native foods, artisanal breads, cheeses, wines and the latter offers lighter fare and live music on the weekends in a casual-overstuffed-chair environment.

The Billings Farm and Museum is a delightful visit, offering an educational center and tours of the dairy farm, where guests can view the nursery and adorable baby Jersey calves and the remarkable farmhouse, built in 1890. Again, as with the Inn, proceeds are funneled back into the Woodstock Foundation, so as to guarantee future generations can experience the joy of generations past.

Across the street from the farm is where the Rockefeller Mansion sits, in what is now the Marsh-Billings-Rockefeller National Historical Park, and is run by the Parks Dept. I had a chance to tour this amazing home, consisting of 4 floors, 10 bedrooms, and a fallout shelter in the basement. This was included as part of a Home Tour offered in celebration of Wassail Weekend. This was the first time the home was included on the tour, and although most of the mansion was closed to visitors, the peak into the life of the Rockefellers was inspiring. Another neat home on the tour was the DAR Mansion, on The Green near the Woodstock Inn, which originally housed Vermont’s traveling legislature, and is currently up for sale for just under $1.1 million. Homes on The Green pride themselves on having the title of "Woodstock’s most beautiful addresses,” in what has been coined as "the prettiest small town in America.”

The Wassail Parade is the main attraction during Wassail Weekend. Asking locals what their take on Wassailing was, the bulk of the answers consist of "spreading merriment and drinking grog” (Grog is any warm libation, aiding of course in the distribution of seasonal cheer.). The temps in Woodstock during this past Wassail Weekend were as low as 4′F at night, with light flurries and rose only to the 20s in the day. The he parade is an amazing spectacle of horsemanship, with the owners dressing themselves and their horses in holiday wears, some antique or antique-replicas. Carriages, imported horses from Ireland, and the man who follows behind on rollerblades scoopin’ the poop complete the lineup for the parade.

The Wassail Parade isn’t the only activity for Wassail Weekend, but is certainly the highlight. Aside from visiting the farm, the homes, the Vienna Boys Choir sang a concert at the Town Hall, which also serves as the town’s movie theatre. Many of the local farmers joined in The Green for a bake sale, offering chili, pies and all sorts of Christmas treats. Ice skating was offered at the local rink, and a bonfire and luminary lighting followed the parade.

Woodstock is a charming dip into American history, and a shining example of preservation of American culture and tradition, made available through forethought towards a sustainability and conservation of the area’s natural resources. So get up off the couch, and head to Vermont. Dive into hot cider, red wine and local foods to comfort the nip from Jack Frost.
Additional photos: Candace Nirvana, CNirvana.com

Boston has two Athenaeums

Both on Beacon Hill,

One is for scholars with books by the score

The other for lads who seek life in the roar.

The Boston Athenaeum’s lights are bright

But the Howard Athenaeum’s locked up tight

Some Purist got himself a Jurist

And slapped a padlock on the door

– "Some Coward Closed the Old Howard" — song by Frank W. Hatch

The Howard Athenaeum caught fire around lunchtime, drawing crowds from around Scollay Square. It was an impromptu (or suspiciously coincidental) farewell performance for an audience kept out for nearly 10 years, ever since Boston Vice showed a clandestine film of burlesque divas Rose la Rose, Princess Domain and Irma the Body to acting Mayor Francis X Ahern. Outraged at the overly "mobile abdomens" and suggestive "sinuosity" of the dancers, the mayor ordered it closed on grounds of obscenity, declaring, "I positively will not tolerate any filthy or indecent shows in our city." For the crowd watching the roof give way to the flames, the old Howard meant much more. Its sturdy fa§ade of Quincy granite had served as a load-bearing wall for the community since before their grandfathers’ time. In an area known for its seediness and decay, the Old Howard spoke of better days, when Scollay blinged with diamonds, wore fur coats and literally shook (and shimmied) its moneymaker.

If some in the street shed tears that June afternoon in 1961, others in City Hall clinked glasses. The fortuitous destruction of the theater removed the last bulwark against B.R.A’s (Boston Redevelopment Authority) next ambitious plan, a shining new Government Center to wrest Boston from its urban decay and shed the drab, brick Dickensian image it was known for. As Scollay Square had acted as the rivet that held old Boston together, linking Beacon Hill, the port and the North and West Ends, it was also the ideal location for a new center, of a new Boston. By ‘59, the West End has been razed; the North severed and banished behind Boston’s other "Green Monster," the central artery. Now it was Scollay’s turn. A drive to restore and reopen the Howard was the last bastion of spirited defense against the gathering wrecking balls, which upon its destruction, moved in with speed and ferocity, pulverizing every other building, save one, on those 22 streets within three years. Thousands were robbed of their homes and livelihoods and the city robbed of its history.

"The story of Scollay Square is important," insists David Kruh author of Always Something Doing: Boston’s infamous Scollay Square. "Within the square is our whole history, from the puritans setting up the first settlements, to the rise of the mercantile society, the influx of the immigrants and how they changed the character of the city. It’s about urban decay and urban development. It’s how our approach to history has changed, which we used to discard it like so much garbage."

Scollay’s first permanent resident, Reverend Joseph Cotton, arrived just a few years after the city’s founding in 1630. Fleeing religious prosecution, he began gathering a new flock of followers and friends at his new estate at the base of Beacon Hill. By the end of the Revolution, most of the other Boston Brahmins had moved in as well making the neighborhood the center of genteel society. Postwar prosperity fueled business and an increasing demand for labor that brought new waves of immigrants to the city. It didn’t take long for the overflow of the North and West Ends to besot the stately Scollay’s, whose respectable classes, in an early version of white flight, either scampered up Beacon Hill or skedaddled to the newly filled Back Bay. Scollay’s new class of residents generated new kinds of business and demanded less morally conscious entertainment for their ungodly working conditions. Opera Houses like the Howard Athenaeum, raised hems, lowered necklines and told bawdy jokes.

Wanting in on the fun, the rest of Boston rode the expanding stage lines into the square, disembarking finally in front of William Scollay’s building. Scollay, a former member of the Sons of Liberty, colonel in the Boston regiment, and fire marshal had acquired the building in 1795 as part of his side job as a real estate speculator. By the end of the Civil War, the name was official and a new post war party had kicked off that soon shaped a new less than savory reputation of tassel dancers, candy butchers, baggy pants comics, artists, circus freaks, political agitators, and drunken sailors. The bash lasted well into the new century, roaring through the 20s before finally crashing with the stock market at the end. The Depression didn’t kill Scollay but certainly stripped away its glitz and precipitated the rate of decay. Likewise, the impact of the automobile began to be felt as buildings gave way to new parking lots. World War II offered a short reprieve as the square reaped the rewards of sailors on leave, but the war’s end put a quick stop to that and decay returned. The subsequent destruction of the West End and neighborhoods around the new elevated highway robbed Scollay further of its chief customers. By the time the Howard caught fire in 61, the area had indeed grown squalid and in serious need of rejuvenation, but it got an apocalypse instead.

"This was a city that was dying on the vine," Kruh reminds. "Back then, to revitalize a city, you tore down and removed that which was old."

Boston was by no means alone in its pursuit of the newly available federal money as communities around the country, flush with ’50s prosperity, and faith in scientific progress, followed a recipe of historical cleansing followed by mathematical design. It was also the philosophy of the B.R.A., led by Edward Logue, an urban planner, who claimed design skills learnt during his service as a bombardier in World War II. Word got out to the street, sending firefighters and insurance agents into overtime as landlords sought to cut their losses. Relocation officers followed, offering just $200 for moving expenses as the buildings were seized by eminent domain.

One man, George Gloss, refused to give in so easily. Owner of the Brattle Book Shop, he waged a one man media campaign that organized historians and academics in an effort to save the city’s historical book center on Cornhill, a street which ran in a parallel curve opposite the Sears Crescent building. Claiming ties to Washington, Edison, Franklin, Hawthorne, Lloyd Garrison, Beecher Stowe, among others, Gloss argued for the preservation of the neighborhood, especially the Sears Crescent. "Tearing down this building," Gloss prophesized, "will mean the end of the old type of bookstore." In the end, the building survived but Gloss did not, getting evicted with the rest.

Through some brilliant accounting, the 180-million-dollar Government Center project only cost Boston $72,500 in cash. Architect I.M Pei was hired to design it and it was built in just five years. Architects and artists acclaimed it and new money began flowing into the city. Almost 40 years later, however, the accolades are few and far between. Most folks passing through Government Center today have no memory of its predecessor. But they do have a sense that all is not as it should be. Leave it to the professionals at the Project for Public Spaces, a nonprofit urban planning and design organization to put the gnawing into words, labeling City Hall "bleak, expansive and shapeless," and further declaring the surrounding brick "the worst single public plaza worldwide." Apologists still defend the renewal as a necessary sacrifice for Boston’s late 20th Century revival and they are not without the numbers to prove it. But that depends on whether you define a city by its tax producing properties or the people who inhabit them. Certainly Scollay’s demise was the city’s financial gain, but at the cost of the Crawford House, Joe and Nemo’s, Jack’s Joke Shop, Sal’s Barber shop, Marty’s Tavern, Patten’s restaurant, Tanya’s Tattoos, Epstein’s Drug store, Young’s, Huberman’s, Walkers, Cobb’s and the Old Howard.

That there were any survivors at all was a minor miracle considering the B.R.A’s scorched earth policy. Often mere fragments, Scollay’s relics can still interest those with a sensitivity and nostalgia for the past.

1. Scollay Under: Part of America’s oldest subway system, the old mosaics of Scollay Under can still be deciphered if you inspect the edges of the platforms of the Blue Line at Government Center. Almost Pompeian, the grimy, chipped mosaics are perhaps the most honest face you’ll find. Apparently more of the old tunnels exist, one section supposedly even serving as a storage facility somewhere in the basement of City Hall. Trying to find it, however, will only earn bemusement from the pencil pushers and suspicion from the security.
2. The Tea Kettle: After departing the station, look up to your right and you’ll find a big, dented, brass teakettle steaming away above the Starbucks. Originally hung by the Oriental Tea company in 1875 somewhere over today’s City Plaza, the kettle was once the talk of the town spawning much debate over its volume. (It was before TV!). Measuring day, January 2nd, 1875, was apparently quite the affair that opened with the crowd pleasing spectacle of eight boys and one man popping out of the kettle. Its volume can still be read on the Court Street side as 227 gallons, 2 quarts, 1 pint and 3 gills. But the tea pot is a replacement, the original having disappeared into history.
3. Governor Winthrop: For some time, had you exited the station you would have passed the statue of John Winthrop, Massachusetts’s first governor, high on a pedestal overlooking the square. Dedicated on the 250th birthday of Boston, September 17th, 1888, the statue was forced out by of Scollay by subway construction, eventually finding a home outside the governor’s religious alma mater, the First Church on Marlborough Street. During a fire in 1968, falling debris decapitated the statue which might have stayed headless if not for the quick arrest of the pilferer fleeing the scene. Once gazing into Boston’s commercial and cultural heart, the governor now stands in the shadows on a protruding concrete slab, the hollow underside of which apparently serves as a toilet for the city’s transient population.
4. The Sears Crescent: The only building to survive the demolition, largely through the efforts of George Gloss. The bow of the brick fa§ade reveals the shape of old Cornhill (NOT Cornhill Street!). Designed as part of an elegant entrance into Faneuil Hall from Beacon Hill, The building went up in 1841 becoming the epicenter of Boston’s book industry. As a repository for Boston’s intelligentsia, the building’s bookshops became the constant target of the city’s moral crusaders like the Watch and Ward Society who were especially successful in the ‘20s and ‘30s in book banning.
5. The Brattle Book Shop: Thanks to his son, Kenneth, the old type of book shop that George Gloss mourned for can still be found at the Brattle Book Shop on West Street. The old philosophy of "browsing as discovery" continues in the shop, as does the sincere love of antiquarian books. If you’re trustworthy enough and your reason is sound, he may even show you the family scrap books detailing first-hand the story of Scollay’s demise, a collection more valuable perhaps than any other book in the store.
6. Watson and Bell’s memorial: Bostonian pride generally stems from either sports or the Revolution but what about the telephone? Alexander Graham Bell’s famous first transmitted words, "Watson come here, I need you," were uttered in Scollay Square. The famous room itself was actually dismantled under Watson’s personal supervision and moved to Post Office Square in today’s Verizon Building where it was displayed for the public until a few months ago. Apparently it’s been packed up and indefinitely stored in some warehouse, perhaps next to the Ark of the Covenant. You’ll find a commemorative plaque just in front of the JFK buildings next to Government Center.
7. The Red Hat: Now a staple of low-budget local TV commercials, The Red Hat remains one of only three businesses still operating from Scollay. Although forced out like everyone else, the Red Hat moved only a few blocks north to the corner of Bowdoin and Cambridge streets, taking with it the stained glass over the bar and the original neon sign. While the walls offer a panoramic painting of Scollay Square in its heyday, the bar downstairs may give you the chance to hear tall first hand tales of Scollay from the old townies during happy hour.
8. Pemberton Square: Pemberton Square, once the choicest real estate in the city, is now possibly the saddest remnant of Scollay Square. Promised by the B.R.A as a viable public space, the brick no-man’s land sandwiched between City Plaza and the New Court House is utterly devoid of life save groups of huddled, exiled smokers. Nevertheless, it’s in Pemberton that you can find all that’s left of the old Howard, a circular plague mounted on a concrete slab bench on the Cambridge Street side, marking the old stage.
9. Perhaps more than any other American city, Boston is a city of squares, whose inhabitants subscribe to them as if they were a sports team. But few, if any, offer even a place to sit much less space to stand in. Instead they act as honorary conduits for the automobiles, trains and public that passes through them on to some other part of the city. George Gloss may have said more than he knew when he predicted the consequences of his bookshop’s destruction. Perhaps Scollay’s demise also signaled the end of the old kind of square, a public space of, by, and for the people.

Happily, the people seem to be coming back into the urban development of equation. Boston’s last major redevelopment project, the Big Dig, provides the strongest evidence that things have changed. Despite all the rancor over budget and mismanagement, no building was seized by eminent domain nor was anyone forced to move. The central artery was torn down, reconnecting the North End back to the rest of the city. Throughout the city, zoning laws have tightened and brownstones grown valuable. The government incentives refurbishment and city architects adorn new buildings with past motifs.

"Look at this structure here," David Kruh points out to a nearby commuter rail station. "Look what it’s made of. It’s made of brick, old fashioned roofing material. It’s got pinnacles on it like an old style building. Why is that? It’s because we’ve recognized that not everything that’s new is good. And that all that glass and steel that we built in the 60′s and the 70s look like crap and doesn’t stand the test of time."

The station also offers evidence of this paradigm shift that gives appreciation and respect to the past, as does the T’s new mascot Charlie, who comes from an old Kingston Brother’s tune, or the bookman fonts used at the green line stops. So why the change of heart? Is it just cheaper? The tourist dollars? Hopefully it was the memory of thousands of displaced families, destroyed communities, and discarded history. If so, than Scollay’s sacrifice may have saved the rest of us from new Government Centers, so long as memory serves.

Media credit/Smart Decisions via Flickr

Winter is in full swing, and if you’re anything like me you’re likely counting down the days until you can head outside without looking like the Michelin Man.

However, the one thing that makes these cold months bearable (at least for me) is the abundance of winter sports. New to the area, or maybe you’re simply interested in checking out a new winter sport? Here’s a little something to get you started.

Cross Country Skiing: You’ll see people cross country skiing on the Esplanade after any major snow storm, but for more assured conditions head to the Weston Ski Track (a convenient 15 minute drive from downtown) for groomed trails, rentals and lessons. Bored after work? Give night skiing a try. Not so sure on your skis? Snowshoe rentals are also available.

Ice Skating: Opportunities abound in the city. Each winter, the Frog Pond on Boston Common is transformed into an outdoor skating rink. Billed as the city’s "coolest gathering spot" it’s open for public skating everyday and offers rentals. The Skating Club of Boston in Allston also offers public skate sessions on Saturday and Tuesday afternoons, as well as rentals and lessons. And Bay State Skating School has a number of locations, including in West Roxbury, Cleveland Circle and Southie. The Massachusetts’ Department of Recreation and Conservation also runs a number of skating rinks across the city. Go here for locations and public skate hours.

Hockey: Looking to fulfill your own Bruins fantasy? Check out the Greater Boston Hockey League for information on joining a rec team. Or check to see if your local skating rink offers a neighborhood league.

Downhill Skiing: With great skiing just a quick drive away, there’s no reason not to gather up a few friends and head north for a day or a weekend on the slopes. No car? No problem. Several companies run bus services that leave from the city. The Boston Ski and Sports Club offers day and weekend trips to some of the best spots in New England. At $79 for a bus ride and lift ticket, these trips are a veritable bargain. Also, New England Action Sports does slightly cheaper weekday trips that leave from South Station. If you’re just starting out, you might want to get a few lessons under your belt before heading to the big stuff. Consider a trip to Blue Hills Ski Area in Canton, which offers weekend and evening lessons.

Snow Tubing: Hankering to relive your childhood sledding days? Head to Nashoba Valley or Amesbury Sports Park. Whirling down groomed slopes will bring that same old rush, minus the grueling climb afterward (yes, there’s a lift to carry you up).

It’s a hell of a decision to leave home, and even more to leave your country. Your family members and friends will have reactions that may range from clenched-teeth support to outright condemnation, especially if you’re headed somewhere oft lampooned on Comedy Central. But thousands of Americans live in thousands of un-American places, and the number is growing. They do it regardless of risk and with an eye for the infinitely more valuable Columbian thrill of new lands, the intensification of experience, the expansion of your mental world through your physical, and of course, the food. "I have seen and experienced things," one teacher writes in her blog, "that other people only read about. Travel changes you, forever."

Joining the international teaching circuit does indeed have its share of hazards though. Due to the often-questionable legality of your employment, you will likely be without the full security and protection of a legal citizen, (should some unscrupulous employer decided not to pay you, for example). Nor should anyone expect riches in TEFL (Teaching English as a Foreign Language) as paychecks generally hover above subsistence. But buck up! There’s a reason people come home with stars in their eyes, a spring in their step and new appreciation for life. So before you pack your bags, take some advice from those with trial and plenty of error behind them.

Get Qualified

Unless interested in rural, third world locations, a TEFL certificate is essential. The document will greatly enhance your access to reputable schools that pay better, provide work visas and even health insurance. The best-known and highly regarded are the CELTA, Trinity certTESOL and the SIT TESOL certificates. Lasting as little as four weeks, training courses can easily be found in most major cities and range in cost between $500 and $2,000. If the cost of a program slumps your shoulders, look for schools abroad that offer both English and TEFL certification programs. Some will cover the cost in exchange for a two-year contract afterward. Online degrees are acceptable but not respected as they lack practicum, which is invaluable to producing quality work. A master’s degree, on the other hand, can get you work in a university prep school where the best salaries are.

Finding Work

The business of TEFL has grown up with the Internet and most postings are found there. Websites like tefl.com, tefl.net, eslcafe.com and www.eslemployment.com sort positions by country and include details (the more the better) regarding job tasks, qualifications, contracts and salary. Research the schools elsewhere with attention to employee reviews. Applications consist of two parts, the resume (C.V. in the metric world) and the cover letter. Don’t worry if you’re skint on experience as many places are happy to take newbies (and pay them less). The cover letter establishes your voice, attitude and character and carries a lot of weight if well-crafted. Grammar and spelling errors will only expedite it to the bin, so check it carefully. Once submitted, let the Director of Studies know directly.

Interview

Since most interviews occur long distance, the Internet (especially Skype) is the primary medium, so test your computer connections and software, as you want your first impression to be one of preparedness. Conduct the interview in a quiet room with a tidy background and dress business casual, (at least the waist up). During the 20 minutes or so, you’ll be asked about your background, certification and experience followed by a few situational "what if" questions. The content of your answers is as important than the way you answer. Are you a mush-mouth? overly giddy or giggly? Do you constantly fidget, pick your nose, cut off the interviewer, diss evil corporations, praise God? Stop it. Tact, propriety and diplomacy are essential to the job.

Packing your Bags

Congratulations on the job! Now it’s time to prepare. Pack light as it usually takes some time to settle down in one place. Superfluous materials can be shipped later or picked up when you visit home, although you’ll probably just forget about them. Besides, it’s more fun to shop there. Most important accessories? A laptop, Leatherman/Swiss Army Knife, dictionary, and a grab bag of favorite medications. Country guides are of limited value since they are designed for short-term tourism and books, in general, simply weigh too much. Check websites like expats.com and city magazines (if they exist) to get the inside scoop. Finally, bring enough cash (ideally about 2,000 dollars) to survive a month or two until your full paychecks start coming through. Some schools offer advances to new teachers but it’s best not to start in the hole.

Arrival

Any legitimate school should meet you at the port of call, but bring phone numbers just in case. Assuming you’re tired from your long flight, you’ll be taken to your initial accommodation for some sleep. Don’t panic if it’s not the most comfortable as it is short term but don’t be afraid to let the school know. Diplomatic pestering works wonders and by this point they’ve invested in you enough to want you reasonably happy. Unless desperate, the school should give you a day or two to orient and acclimate before saddling you with classes, and then only a few at first. Better schools provide mentors, at least for the first few classes. Within a week or two, you ought to be working at full capacity, which is usually around 25 contact hours. Resist more.

Class and classroom

Class size depends greatly on school type. Proper Academic Institutions like universities have between 15 and 25 students, while private language schools less and often one-to-one. Any classes conducted at businesses themselves hover around eight. The classroom itself can consist of anything from your kitchen to a state of the art facility. In most cities, the average are equipped at least a white board, markers and a CD player. Countryside schools may have significantly less and require more creativity from the teacher. New teachers should begin a private language schools as the students are generally mature and hard-working and will allow you to make rookie mistakes.

Your Colleagues

If you are in your twenties, the majority of your colleagues will be like you, sewing your royal oats before putting down roots back home. The rest will be either some of the most fascinating people you’ll ever meet or the saddest. Some have "gone native" while many others are admirably seeking their second wind too lighten the heavy baggage brought with them. The majority will be men, but not by much. The developing world is still very much a man’s and your female colleagues often need thicker skins in cultures less respectful of independent western women. For others though, it increases your value. Finally, most schools often employ a smattering of natives who will work ten times harder than you and receive ten times less. Treat them well.

The Payoff

For the most part, anyone entering the business should forget any hope of financial gain. It does indeed come to some but no more than to aspiring actors in Hollywood. The best salaries these days are around Persian Gulf where schools offer upwards of $40,000 to $50,000 (tax free!), lots of holidays, free accommodation and flights home. Teachers working in the traditional locales of higher salaries, Japan, Korea and Taiwan, now must deal with higher costs of living. More economically depressed regions of the world usually offer something higher than the average cost of living, but still far below the US standards, which can make it hard to pay off any debts back home. University work in any country always pays more and is the best place to aim. Cash windfalls come from one place and one place only, private students. Although the ethics of obtaining privates are still debatable, the economic benefits are undeniable since they can be charged up to four times your school rate and still invite you to their summer villa.

Making It

To be sure, your first time abroad can be unnerving and full of things that go bump in the night, but once you’ve picked yourself up a few times, you learn not to fall so easily. An active social life is key to mental health so make every effort to be a good friend. A network of native friends is also immensely helpful as they’ll keep you informed, guide you through the often-intolerable bureaucratic labyrinths and reveal the hidden cultural treasures. Countryside teachers should expect more solitude and need to be tougher psychologically but no matter where you go, you’ll need significant internal reserves of motivation, energy, and optimism. You may find some at the parties and pub-crawls, but far more in the hearts of the people and genetics of their culture.

REYKJAVIK — Iceland is quickly turning into Europe’s hottest spot for wonderment and geothermal activity. Not only is the country equipped with an emotional landscape full of volcanoes, hot springs, geysers, and caves, it also boasts a nightlife on the weekends fit enough for the most modern-day Viking party monsters.

Reykjavik, the capital, is where all the action takes place and it’s only a five hour flight on Icelandair from Boston. There are an array of lively bars and cafes located in the main shopping area on Laugavegur Street and on the roads off of it.

I stayed at the Hotel Fron on Laugavegur and I was less than a block from a handful of bars like Sirkus, Pravda, Oliver’s and Nelly’s Caf©, which is known for having the cheapest beer in Iceland. And believe me I took full advantage of the chance to save. Although the city has a great variety of tourist activities, the price you pay for food and alcohol is sinful.

Viking, a premium golden lager with a hint of malt, maize and hops, is the best selling beer in Iceland, with the draft version being the most popular in the pubs and restaurants. Its lightness and sweet taste caused me to drink so much I think I saw the ghost of Leif Ericson — and that was at 600 kronas ($8) a pint with 5.6 percent alcohol content.

Most locals counter the expensive beer prices by consuming a lot of alcohol at home before they go out. The bars and clubs are open until 5 a.m., so nobody heads out until midnight. Their pre-game drink of choice is Brennivn, a type of schnapps made from potatoes that is referred to as "Black Death." I took a shot of it and I found it to have a bitter taste of Drano with a hint of cardboard.

Going out to eat in Iceland, although expensive, is well worth it. The country has the freshest, untainted fish in the world. The swordfish I sampled at Vegamot was the best I have ever had and the mountain lamb at Caf© Victor was as tender as the hearts of the beautiful blonde-haired, blue-eyed women I had to break upon my departure back to Beantown.

Between my partying antics and affluent dining habits, I was able to take a few quick day trips with local touring company Reykjavik Excursions. The must-see destinations in Iceland are Blue Lagoon, a luxurious spa with geothermal seawater known for its positive effects on the skin, and The Golden Circle, a collection of historical sites that include The Kerith Volcano Crater, The Gullfoss Waterfall, the geysers of Geysir, and Thingvellir National Park.

With a population just under 300,000, Iceland is one of the least crowded countries in the world. It also has the longest life expectancy, no pollution, and the cleanest drinking water, which you can get right from the tap or even a stream.

For a truly unforgettable vacation you may add Greenland to your Iceland visit. After all, Greenland’s East Coast is only a two hour flight away.

And if all that doesn’t stir your fancy there’s always Bjork. You can pound liters of Viking beer and enjoy the clean air and eternal sunshine while you search for the little musical dwarf and beg her to let you wear her swan dress back to South Boston.

For more information check out the Iceland Tourist Board at www.whatson.is.

CANTON, Ohio — Coming home to Ohio for Christmas this year felt like an extended version of the movie “On Golden Pond,” with my stepfather Tom as the crotchety, yet lovable Henry Fonda figure, my mother as the eccentric, yet supportive Katharine Hepburn figure, and me—the forever man-crazy Jane Fonda character who walks around barefoot and in boxer shorts and complains that it’s too cold in the house. OK, well Jane Fonda didn’t do that in the movie, but I do.

It had been almost six months since my parents moved me to Boston for graduate school so I was eager to go home a week for the holidays. Too bad Boston Logan International Airport has a reputation for delayed flights. My 7:30 p.m. scheduled flight on December 22 was delayed until 8:30. That didn’t seem so bad. 8:30 turned into 9:30 and then 10:30. I finally landed in the land of Canton, Ohio — famous for helping to re-elect George W. Bush in 2004, celebrating a museum of bronze football player heads that is the Football Hall of Fame, and drinking the beauty that is PBR (Pabst Blue Ribbon) beer at 1 a.m. I couldn’t have been happier.

Christmas Eve consisted of my mother and stepfather arguing over how to correctly insert a small circular battery into a plastic mini-candle.

"No, you have to put with the positive side up," my step-dad insists.

Tom, who looks like a hybrid of Dustin Hoffman and Dennis Farina from “Law and Order,” is usually right about these sorts of things. He’s a regular jack-of-all trade’s artist and fix-it man who was a one-time beer can collector and who used to teach Earth Science to high-schoolers until the narcolepsy kicked in.

"I’m telling you, you bent the plastic edge, now it won’t work," he explains to my mother.

"These cheap things are a piece of shit," my mother so elegantly puts it.

My mother Victoria looks to Tom to fix anything that appears out of the ordinary.

"I can’t get this stupid cork screw opener to work!" she says later in the evening.

"You’re going to break it!" she exclaims when Tom manhandles the opener.

"Pretend you’re a waiter at a restaurant. It’s the fancy kind that they use," she instructs him.

Finally, they get the bottle of White Zinfandel open. My mother pours herself a large glass and thrusts the bottle into the refrigerator. I come from a family of wine connoisseurs.

My mother, who’s dressed in a god-awful pink Christmas sweater with sparkly pine trees, insists that we listen to some joyful Christmas music.

"Put on B-A-R-B-R-A!"

When Mike Meyers created the character of Linda Richmond on Saturday Night Live in the early 90′s, I think he was talking about my mother. Granted my mother doesn’t have long finger nails and isn’t Jewish, but she’s still obsessed with Barbra Streisand.

"She can’t do wrong! Listen to that voice."

Don’t argue with her. To my mother, Streisand is ageless, timeless and flawless, which is why she was thrilled when we opened Christmas presents that I got her the Divine B’s new CD.

"I just knew you’d get this for me!" my mother shrieks.

My step-dad is more thrilled that he got a new book of Sudoku to listen to her. When he’s not immersed in his favorite game, Tom can be found in the back room of our basement aka "his studio." Right now, he’s trying his hand on stain-glass windows after taking a class at the local art gallery.

"Hey Nicholas, can you come here a minute?" he calls me later that night.

That can only mean one thing. He needs me to hold something in place. Ever since I was 10 and my mother remarried I’ve been holding up ladders, holding down weights for projects, and holding onto my sanity throughout the process. He’s got another hollow wood sculpture he’s working on in between all the stain glass Christmas window hangings.

"I can’t seem to get the damn glue to stick!" he cries like a defeated Ahab.

But he always defeats his Everests. Then he goes and takes a nap.

It’s always interesting after being home for a long time to notice the various changes around the house. My room is no longer my room. It’s the guest room. But there aren’t just changes. There are improvements. My mother fills me in.

"What do you think of Tom’s new carport he built next to the garage?"

"Did you see our new window shutters for our bedroom?"

"Doesn’t this carpet look like one of Tom’s stained glass windows?"

"Did you notice that I got rid of those awful duck handles that were on all the kitchen cabinet doors?"

"Can you believe that the kid from Best Buy didn’t sell us a memory card for our new digital camera!"

No, Mom. I honestly can’t.

In the summer I’d come home to spend the day at my parent’s on our pontoon boat on the lake. But Meyers Lake aka Golden Pond is frozen over. Even though it’s winter it doesn’t keep my parents from feeding the wildlife.

Despite the fact that we’ve had a case of freezing rain mixed with snow, they both feel it’s their solemn duty to feed the birds, squirrels, and the neighbor’s fat grey outdoor cat.

It’s when the seagulls start circling the house that I start to get worried.

"Do you have to do that?" I ask my mother as she throws a packet of stale bread for Hitchcock’s heathens.

"They like it!" she laughs.

Sure they like it, Tippi Heddren. They also would like to peck out your eyes, I think to myself.

But Christmas Eve didn’t end on a bad note. We all ended up watching “A Christmas Story” on TBS’s marathon run they have every year.

"Look, what I got myself," my mother shows me holding up a large Este Lauder makeup bag.

"I got it for myself for Christmas! Tom doesn’t know," she giggles, "do you think your cousin Emily will like this ugly red bag? I just wanted the lipstick."

"I have no idea," I say as I pet our tabby cat Jewels, who’s sitting on my lap.

"Well, I guess I could keep it. Do you think Macy’s would take it back and give me another case of eye shadow instead? I mean, it’s a perfectly good bag."

"Mom, this isn’t Mexico. You can’t just barter your way up and down the perfume counter," I inform her.

"True. I think I will give it to your cousin Emily."

The next morning I wake up to the sound of snow and rain bleating against my windowpane. Looking out onto Meyers Lake, I realize that even if it’s for a short time, I’m glad to be home.

"What are you doing?" my mother asks me as she comes into my room on Christmas night.

"Writing a story about you and Tom,"

"Oh God!" my mother says rolling her eyes.

God, it’s good to be home.

PARIS — It is known as the city of lights, but even on a more typical autumn day of drizzle and dreary weather, a one-day stopover can allow for a wonderful taste of Paris’ "je ne sais quois." Given the limit of one day in Paris, it is easy to understand why using the River Seine as your guide is an easy answer to seeing the most for the least cost on metro transit, as the walkabout is a cornucopia of history and beauty.

The sites you are able to take in will be limited; as with the Louvre, Paris offers such a rich historical and artistic story that one day is just the cherry on top. A good place to start is to follow the River Seine. Most of the postcard locations lie on the Seine: The Louvre, Cathedral of Notre Dame, the Musse d’Orsay, and a Frommer’s-book full of other photographic havens.

When starting at Bastille, the Eiffel Tower is an obvious finale, and a fairly realistic goal when spending a day on foot. Paris has an extensive metro system, but be prepared to log some serious miles in sneakers. The metro system is similar in operation to the NYC subway, or the London underground, with a variety of rainbow-inspired lines, but also with a regional train system to service the outer lying Parisian reaches, and of course the TGV high-speed trains which blast passengers to Brussels, London, Spain or the French countryside in record time.

The Bastille is the perfect place to start the walkabout, and the neighborhood during the day is a gallery of shopping and eateries. Starting with a lovely breakfast at one of the many brasseries, the French equivalent of a diner, albeit with a much different menu comprising quiche, omlette’s and other free-from-fried options, is imperative. Be warned, however, that Paris is one of the more expensive travel destinations. A jar of orange juice, roughly 6 oz. and perhaps some of the best orange juice to sample, cost just over $7.

At night, the "city of lights" effect drapes the streets of the Bastille and Dicken’s "St Antoine" with an other-worldy rhythm. The cobblestones echo the jive of the residents and the streets at once fall into a synchnopatic melody with the city. With the Bastille monument centered in a roundabout near the heart of Paris, a walk in any direction could go on for miles and not extended beyond the Parisian lines. Ominous and modern, the Bastille Opera house both contradicts and encompasses the Parisian aesthete. It is the home base of the Op©ra National de Paris , and was inaugurated in 1989 on the 200th anniversary of the storming of the Bastille.

Near the Bastille are two of the six heaviest traveled train stations in Paris, incorporating the use of regional and high-seed transit. On the right bank of the Seine, the same as Bastille- lies the Gare du Lyon. Named after Lyon, France- a city en route, construction was initiated for the World Exposition of 1900. The train station boasts a restaurant in service since 1901-Le Train Bleu. The Gare d’Austerlitz, built in 1840 as the Gare d’Orleans and eventually re-named after the famed Battle of Austerlitz during Napoleon’s reign, is situated across the river. Just before the train station on the river is the National Library of France which contains over 20million volumes. Originally contained in the Louvre, the modernization and relocation of the library was completed late 1995.

As the Seine arcs to the west, a magnificent park, the Jardins des Plantes precedes the two Seine-islands, Žle Saint-Louis and the Žle de la Cit©, which are must-see marvels and home to magnificent monuments. The Žle Saint-Louis is an enchanting place, meticulously laid out, and the French Renaissance style is still nearly intact. The Žle de la Cit© is home to the Cathedral of Notre Dame- perhaps the most iconic of Paris’ attractions, subject of movies and novels alike. The grandiose gothic construction of any cathedral its size is awe-inspiring, and Notre Dame does not disappoint. Completed in the middle of the 13th century after nearly 100 years of construction, Notre Dame is not only a beautiful representation of an era when Gothic structures began their page in history, but also boasts use of unseen modern architectural techniques of the time, like the "flying buttresses, making it a staple in the history of religion, art and design. A smart tourist will plan to spend a couple of hours exploring the cathedral, as both the tower and crypt below are open for tours. The island was a center for French Revolutionary action, with many of the buildings stolen for use as prisons, which are now government owned buildings, focused on social welfare- the Police, Palace of Justice, and Paris’ largest hospital.

Just beyond the Žle de la Cit©, on both sides of the Seine leading to the Louvre, are strands of green metal stalls. When opened by the local booksellers in the late morning, the walk is a magical stroll through an outdoor bookstore. The sellers offer books, mostly in French, tourist curios and art. Some of the books and art are truly treasures, some are reproductions. The Parisian folk who run the booths are storybooks themselves of the city and the Parisian life.

The Louvre is a very typical hot spot in Paris, but for a one-day stop-over, it is best to take in only her exterior and lush gardens, the Tuileries. Many boast that days on end could be spent in the Louvre without seeing her in entirety. Her floor space is an expansive 123.5 square miles in total, and began life as a fort in the 12th century. Not only does the Louvre house the collection of history through art, but as a piece of art herself has many stories. Expanded successively throughout time, once the Palace of Versailles, and a place for art students, the French Revolution’s National Assembly decreed that the Louvre serve as a museum in the face of the destruction of many Parisian monuments in that frenetic time.

Near the Louvre is a trinity of vision- the Musee d’Orsay, Avenue des Champs-‰lys©es and Les Invalides. Closest to the Louvre is the Avenue des Champs-‰lys©es, which the Parisians refer to as the "most beautiful street in the world". Starting at the Place de la Concorde and ending at the Arc du Triomphe, the one and a quarter mile avenue boasts a lack of commercialization, although not entirely safe from modernization. The avenue originated as a farmer’s market, but by the 17th Century was a hotspot for living and business properties. The oldest standing committee in Paris, in fact, is the Comite Champs- ‰lys©es, who still control much of the rental market and improvement of the Avenue as well as lobby to the authorities for business practice rights.

Across the river from the Louvre complex is the Mus©e d’Orsay, originally a train station, most well known for its impressionistic and post-impressionistic collections. It, like most Parisian monuments has served the city’s officials, citizens and eventually tourists. Near Mus©e d’Orsay and across from the Champs-‰lys©es is Les Invalides. The museum and administrative facilities all relate to the military, and history thereof; the grounds include a hospital and retirement center for war veterans. A masterpiece in French Baroque designs, and inspired by St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome, the Invalides is also the burial site of Napoleon, his family and officers, and many other military heroes. From the Invalides, presumably at this point by moonlight, the Eiffel Tower is a luminary reflecting off the day’s tour guide, the Seine. Prefaced by the Parc du Champs de Mars, the tower was built as an entry-way to the 1889 World’s Fair.

Like the Eiffel Tower to Paris, Paris herself has become a beacon in the world, a symbol of romance, and of struggle. Like the tower, Paris has had the strength to rise above all maintaining her integrity, and just a 24-hour escape into her arms will change the way anyone sees Europe, as a mecca of the collaboration between history and art.

ROME — By clicking on Baghdad’s Virtual Museum of Iraq website one can admire a selection of Sumerian, Babylonian, Assyrian, and Islamic archaeological finds preserved on two floors of the building designed in 1937 by the German architect Werner March and looted in 2003.

Today’s Iraq, the Asian region between the Tigris and Euphrates rivers, was called Mesopotamia by the ancient Greeks.

After the 5th Millennium B.C., very rich and powerful civilizations developed in this fertile and luxuriant land, leaving splendid vestiges of their glorious history.

Along the banks of the rivers and their tributaries, Sumerians, Accadians, Babylonians, and Assyrians founded cities such as Uruk, Ur, Lagash, Nippur, Babylon, Khorsabad, and Nineveh, surrounded by walls and with temples and monumental palaces inside them. The region was later conquered by the Persians, then the Seleucids, the Parthians, the Romans, and finally in the 7th Century A.D. by the Arabs.

The winged bulls of the Assyrian palatine palaces continue to narrate a part of Mesopotamia’s history, as do monumental reliefs, funerary objects in royal burial places, and the colossal statue of the god Abu, all looted, damaged and destroyed in the museum during the plundering and pillaging of April 2003. These precious marble, alabaster, ivory and golden testimonies of Assyrian-Babylonian civilization were recovered, restored, and replaced inside this museum and portrays the history, from the prehistoric to Islamic times, of the land between the two rivers, the cradle of civilization, of writing, the wheel, the first code of laws and the first to learn how to measure astronomical time.

Google recently announced that very soon, at the beginning of 2010, 14,000 photographs of ancient finds from the National Museum in Baghdad, relics of the Babylonian, Assyrian, and Sumerian civilizations, will be available online.

Using the Internet to make available to everyone part of the Fertile Crescent’s immense legacy is a commendable initiative.

All this thanks to the Italian National Research Council project. (Known as CNR: Consiglio Nazionale delle Ricerche.) It’s a “Made in Italy” initiative.

CELEBRATION, Fla. — I tell people I’m from Orlando. All of us do.

The second the word "Celebration" escapes your lips, you start to raise some serious questions. Yes, Celebration, Florida is a real place. Yes, I grew up on Disney property. No, I am not an animatronic Disney robot. If I am, they did a great job of making me lifelike because I am freezing my little robotic ass off right now in Boston.

I moved to Celebration when I was 11, right as the school was being built and Walt Disney’s picture was still up on the wall. Celebration was designed to be the real EPCOT — an Experimental Prototype Community of Tomorrow — where residents could work, eat, sleep and die all in the same place without ever leaving. Sometimes I feel like I grew up in either the 1950s or on “The Truman Show.”

And then I moved from "Pleasantville" to Somerville.

I’d always wanted to come to Boston. Mainly, I blame Celebration’s Town Tavern, which was the only place in town to hang out once you turned 21. The Tavern was like a home away from home, with Celtics and Red Sox gear on the walls and the "Boston Garden" patio. It seemed so great, but I forgot to take two factors into account. First, I was always drunk when I was there. Second, we had the heat lamps on once it reached 60 degrees. So did I know what I was in for? No. Not really.

Definitely, no.

But during the holidays, there are always parts of my new place up north that will remind me of home.

Like… snow.

Yes. This rumor is true. They pump out fake snow in the streets of Celebration during the winter. We needed something to keep us feeling festive in between the holiday decorating contest and the Radio Disney Holiday Concert in the middle of town.

Sure, you could bide your time watching that house that has their Christmas lights synchronized to holiday music. Or you could ride in the little toy train around the lake in search of Santa Claus and alligators.

But nothing beats fake snow.

Last winter was the first time I’d ever been freaked out by going home. As I sat drinking a glass of wine with a friend on Market Street, a loudspeaker made an announcement to the throngs of tourists gathering on the street.

“Once … In a magical land called Celebration … a little girl made a wish that she could see snow…”

The voice in the loudspeaker proceeded to get the entire street of people to wish as hard as they could for world peace and for dreams to come true. And then it happened. It snowed.

After experiencing real snow for a full winter, it was strange to sit on Market Street and watch perfect flurries fall from the sky while I was wearing a tank top.

Sidebar: For those of you back home who have never seen snow, it’s a lot like cold sand from hell. But in a good way.

Celebration snow is not actually snow. It’s what residents refer to as “snope,” a flurry of soap bubbles designed to look like snow that conveniently melt into the sidewalk after 10 minutes. No windshield scraper needed.

It might not seem so magical once you’ve moved north and have had to shovel off the top of your car, only to find a dozen orange parking tickets frozen to your windshield.

But all in all, it’s pretty much the same thing.

Keep wishing for snow, Little Girl. But snope is so much better.

ROME — The multimedia museum in the vaults of Palazzo Valentini, the headquarters for the Province of Rome, is a synthesis of history and technology.

Scientific examination of the finds and the town plans for Rome between the second and fourth centuries A.D. ensure that the city comes back to life using computer graphics, thanks to which it is possible to embark on a fascinating journey, walking on polychrome mosaics and large basalt paving stones, past the multi-coloured walls of the domus of senators so rich they built private thermal baths so close to the Roman Forums.

Thanks to the multimedia museum, created by Piero Angela, we will see exactly how the heating system for the two Roman domus worked, with their extraordinary thermal complexes, thought to be the luxury residences of magistrates with the rank of senators, which extended for 1,800 square meters in the area next to the Forum and Trajan’s Column.

ROME — As is known, Rome never stops surprising us, and the treasures that are still covered by layers and layers of earth, streets and pavements are hardly imaginable.

The most recent and rather important discovery is the white marble flight of steps found during excavations undertaken in the course of archaeological surveys for Line C of the underground railroad in Piazza Venezia.

After the discovery of the building that perhaps supported Nero’s rotating dining room on the Palatine, excavations for Line C of Rome’s subway brought to light a building that, according to the first hypotheses made by archaeologists, is thought to be Hadrian’s Academy, built in 133 A.D. to host poets, rectors, philosophers, men of letters, scientists and magistrates.

Hadrian, or Publius Aelius Hadrianus, ruled from 117-138 AD. He was an avid philosopher who was commonly referred to as one of the “five good emperors.” Hadrian’s Wall, in Northern England was built after a great war in what was then called Britannia.

It was an unexpected find as there is no trace of this building even in the Forma Urbis Romae, the map of ancient Rome engraved on marble slabs in the days of Septimius Severus (2nd Century A.D.). One of the sources used by archaeologists is the archaeological map created in the early 20th Century by the scholar Guglielmo Gatti. On this map Gatti in fact rediscovered a late-ancient domus and a little further south a number of monumental structures, which were really therefore the beginnings of the now hypothesised Athenaeum.

At the center, where the emperor and the poets wrote verses, is a granite floor with ochre coloured listels. These are the same kinds of floors used for the libraries Hadrian had built to the sides of Trajan’s Column fifty meters further along.

Now, the hypothesis that the Athenaeum may be in that never previously excavated corner of Piazza Venezia is extremely fascinating for history, archeology and architecture buffs.

LIEGE, Belgium — This is a city straight from the storybooks that offers adventures back to historical times. The streets and people hold a fairytale fascination, and the architecture is reminiscent of the Brothers Grimm. My adventure in Belgium began with an easy two hour train ride from Paris on the high speed rail system, and then an easy drive through the pastures and orchards of Belgium into Liege to attend the inauguration of Santiago Calatrava’s renovation of the Gare du Liege. Liege is now perfectly positioned to be a quick ride to Paris and London, and even shorter commutes to Antwerp, Brussels and Frankfurt and is a deserving gateway of present as it always has been in the past.

I only had a few short days in Liege, and my first day was set in the typical rainy Belgian weather, a cool reminder of the oncoming autumn season and which added an aura of mystique. Set in the valley of the River Meuse, and hemmed in by its foothills, the quaint narrow streets are filled with pubs and snack shops. Pommes frites — French fries — are a common craving amongst the citizens. Famous for its chocolates and beers, the Belgian Blue Beef and wines for even the pickiest connoisseur are not to be skipped. There are modern shopping markets, palaces and judicial buildings and outdoor amphitheaters.

I met some friends and colleagues who were also over for the Gare du Liege festivities, and our first night was spent enjoying the above mentioned delights at a Spanish-named, Italian restaurant named La Cantina. The food was rustic and flavorful, with fresh seafood and tender beef cuts. Outside in the courtyard a table of children colored, and upon exploring, boasted to me of their abilities to speak Japanese and English, as well as their native French and German. There are a number of restaurants that feature an inner, courtyard-style garden, and our second meal together brought us into the cozy but modern ambiance of Jardin des Begards. Again the service, and tasty treats were unforgettable, the lighting swirled in colors around you, nothing was quite the same any time you glanced up and our meal felt a bit like a grown-up version of the Mad Tea Party from Alice in Wonderland, complete with a lovely round-faced Cheshire Cat chattering in the garden for his deserved attention, and receiving well his worth.

With the weather clearing the rest of the trip into crisp sunny days, and the sun glistening off the Meuse, our group set out to explore the city and was drawn to some of the cathedrals. Religion has always maintained a high importance to the city; with the ruling party typically a Prince-Bishop, a great number of cathedrals have been constructed for over 1,000 years. As a result of the constant process of wars and rebuilding, the city has a highly developed Archeoforum, which is a result of nearly 100 years of archaeological excavation and contains remains dating as far back as the Paleolithic era. The charismatic Cathedral St Bartholomew which is the oldest dating back to 1015 boasts a festive red and white icing-like paint job and a variety of influences ranging from Romanesque to Neoclassical. The grand gothic-like St. Paul’s Cathedral dates from the same era, but with major renovations throughout time has taken on the character of the famed Parisian Cathedrals. Near the foot of St. Bartholomew is a climb of 400 steps along a stairway called “Montagne de Bueren,” leading from Hors-Ch¢teau to the Citadel. Once atop the city, the view overlooking the valley showcases the river, and ranges from the Gare du Liege at the foot of the Cointe Hills to the city-centre. The Citadel is now home to a modern hospital complex, but the brick and mortar remains of its original duty still stand guard and offer a fascinating glimpse into Liege’s strategic quality recognized by her founders.

On the outskirts of the city in the Seraing district, known for its factories and steelwork, there is a lasting reminder of the religious age, allowing for the tradition of great handcrafted arts to survive, in what was once a great Cathedral and later convent. The Crystal factory of Val St. Lombard is nearly a lost art. Here, crystal glass is sculpted into delicacies for your home. Artists create their glassware or artworks from scratch, a hands-on process from the mixing of the powders to creating the molten crystal and finally spinning a vase from the kiln like a skillful Pied Piper. The steel industry made a lasting mark on the area, and there are still a handful of operating factories and signs of the industrial age, but the economy has shifted to studies of chemistry and biology with a large number of Liege’s residents being college students.

Liege has an obvious significant historical value, dating back to Charlemagne and the Middle Ages, when the city was home to his mother. A signifying reason was accessibility and topography along the invaluable River Meuse. The river is not only a trading route, but home to many nautical-know-hows in the colorful varieties of barge-meets-houseboat. The rolling, tree-lined river valley showcasing the charming, eclectic mix of architecture and creates a gingerbread landscape, nestling the city inside hills and popularizing the city as an effective defense against enemy forces during the wars. The Battle of the Bulge, the bloodiest skirmish American forces saw in WWII was fought near the city, and around the city there are a multiple of monuments to those who lost lives in all battles.

The new Calatrava-forged Gare du Liege was constructed over an arduous 12 years, built over the existing, continuously-operating, original train station. The project cost 245 million Euros to upgrade the track system, allowing for high speed train accessibility. The result re-centers Liege as a key transportation hub which in turn revitalizes the city. The final result was a sculptural masterpiece of steel and concrete, softly mimicking the undulating hills and taking on almost as if by osmosis the magical charm of its new home. Coinciding with the beginning of the Festival of Wallonia in the district of Liege, the inauguration boasted a never before seen performance by Frank Dragone and performers of Cirque du Soleil fame, employing many local dancers and talents, and reminiscent of the Olympics opening ceremonies acts. There was a reception in which many local dignitaries and government officials attended, and the performance, set on the train track platforms, and included trapeze artists, ballet, opera, fireworks, and a handful of trick-pony horsemen. There were large, projected images of video footage showing the construction of the station, highlighting the proud citizens bringing the arcs to life. There was sincerity, and a celebration. As with any Cirque du Soleil performance, but especially here, in Liege, at a train station, the music, lighting and performances were exhilarating and sealed Liege as one of my fondest memories.

BARCELONA — I had been anticipating my trip to Barcelona from the moment I booked it. Not only has it been a dream of mine to visit the country that birthed the Spanish language, sangria, Cervantes, Gaudi and many other things I love, but it’s the land of tapas, one of my favorite styles of cuisine. Tapas, from the word tapar -to cover – were originally served as small appetizers at bars, where the small plates were used to cover glasses of wine or sherry from flies. But these small dishes aren’t just appetizers. Order two or three or eight, and you have a substantial and diverse meal. Tapas follow a similar idea to Eastern Mediterranean mezze and Italian antipasti, in terms of offering a variety of fresh, very ethnic, dishes in small portions.

There are many great tapas restaurants in Boston that I’ve been frequenting for years including Tasca, a Brighton gem, and popular hot spot Tapeo on Newbury Street. But as I learned quickly, nothing compares to the incredibly fresh, diverse and innovative tapas of Spain.

Well known for being adjacent to the Mediterranean Sea, the fish is fresh, delicate and bountiful in Barcelona. Walking through the Mercat Boqueria, one of the most famous marketplaces in the world, it’s easy to see why seafood is such a huge contributor to the culture. The market is open air but enclosed in a building sans walls, brimming with small counter top-only cafes, bossy produce sellers that exclaim “No toca!” (“Don’t touch!”) when a tourist attempts to touch the fruit and mountains of mouth-watering meats such as jamon serrano. The place is sensory overload, filled with brightly colored candies and marzipan, and massive fruits and vegetables including colossal watermelons and zucchini. The place was worth seeing for sure, despite the dense crowds and fruit rind strewn floor wet with water and who knows what else.

On the first night, we sauntered up and down Las Ramblas, the famous avenue filled with street performers, human statues and all varieties of shopping from cheap souvenirs to expensive leather wear. We stumbled upon a seemingly typical restaurant. Its second floor overlooks the Mercat Boqueria but its entrance is right on Las Ramblas. Euskal Sukaldaria. I don’t even really know if this is the restaurant’s official name, but it was emblazoned on the windows. This place had the best patatas bravas I’d ever had, in my life, in any city. The sauce on them was garlicky, tangy, and just slightly spicy with a heat that’s only pleasurable, without an ounce of pain. I was in heaven. I had one plate to myself, and it was hardly enough.

I also ordered one of the tapas samplers that contained a variety of things including some cheeses, smoked chorizo on thickly cut baguette bread and some type of meat salad (maybe chicken, maybe ham who really knows). I also had a “small” plate of traditional seafood paella filled with razor clams, small mussels, shrimp and some squid (more than ample offerings for three people). I finally realized how Europeans stay so thin; they walk everywhere, all the time, and eat small portions, a little sampling of everything. Also, eating slowly and in a relaxed casual setting actually curbs overeating since it takes the body about 22 minutes to realize satiety.

Every meal should be served with a San Miguel beer, ridiculously inexpensive and amazingly delicious. Move aside Bud Light, you don’t know the first thing about drinkability. San Miguel invented drinkability.

I digress.

Moving on to breakfast. It was an experience that can only be summed up as simply decadent. The trademark Spain breakfast of churros con chocolate is essentially a very basic thing – fried dough served with hot chocolate. But this is not your Dunkin Donuts’ hot chocolate, my friends. The chocolate served in a mug in Barcelona is rich, thick and not overly sweet. It’s a darker chocolate than standard milk chocolate and does not include any added sugar, making it very easy to devour. Dipping the lightly fried, chewy, warm churros into this divine drink is nothing short of heaven, foodie heaven.

My traveling companions preferred a lighter breakfast of American-style coffee (they didn’t embrace the tiny cup of espresso-like coffee they were served when they simply asked for coffee) and fresh fruit. Amble into any grocery store off the main roads or a sidewalk produce vendor and you can get a week’s worth of fresh basics for about 5 Euros. They noshed on apples and bananas and a wonderful dried fig concoction dotted with almonds that was slightly sweet and high in protein. These folks are health-nuts and this light breakfast was the perfect way to start any day filled with sightseeing and ridiculously long and tiring walks.

Since I do frequent tapas restaurants here in the states, I already have a strong dossier of dishes I enjoy. I love tortilla espanola, recognized as a potato and egg omelet – light and fluffy and delicious. During one dinner I had a trio of tortillas, one cheesy and tangy, another made with spinach, and another with tomato and peppers that was amazing. I also indulged in melon con jamon, the perfect summer dish of cantaloupe or honey dew served with a heaping side of salty jamon iberico or jamon serrano. The marriage of sweet and salty is a great way to start any meal.

And while I was enjoying mid-morning and mid-afternoon sidewalk breaks to sip a San Miguel and feast on a light sandwich of jamon serrano and tomate or some perfect machego cheese, I could never really keep my mind off patatas bravas. I was a woman obsessed. I ate patatas bravas at least once each day I was in Barcelona, and I still couldn’t get enough. I was searching for the one, and while all the variations were amazing and had different intricacies and takes on the dish, I knew which prevailed.

Some restaurants served the potatoes more than lightly fried, but cooked darker brown similar to our hash brown. Others would serve it with a deep red sauce that was very spicy, or very heavy with tomato flavors. A beach-side restaurant in the beautiful southern coast town of Sitges served patatas bravas lined with a red sauce just slightly darker and more complex than ketchup, and another swirling circle of what I have to believe was plain mayonnaise. Please do not misunderstand me, they were all delicious, a great way to serve everyone’s favorite starch. But something about that first dish of patatas bravas lingered with me.

Maybe it was because they were the perfect size, approximately 1 x 2 inches making one piece a hearty forkful. Or maybe it was the way it was sort of fried-baked, with a crispy exterior that was barely golden brown and pillowy soft texture on the inside. Or maybe it was that sauce. That ridiculously mouth-watering, succulent sauce that I still can’t stop wishing I knew how to make. All I know, is that the combination of all of these elements melded together to make one of the best simple foods I’ve ever had in my life.

If you’re not a huge beer drinker, another great pairing with patatas bravas is sangria. I can’t talk about Spain, especially Barcelona, without mentioning sangria. Sangria is a wine punch, typically made with a fruity red wine such as a Spanish Rioja, mixed with sliced fruits including anything from apples to oranges to mangoes, and splashed with any number of other fruit liquors from apricot brandy to peach schnapps. The result is always delicious, and always refreshing.

A trip to Barcelona is the perfect antidote to a seemingly nonstop lifestyle of burgers and fries here in the United States. The critical foodie that lives inside me, bubbling on the surface daily to critique, analyze and search out the best in food was ecstatic at the sheer number of tapas varieties and restaurant locations. Ole!

Author’s Note: In lieu of my typical destination article (because oh boy we have some great ones in the works for you) I am starting a series of the Top 10, to be continued in various intervals.

1. (Don’t) Dress up for your Flight: Ok so you’re going on vacation, and it’s been who-knows-how-long since you’ve had one. I understand that this is a special occasion, and often see those travelers who have “dressed-up” for the airport. It’s a bad idea and here’s why; firstly you’re showing every pick pocket and tourist scam-artist that you are a Tourist. That translates to pure gold for them, and you will easily become a target. Secondly, no matter how short the flight is, or how luxurious your on-board accommodations are, you will look like a sorority girl who never went to sleep after homecoming by the time you walk out of your destination airport. Best to keep things simple when flying. Be chic, but don’t be high-maintenance. For the ladies, don’t wear too much makeup or you’ll end up like Tammy Faye Baker on an evangelistic tour of the swamp. Guys, stay away from heavy colognes, and double up on the deodorant.

2. (Don’t) Fly Air France, Continental or US Airways: As a travel correspondent, and many days on the road as a model in my hey-day, I learned which airlines were the most convenient, customer-focused, and responsive to complaints or a lack of service. The three afore-mentioned do neither. Air France actually doesn’t have ANY way for a customer to call in and make complaints or suggestions. Continental has literally lied to me and hundreds of others to save themselves hotel fees, claiming weather as a factor in the delay of 6 flights. Most of the passengers missed the connecting flights, and in reality it was a downed control tower that caused the problem. US Airways has consistently the worst attitude amongst its attendants.

3. (Don’t) Drink Heavily the Night Before: Yes, this IS a hard rule to keep! Often there is the urge to begin the vacation the night before, but this will only leave you dehydrated and with a headache that the plane’s pressurized compartments will only exaggerate.

4. (Don’t) Eat Airplane Food: Ok, I admit it: Lufthansa food was amazing “" but they’re the exception. This rule also is extremely dependent upon whether you fly economy or First Class, of course, but this is a fairly easy thing to avoid, or at least diminish greatly. The day of the flight, bring along a salad, raw veggies, a sandwich, etc. Just make sure there are no pure liquid contents, and buy a reusable 3 oz dispenser for things like dressing and condiments. Fresh fruit is a great way to maintain your hydration levels when flying. If you are flying to a foreign location, pack snacks that remind you of home. Sometimes foreign fare can be a bit tricky, but with a grab bag of cookies, crackers and pretzels, you’re sure to stay satisfied.

5. (Don’t) Arrive to the Airport Late: It’s a terrible idea! Pack the night before. You never know the state of pandemonium at the airport. The earlier you show up for those morning flights, and for the mid to late afternoon internationals, the shorter the security lines. Sure, sitting at the gate for 2 hours is rough, but you brought snacks, right!? This is when to have a glass of wine, check those last minute emails and relax.

6. (Don’t) Be afraid to ask questions: Know your rights. Each and every airport has a list of various passenger rights, and you should do your homework. As mentioned above in Item two, airlines will do anything they can think of to save money and put themselves first. Don’t assume that they are looking out for you. Ask questions, lots of them if necessary, about what the delay is, or what they’re going to do in the event of an unforeseen complication. Airlines are the first major corporations to assume responsibility for their rights as a company, and they have the right to make the rules up as they go along. Be informed, be assertive and don’t let them bully you!

7. (Don’t) Board the plane empty handed: Take whatever you need to stay occupied and satisfied. It’s no secret that I travel with my teddy bear. Sure I get funny looks at my age whipping out an old ratty teddy bear, but so what! When you are away from home a lot, it’s nice to have a piece of it with you. If you’re going on an extended vacation, take photographs, pillows – anything that will make you feel at home and at peace. Take a few magazines, a book to read, crossword puzzles, emails, etc to keep you occupied on the plane and make the whole ordeal go by a bit quicker. If you’re distracted, you won’t be inclined to worry about the physics of thrusting a mega-ton piece of metal in the air.

8. (Don’t) Forget to pack any necessities in your carry on: Hopefully, your luggage will get off the plane when you do, but there is the chance that it won’t. If there are any medications you need, take them on the plane with you. The same goes for a toothbrush, deodorant and anything you think you may need should you be without your luggage for a day or two (sexy heels perhaps?).

9. (Don’t) Get in the way: This goes for other passengers, attendants and security officials. If you are on a moving walkway, please stand right and walk left. Often, moving walkways are used when the distance between gates is farther than usual and those of us with layovers do not want to run you over trying to make a mile in six minutes. Be aware of other people’s personal space, and avoid using the chair in front of you to catapult yourself out of your seat. Whiplash is bad. Don’t be fearful of using your fair share of space, but don’t be a space-hog. If you need to check your phone or grab your boarding pass, stand to the side.

10. (Don’t) Be a Negative Nelly: Everyone is annoyed by the airlines, the security lines, the bad food, the recycled air. There is no need to take that out on your fellow passengers or the flight attendants. I don’t know how many times I’ve had some random guy scream at me to move up in the line a whole four feet, when there was still 20 people in front of us to screen…DON’T be that guy. And if you hear a hearty laugh across an airport terminal one day, it is probably me, laughing at “That Guy.”

SAN JUAN — Aquamarine seas, palm trees and sunshine; it doesn’t really get any better, in my book, at least. There’s something intoxicating about the tropics, like the way a banana becomes part of a savory meal, the way the salt air and humidity make a beer taste that much better, the way a straw makes drinking out of a coconut seem civilized. Puerto Rico did not disappoint on those fronts.

We did a lot some days and a whole lot of nothing on others. Still, I left feeling that I must return to Puerto Rico. I have a feeling there’s a lot that I still need to see.

A few thoughts: While Old San Juan is charming, I got the distinct feeling that the city in general is trying mighty hard to become South Beach. Places push their prices sky high, blare house music, drape everything in white and compare themselves to The Delano. To fall into this would be a shame. While I love South Beach, Puerto Rico is no South Beach and I wish they’d try to forge their own identity rather than become copycats. The result ends up looking like a fake Louis Vitton bag: kind of desperate and cheap.

I’m also at a loss when it comes to the service in Puerto Rico. Whether at a restaurant serving comida tipica or an upscale place with menus in English, the waiters were the same: they’d come and take your order, bring your food and then disappear. Getting a check or paying a bill were nearly impossible and probably doubled the amount of time I would have spent in any establishment. This wouldn’t have been nearly as bad if I’d had some kind of drink in front of me, but sitting at an empty table, with an empty glass, trying to flag down a waiter is simply no fun. It also makes the dine and dash a tempting prospect”

Notables: Eating well in Puerto Rico is easy. Eating healthily, not so much. It seems the Puerto Ricans like to fry everything- fish, tacos, plantains. You name it, you can probably find it fried. Even seemingly good foods like rice and beans are cooked in ways to increase their calorie content- a technique that harks back to the days when people had to subsist on the basics. Rice is typically cooked with lard, while beans come stewed with some kind of pork fat.

We ended up at a strip of food stalls in Loquillo one day, about an hour east of San Juan, but I was so hungry I forgot to take pictures. There must have been 50 places, all lined up on the beach, all selling chicharron, mofongo, fried fish and yellow rice. While the comida tipica was tasty, I can’t figure out how these places survive when they seem to all sell the same thing.

The Surprise: San Juan Water & Beach Club in Isla Verde. Yes, this place falls into the category of establishments trying too hard to be South Beach. But the lovely ocean views, waterfalls in the elevator and not too pretentious service made it work: this place is chic, fun and definitely worth a visit. We started our evening at Wet, the rooftop bar which afforded a lovely 360-degree view and a too-cool-for-school atmosphere. This would be a great place to come on a date, or to start a rowdy evening with friends. (One complaint: they don’t have a cocktail menu. What upscale nightlife establishment doesn’t have its own cocktail menu?)

We then had dinner at Tangerine, the restaurant downstairs that emphasized ambiance with blue lights, a waterfall behind the bar and white everything. While appearance is good, what sets this place apart is the fact that the food was tasty and original.

We started with a trio of ceviches: ginger tuna, topped with candied ginger; coconut snapper; and tangerine salmon. Each was distinct and unlike any ceviche I’ve ever had: the snapper was subtly sweet, the tuna had a bit of bite and the salmon emphasized sour.

Next, we had a paella with red snapper. It was a lovely execution, not at all greasy, which can be the case with paella. The rice was accented generously with carrot, zucchini and red pepper, as well as large, gorgeous chunks of snapper.

The highlight of the evening, however, was the steak with green chile sauce. To be frank, I didn’t have high hopes for this one, but we didn’t think two tapas-sized dishes would be enough to eat (though in the end, two would have been fine). Chunks of tender beef sauteed in a red-wine, chile and caper sauce, and served with house fried plantain chips, this dish was succulent, savory and impossible not to love. While our previous two dishes had been good, this one set the bar even higher.

The Regret: Driving back to San Juan from Loquillo on Saturday I passed a sign for chicharron de conejo. I was intrigued. Chicharron are typically fried pieces of pork skin and conejo is rabbit”¦ fried rabbit skin? Alas, I kept driving, and now I haven’t been able to stop wondering what I missed out on.

While I mostly have great things to say about Puerto Rico, there was one place that annoyed me so much, I feel compelled to warn others to stay away, especially because it’s supposed to be one of the best places on the island.

The Disappointment: Budatai in Condado. Frommer’s led me astray with this one, naming it one of the 10-Best Dining Bets in Puerto Rico. Perhaps the good people at Frommer’s only ate at 10 places in Puerto Rico? Executive Chef/Owner Roberto Treviƒ±o is a contestant on Iron Chef America this season, and if this cuisine is any indication of Treviƒ±o’s talents I’d avoid putting any money on him winning.

Located across from La Ventana al Mar Park, the terrace area where we ate did have lovely views of the sea and surrounding area. However, that did little to make up for the limited menu or poor execution. My first beef with Budatai came with the menu, which boasted “Wild Salmon” but which our server then informed us was actually farm-raised. My sense of distrust raised immediately. Why would you put “wild” on the menu if it isn’t? What other fabrications are included? Is the vegetarian cuisine truly vegetarian? Is the duck really duck?

We started with some vegetarian egg rolls, which interestingly enough had cheese in them. Yes, cheese, which in my book is the ultimate faux-pas when it comes to Asian-fusion cooking. Worse, the cheese was gooey and tasteless, adding nothing but calories and a strange mouth feel.

My companion, who keeps kosher and hence had little to choose from on the shell-fish and pork heavy menu, reluctantly opted for the salmon, which came with vegetables and a Bearnaise sauce- again, a strange offering at what is supposedly an Asian restaurant. It was forgettable at best. I opted for the pork dumplings (billed as the house specialty) and a side of duck fried rice.

In his last column as The New York Times’ dining critic, Frank Bruni suggested that one way to safely navigate a restaurant’s menu was to “scratch off anything that mentions truffle oil.” I wish I’d listened. As a rule, pork dumplings are usually a safe standby in Asian places. Budatai’s started off promisingly enough with some well-flavored pork wrapped inside a doughy wrapper. Then things got a bit”¦ well, crazy. The dumplings looked like they’d been grilled, but they were about as crispy as chewing gum. Then, they were topped with what looked like any and everything the chef had within reach: some strange brown sauce, caviar, truffles, truffle oil, garlic, sesame seeds, watercress”¦ and those are just the things I could identify in the terrace’s half-light. It was a cacophony of flavors, so busy I wondered if I’d even notice if half the ingredients were missing.

The duck fried rice was similarly busy. Greasy, with only a trace of duck, this dish came laden with sweet plantains, which were just weird. Just say it: rice, banana and duck”¦ it even sounds weird, doesn’t it? This dish would have been saved with more duck and perhaps the inclusion of some complimentary ingredients: think scallion or bean sprout. Banana? Not so much.

The Delight: Mirƒ³, also in Condado. This place obviously caters to tourists, but had a few hard to find dishes, like grilled baby octopus and arroz negro — rice cooked with squid ink and then mixed with a variety of shellfish. In addition, the sangria was pretty amazing. Made to order with red wine, brandy, triple sec, pineapple juice and a squirt of sprite, it was refreshing, but not too sweet.