I’m a terrible flyer. Even though I know logically that it’s the safest way to travel, for some reason, it still makes me nervous. Could it be that darn episode of the Twilight Zone I saw so many years ago? With William Shatner being terrorized by a gremlin on the wing of the plane? I don’t know. Either way, flying in planes (or even worse — helicopters — never again!) is not my idea of a good time.
I think the thing I fear most is loss of control. For instance, when I fly, I’m not afraid of terrorists at all. In fact, I actually think the adrenaline my body creates while flying could be used to overpower any crazy bazooka-wielding madman if he was dumb enough to cross me on a flight. I get so amped up when I fly that I literally could probably toss a 270-pound man through the emergency exit door with my bare hands. I think what scares me is the fact that I am not in the cockpit peering over the pilot’s shoulder. I hate that you just sit there, rocketing through space at 400 mph and have no way to exit the plane or control its motion.
ANYWHO, tonight, coincidentally, after I was looking around at flights for a winter vacation, I stumbled upon a phenomenal website: AskthePilot.com. It’s a godsend! It has all my questions answered right there and addresses all my irrational fears of taking to the sky. The guy who writes it is funny and normal and addresses every crazy scenario any phobic-flyer could come up with. Now if only he could be my personal travel assistant!
Patrick Smith makes me consider ditching the Xanax next time I take to the skies!
Is this Twilight Zone episode responsible for my flying phobia? Geez...it makes my hands sweaty just thinking about it.
While I am amazingly grateful and still kind of surprised that everything went perfectly while I hiked to the foot of Everest, my very first day of the trip was a tad bumpy. Craig and I decided to spend two days in New Delhi before heading to Nepal to get our bearings and see a little of India before trekking into mountain country.
After 17 hours of travel, we landed in New Delhi at 12:30 in the morning bleary eyed. I patted myself on the back for being such a responsible traveller and booked a cab at the legitimate taxi service inside the airport. I had almost had my luggage stolen in China by a rogue taxi driver and had learned to trust no one. With a little number in hand, Craig and I headed into the humidity to grab our cab. We found our guy, paid the porter who insisted on carrying our bags three feet and headed into the chaotic city.
Five minutes into our drive and our cabdriver pulled off the road and onto a shady strip of sidewalk. “Tourism Bureau!” he barked. “Go see!” he looked at Craig and nodded, “you too.” Really? The official tourism office of New Delhi is on a shady street and open at 1 am for consultations? Even hallucinating from exhaustion I had my doubts.
Craig, who is blessed with more common sense than I am, inferred that they were trying to get us to leave our bags so they could steal them. Now I know sweaty polar fleece in an array of pastels isn’t exactly life changing, but I wasn’t about to let some scoundrel run off with my Patagonia. So Craig stayed with the luggage as I went in and chatted with some con men who lied about the location of our hotel and tried to force us to stay in the fleabag next door. Luckily, we remembered that we had seen a Radisson Hotel right next to the airport and begged our shady cab driver to take us there.
“Too expensive!” the driver declared and sat behind the wheel. But finally we convinced him with some hard earned rupees to head back towards the airport and to drop us at the Radisson.
Yes, it was $400 a night. And I would have paid $800. It was luxurious, clean, sporting enormous beds and free of swindlers trying to steal my ergonomic backpack. So after Nepal, we went back to the Radisson and they even provided me with my 30th birthday dinner, ordered off the kids menu and eaten in bed.
My favorite picture from New Delhi. This girl was just looking out at a garden and I happened to snap her as she stood in a doorway.
My favorite thing about India was the colors. Head to toe pink and yellow - in India it looks fantastic.
A doorway redefined.
The Radisson! Oh the luxury was soooo nice before and after the mountains of Nepal.
While most of my trip to Nepal was spent looking like a yeti and trekking through the Himalayas, I also spent a few days in Kathmandu and three days in New Delhi, India. On my 30th bday, I was actually in both Kathmandu and New Delhi and passed a few hours at the Kathmandu airport too.
I was pretty bitter about the fact that I was stuck at an airport on my 30th birthday, so when I finally boarded the Jet Air flight out of Nepal, I wasn’t in the best of moods. And when everyone on the plane treated it like it was a local bus, I was in a worse mood. So when the man next to me put his landing card, passport and a pen in my lap suggesting that I fill it out for him, I almost snapped. What did I look like? Some international secretary? I wrote it off to the fact that this airspace was somehow sexist and started to fill out his card.
Finally there was nothing left for him to do but sign it, which I indicated with a flourish of the hand and handed him a pen. Instead of stamping his John Hancock, he pointed to the signature line of his passport and indicated his large blue thumbprint. It took me a few minutes, but finally I realized that this man, directly to my left, could not read or write. I felt horrible. Like a selfish spoiled American who never knew that there were people in the world who couldn’t read a book.
The man, he managed to communicate, was on his way to Qatar to work and it was his first time on an airplane. We bonded with grimaces when there were turbulence, but it was hard for me to think of anything but that bright blue thumbprint in his passport.
It made me very very very thankful for the ability to read and write, two of my very favorite things to do. What must it be like to have never read a book or written a letter to someone you love?
My birthday was not ideal. The Kathmandu airport sucks and no one likes delayed flights and lots of tightly packed sweaty people smashing them as they enter their third decade. But as soon as that man showed me his thumbprint, all those grievances melted away. Instead, I just felt very appreciative for what I have.
At a market in Kathmandu.
The streets in Kathmandu are sooooo crowded.
I loved the little kid asleep in the cart behind the fruit seller.
I’m writing this in my spare minutes between packing for our first overnight family “water camping” trip tonight at the Corinthian Yacht Club in Cape May, NJ. Today Grey is racing in a sailing regatta that goes from Lewes to Cape May and then this afternoon Ollie and I are taking the ferry across the bay to meet him for the rest of the weekend and (hopefully) his trophy acceptance speech.
Of course, I waited too long to book a hotel or B&B for our stay, so until last night, we didn’t even think we’d have a place to stay in Cape May. But, miraculously, some nice gentleman from the Corinthian Yacht Club offered us his 52″ Bertram for our evening lodgings. Just to give you an idea — a new Bertram yacht costs around 2.5 million big ones, so when I say, “water camping” — we’ll be far from roughing it.
This is why I love sailors. They are such a generous type — always willing to offer you a cold beer or their million dollar yacht for your personal use. Would a virtual stranger let you into their home for an overnight visit? A race car driver offer you his car? I think not. Or a golfer let you use his favorite putter? Doubtful. But there seems to be some unspoken law of the water that all yachtsmen and women look out for one another. I wish I could reciprocate this generosity by offering our host a stay on my pimped out cabin cruiser, but sadly I could only suggest he sleep in my back yard in a tent or in my filthy car.
So tonight I’m sure Ollie and Grey will be in heaven aboard this floating fishing manse. I’ll just be happy we’re not actually camping (something that seems much too similar to a stay in hell). I’ll post some follow up pics of Ollie in his PJs and life vest!
Our home for the night! (Something tells me we won't want to leave!)
The town of Essaouria, Morocco is like a hippie haven for French people and a smattering of other Euros and Americans who swing on by. It’s where Jimi Hendrix composed “Castles in the Sand,” or so they say. Bob Marley also hung out there. So while it sounds like all people do is sit around and pay homage to marijuana, I didn’t do anything of the sort. Instead, I honored the god of shopping.
I ran around the souks screaming “charming!” “a must have!” and other estrogen-laced phrases to the delight of shop keepers. And I came away with enormous purchases totally unfitting to plane travel, like a large wooden box covered with recycled tire strips, full length mirrors made out of sardine cans, enough blankets to keep a large village warm, and then some.
All this great booty and the one thing I didn’t think about was how I was going to get it all home. Two of my best friends, Lauren and Amy, are the best bargainers in the land. They are also able to talk down the price of everything where as I absolutely stink at haggling. I have watched them get cash back from Gucci and convince gun-toting TSA employees to allow them family sized bottles of Frederick Fekkai shampoo in their carry on bags.
Luckily, I did not have to try my hand at anything with Air France after my Morocco binge. They let me take absolutely everything on the plane, even shimmying a mirror in the stewardess closet and allowing me to have the tire box on my lap after takeoff. The French, they understand my needs! Got to love ‘em.
A photo I snapped on the beach in Essaouria. Makes me wonder why oh why I live in a town without water.
While I love airplanes and flying, nothing in the world compares to train travel. The longest train ride I ever took in my life was from Beijing to Ulan Bataar Mongolia. It was about 24 hours through China and Outer Mongolia and I loved every single second of it.
Mary-Alice, who I traveled with across half the world, and I had our own cabin and spent half the trip with our heads out the window, half naked, airing out our souls. That is until night fell and the train would randomly stop in the middle of nowhere. Then we prayed that our souls be saved.
At about two in the morning, in the middle of Mongolia the train just stopped and dumped out the passengers for two hours as they changed the wheels. The tracks in Mongolia and China are different so all the wheels of the train had to be changed and it takes a while. Let me tell you, there is no place that feels like the middle of nowhere like Outer Mongolia at 2 a.m.
I thought that was going to be my favorite memory of the trek, but I was wrong. Just before the Chinese officials boarded the train to check our visas and our cabins, our Mongolian train conductor came to Mary-Alice and I and asked if he could hide some produce in our berth. We of course said yes as Mongolia does not have much farmable land and who were we to deny innocent people of food. So we stuffed our entire room full of produce and kept our mouths shut.
When the border patrol came in, we all but glued our butts to our beds to keep them from finding the contraband tomatoes. Could we be thrown in jail for aiding and abiding the transportation of vegetables across national borders?
I’ll never know because no one was the wiser. When Mary-Al and I finally arrived in Ulan Bataar and headed for the platform, our conductor called for us and threw us a tomato as a thank you. And yes, I kept the thing until it was basically ketchup.
Mary-Al and me with our wonderful train conductor. This is what my eyebrows look like when I let them go. Now you understand...
Today the Grey, Ollie, and I are driving home to Delaware from Erie. What amazed me last week when just Ollie came up was how full of rage our fellow highway drivers were. Why do people feel the need to take out all their aggression on the road? It’s just obnoxious — and dangerous. It’s like people get into their automobiles and feel like they’re wrapped in a manners-bubble where they are given a free pass to act like total jerks. The same stranger you may hold the door open for at the grocery store suddenly becomes a target for your middle finger while on the road.
That’s why I’m very grateful for the “Choose Civility” initiative. The Howard County Library in Maryland started making bumper stickers with this message after being inspired by Johns Hopkins profession P.M. Forni’s book, The 25 Rules of Considerate Conduct. The goal is to promote respect, empathy, consideration, and tolerance — which (judging by that angry trucker screaming expletives I encountered on I-80 last week) are things we need more of.
I’m definitely not saying I’m perfect. When I just can’t be civil while in my car I opt to be passive aggressive. If someone cuts me off or honks at me and I can’t be nice, I choose passive aggressive driving instead of outright road rage. Instead of hoisting my middle finger, tailgating, or honking, I just give a cheery thumbs up and grin as big as I can. I find that option to be safer — AND more satisfying. It takes the negative energy they are trying to throw at you and squelches it. Instead of letting the rage-filled driver make you upset, my experience with the “thumbs-up method” is that it just serves to drive them even more crazy while leaving you happy and smiley. You’re screwing with their minds way more that way, while leaving your own mood unaffected. It’s perfect!
Maybe I’ll write my own civility book and call it The Passive Aggressive Passenger or even Sneaky Hostility and You: On the Road…
Despite liking the message, I definitely think the bumper sticker is a little preachy and would never put one on my car. Plus, it's made road ragers really mad and even inspired a counter "INcivility movement" of its own.
When my friend Mary-Alice and I trekked around the world, we ended up being totally broke in Hungary. We had money before and money after, but in Hungary we were paupers. I am guessing our parents bailed us out, but Budapest just brings back memories of a stale crust of bread and a lot of walking.
Looking back, I really don’t know why we were so broke there. Are there no ATMs in Budapest? Did we spend it all on boos and goulash? I have no idea. What I do know is that our lack of money forced us to break the law. Tired as can be, we really wanted to take a cable car down this humungous hill, but we had zero cash. So we made up an elaborate scheme to shimmy under the turnstiles and hop on the car without paying.
As I subtly crawled under the turnstile and Mary-Al did her very best distraction song and dance, the 200 pound stout woman who ran the place looked down just as I was mid crawl. With the furry of Satan’s handmaidens, she started screaming in Hungarian and coming at me with her arms extended. Visions of her squeezing my head till it popped off flashed before my eyes as I backed up on all fours, stood up, and obeyed Mary-Alice’s ingenious command of “RUUUUUUNNNNN!”
We headed down that hill as fast as our impractical travel sandals could take us all while turning our heads to see if the thunderous Hungarian roar was hot on our trail. She was not. We were exhausted and broke, but we were not beaten up or arrested.
Did I learn any life lessons from this? Ehh, sure. Don’t break the law. It is wrong. But I still waited till I had $19 in my bank account to fly home that summer. And I had a blast because of it. As we all know, fun and money are not always linked and sometimes being a broke backpacker with no common sense is the most fun of all.
The charming cable cars of Budapest. Just not meant to be...
I’ve been having so much fun during the last week that I’ve been here in Erie. Granted, it’s way better now that Grey has flown up to join us, but something about this place in the summer is amazing. Although really, there’s no time I don’t like being in Erie; everyone who knows me knows that I have tons of hometown pride. One of the things I especially love about my “Mistake on the Lake” (a misnomer if I ever heard one!), is that there is so much local legend circulating about this place. I mean, I know all towns have their share of lore, but Erie just seems to have way more — relatively speaking of course. Just like we supposedly have “more bars and churches per capita than any other city in the country” — I’d venture to say we also as more regional mythology as well.
Take for instance the famous Mad Anthony Wayne. Apparently he was a Revolutionary War general who had his bones boiled right here in good old Erie (because this was normal practice in the 1700s) and then transported across the great state of Pennsylvania to his final resting place. Of course, some parts got lost along the highway and now every good Erieite knows Mad Anthony’s ghost haunts the area looking for his lost femurs and metatarsals. You can’t make this stuff up.
A few of my other favorite examples of this legend include the deer man — a half man, half deer creature that haunts the local woods after midnight. And, of course, the mythical nudist colony that no one’s ever been to but sits somewhere on the outskirts of town. Then there’s Ax Murder Hollow, where some guy chopped up his wife and threw her body down a well 80 years ago, which is now inhabited by “gypsies” who will throw bricks through your car window if you drive there on Halloween. Oh and then the vampire’s grave in the Erie Cemetary — an old mausoleum that is black as night and is devoid of all writing except an upside-down “A” with wings on it (a dead give-away a blood sucker is housed there). Plus, you can’t forget the wolf-boy (who my dad swears lives over on Plum Street and who I’m convinced just needs a good brow wax) and also the Lake Erie monster (affectionately called “Bessie” by the locals).
I’m sure you could ask any Erieite and they could tell you 20 more kooky tales they “swear” happened right here. Maybe the long winters cultivate active imaginations, or maybe the name “Erie” just lends itself to weirdness — I don’t know — but I like it!
Here's Mad Anthony's historical marker in Erie. But maybe more importantly is this crazy looking old lady touching it.
And of course, Bessie -- the Lake Erie Monster! Watch out!!
One thing I always try to remember when I travel is how much I have been touched by the kindness of strangers. All over the globe I have been kept out of rather icky predicaments because someone I didn’t know in the slightest helped me out of the goodness of their heart. For the most part, as I often was a gal traveling alone, it was a woman who helped me. The most memorable of times being in Hungary.
I had managed to get myself lost in the middle of rural Romania. I was trying to get from Budapest to a tiny, tiny town in Romania right on the Ukrainian border but was failing miserably. I had found a train that crossed from Hungary into Romania but then it seemed to be doing some strange loop. It turned out that it wasn’t looping but splitting and the part of the train that I was on was heading back into Hungary. It was nighttime, I have no idea how to say one thing in Hungarain or Romanian and I was about to lose my mind. So instead of sitting on the floor and crying I walked up and down the train and asked every single person on it if they spoke English or French. “Do you speak English/Parlez-vous français?” I bellowed to every last passenger. Finally, when I was in the last train car and asked the last woman on the train, her answer was, “yes, I am a French teacher.” I nearly kissed her.
When I told her my predicament, she helped me get into town, took a taxi with me, and offered me her apartment to sleep in. When I assured her I could pay for a hotel, she took me to one, made the manager to promise to take care of me and see me to the station tomorrow morning and then refused all the money I tried to throw at her. Basically, she saved my stupid hide and I hope one day I can repay the favor to any wanderer with no common sense, French-speaking, English-speaking or otherwise.
I think I would still be on this train going back and forth between Romania and Hungary if it wasn't for Lilla.
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