A Kayak Pilgrimage

by Dan Dworkin

To travel solo for days in a kayak is to be not on or in but of the water. It loves you, rocks you like your mother did, speaks to you with many voices, supports your meandering, bathes you, feeds you, tells you when to travel and when to stay still on the island of the moment. On every trip there is a time of storm, of being wind-bound when the judicious kayaker stays put, writes, rests, wanders, constructs stone sculptures and listens for the still, small voice.

A Funeral in the Philippines

by BJ Stolbov

Maria Natividad Pascua Olivar has died.  Nanay Mary (Mother Mary), as she was known, was 76 years old.  Her husband, Ruben Olivar died suddenly 36 years ago, leaving Nanay a single mother with six young children.  Her eldest, Rowell, died when he was hit by a car at 6 years old.  Her next eldest, Ronaldo died suddenly of a heart attack 9 months ago at the age of 50.  With her four surviving children, two daughters and two sons, all now in the 40’s, around her bed, and after a long sickness, a confluence of incurable old-age illnesses, Nanay Mary breathed her last.  She died peacefully.

Last Getaway Before Going to Prison

by C.Z. Cantrell

Tides have a rhythm and so do our lives. My sea changed when I said yes to a position as a prison teacher. The tide moving out would take away my comfortable, if modest-paying work as a government analyst. The incoming tide, teaching hard-core prisoners, could flood my life with adventure and even danger.

NEW HAMPSHIRE—Presidential Primaries, Sightseeing, Skiing, and Summer Fun

by Judith Fein

When I was a child, living in New York City, my family loaded themselves and their belongings into a car every August and headed for New Hampshire. There was never any question about going somewhere else; we had allergies and Bethlehem, New Hampshire had no pollen. In a fit of hopeless nostalgia, I decided to go back this past summer, to see if I could find the locus of the sneeze-free bungalow colony where we stayed. And, being a travel addict, I decided to check out what else there is to see in New Hampshire with 10 days, a car, and a desire for culture, charm, a foodie infusion, local attractions, art, nature, and quirk. 


I discovered that New Hampshire is a year-round destination: Fall foliage viewing, skiing, and Presidential primary candidate viewing that starts in the Winter, and touring and hiking in the Summer. 

A Terrifying Day of Salmon Fishing

by Mary L. Peachin
 

The "red alert" broadcast email warned anglers, "it's going to be brutal, dress warmly, don't wear runners." Vancouver's weather forecast called for 100% chance of heavy rainfall and high wind. That would translate to a 100 millimeters of drenching rain. The deluge accompanied by 90 kilometer winds would produce horizontal precipitation.


Vancouver Chinook Classic Derby, an annual catch and release salmon tournament shouted out the forecast proclaiming a finality, "The show must go on."

The Gloves That Saved My Life

by Jane Davis

I should have known better when I bought the rich, decadent banana cream pie that it would not last sitting in my truck.

When I returned home hours later I thought, “Nahhhh.  It’s not good!” But the pull was too strong.  And so, I ate it.  

It wasn’t too long after that an old familiar wave of food poisoning took over.  I’ve been here before.

At the Bathhouse in South Korea

by Dina Lyuber

Being naked in public, for a North American, is the stuff of nightmares. Why? Is it because our bodies are so embarrassing? Perhaps it’s just a social convention; we are expected to hide our bodies, and so we feel awkward in public spaces when we must expose them. Maybe this is why many tourists avoid bathhouses.  After all, they have a perfectly nice, private bathtub in their hotel room. And back home, they can wear a bathing suite as they sink into the hot tub at the community pool.

They may have avoided exposure, but they have no idea what they are missing.

Farewell to the Highlands: Pisco Sour to the Rescue

by Angela Smith Kirkman

“Meet us at El Embrujo in 30 minutes,” the voice on the other end of the line says in Spanish.

“Gloria?”

“Yes, I’m here with Marlith. We’re sending a taxi to pick you guys up. It’s your last night in Peru—our last chance to boogie down.” [My translation.]

“Thanks for the invite, Gloria, but I’m sorry, we just can’t do it.” I say, glancing toward my husband, Jason, who’s busy making sure all of our passports are in order.

I still haven’t quite figured out how to dance to Peruvian pop music, but I’m giving it my best shot.

When Did I Become The Ugly American?

by Ellen Barone

I sit tightly wedged into an economy class airline seat, braced for the long haul — a pashmina hanging from the seat back, a water bottle in the magazine flap, ear pods in the iPhone jack—when a handsome Air France steward stops to stand beside my aisle seat. 

“Excuse me, madam,” he says, leaning into my view. “These two are mother and daughter,” he continues, gesturing to an elegant middle-aged woman in the row in front of me and the twenty-something blonde seated beside me. “Would you please exchange seats so that they can sit together?”

The Risks of Time Travel in Santa Fe

by Elyn Aviva

We punched in the entry code on the keypad on the side of the looming concrete storage building, opened the door, and walked down the empty, darkened corridors to our numbered unit. We unlocked the roll-up metal door and pushed it up, revealing a colorful hodgepodge of items stacked along the walls and piled on metal shelving units in the center. We were entering a mysterious domain, a mixture of refuse dump and Treasure Island. 


This was the stuff we had left behind six years ago in Santa Fe, New Mexico, when my husband, Gary, and I moved to Spain. Now that were happily settled as expats in Girona, Catalonia, Spain, the time had come to clear out the storage unit. No more excuses.

Stonehenge and Hippies

by Gary White


It was 1972 and I was in a rental car driving around rural England in search of a pile of large rocks. I had heard that Stonehenge was an important prehistoric site and added it to my list for the road trip.

Road Kill

by Maureen Magee

Mageru pulls over to the side of the road, parks and idles the Land Cruiser. We are still a few hours away from arriving back in Addis Ababa. He looks over to me, pats the steering wheel and says “I am a little tired. You can drive.”

This does not strike me as a generosity I should accept. Although I am confident in Canada, Ethiopian driving doesn’t exactly rev my engines.  “Oh…I don’t think so, honey.  The driving here is very different from my experience back home.”

Fishing for a Future

by B.J. Stolbov


When I was young, my father took me on a father-son bonding/camping/fishing trip to some unpronounceable lake in upstate New York.  I learned to squeamishly poke a hook through a wiggling worm.  I learned to awkwardly cast a fishing line out into the lake.  And when I did catch a fish, with the point of the hook sticking out through its eye, I immediately learned, while screaming and crying, that I was no fisherman.  No fisherman either, my father and I gratefully agreed to bond by never going fishing again.

Misled on St Michael’s Way, Cornwall

by Elyn Aviva

It took nearly 11 years and three attempts for my husband, Gary, and me to complete the 12-mile-long St Michael’s Way across the southern tip of Cornwall. That’s a rather long time for a short walk—probably a record of some sort. And even though we ended up hiking more than 12 miles, we never did manage to walk the middle five.

But we persevered, although we were misled every step of the way. 

Street Tango in Buenos Aires

by Kate McCahill

On weekends, Alex and Vicky, my landladies, take me on walks through Barracas and San Telmo. They have known these Buenos Aires neighborhoods all their lives; they point out old buildings they’ve inhabited and the places where grand old cafés once stood. They are sisters. They’ve each been exiled twice, the first time to Europe for political reasons, the second to Mexico for economic ones. Each time, they returned because things were improving in Argentina, and they wanted to be a part of the change. They’ve rented their spare room to dozens of foreigners over the years, English teachers and language students like me.