Gifts In Odd Packages

Sara Morgan
Life Lessons

by Sara Morgan

Sometimes life’s most precious of gifts can come in the oddest of packages. Little did I know several years ago that the mean-spirited lovebird I was about to take on would come to bring me such joy and teach me a valuable lesson in life.

I have always been a bird person, so it was not that unusual when a friend asked if I would want her peach-faced lovebird. She no longer wanted the bird because it would always attack her other bird. Even though I had never owned a lovebird, I agreed to take in the hostile little creature. And hostile she was. No matter how kind and caring I was towards her, she would take every opportunity to attack me. I ended up having to use a padded glove to feed her because she would viciously bite my hand and cause serious damage if I didn’t. At first, I thought, “what have I gotten myself into”.

Despite the birds bad-tempered behavior, I could not help feeling sorry for her when I noticed that she was laying eggs in the bottom of the cage. Since she had no nesting materials, and no mate, the eggs would roll around on the bottom of the cage until eventually they would become so rotten that I had no choice but to remove them from the cage. That particular exercise required two people since Rainbow, as we would call her, was particularly vicious when her eggs were involved.

Eventually I purchased Rainbow a mate. I admit I was a bit worried, since at first I was not sure whether she would just bite the poor new birds head off. I introduced her to the new bird slowly and luckily for it, Rainbow approved and the bird got to keep his head. In fact, they got along so well, I would soon learn why people referred to them as lovebirds. I bought the happy couple a nesting box and just crossed my fingers; unsure as to whether I had done the right thing.

What's So Spiritual About Sedona?

Jan Myers
Travel Opinion

by Jan Myers

Don't Believe the Spiritual Hype of Sedona. 

When I first decided to go to Sedona, Arizona with my mother, Judy and my 10-year-old daughter, Maggie, I was curious to see if our three generations would have the spiritual encounters I had heard often occur in the vortex-rich Red Rock Country.  I am certainly open to receiving more positive energy, but I do tend to be a bit skeptical until I experience something for myself. Maggie wasn't buying any of the 'spirituality', but was excited that we planned to visit the Grand Canyon.

We spent nearly two weeks in Sedona soaking up all the energy we could, along with the extreme July heat.  I was a bit disillusioned the very first day when I drove into uptown Sedona in our Hertz rental car. I was apparently not taking the roundabouts quickly enough for the driver behind me and after he blew his horn at me, I glanced into my rearview mirror just in time to see him give me the finger before he made his turn.  "Wow! What a spiritual place this is!" I remarked to Mom and Maggie. 

To be honest, that was the most negative thing that happened to us during our stay.  I did master the roundabouts by the time we left Sedona, and for that I am thankful. We heard all about the many psychics and the UFO activity in Sedona. I'm pretty sure that one fellow we kept running into was 'left behind' to study us earthlings.

TRAVELING TO THE LAST FRONTIER

Christine Bowker Wilson
Life Lessons

Almost a year ago, Christine Wilson lost her beloved husband John, a descendant of two tribes through his Maori mother and Scottish father. This is the letter she wrote to him in the next world as she reflected on her connection to John (Mahiti). 

 

Dear John,

As our mortal days roll by, suddenly the first anniversary of your passing is almost upon us. I continue to love you deeply!

Life here, of course, has certainly changed but not with the morbid, negative repercussions I secretly feared. You are missed constantly by many, yet somehow you are so with us. We are “buffaloing on,” to use the phrase of my friends Judie and Paul. It refers to the buffalo in Yellowstone in the winter, when the weather conditions can be extreme.  The buffalo just keep their heads down and move, slowly, onward.

The mystery of life has become more mysterious, yet the space between our mortal world and yours has shrunk. You are so much closer now.

As for me, personally, your presence is always within me….a part of me…and has changed me on many levels. I feel the most amazing oneness with you, impacting everything I do.

But you are also you and I am me, still with our individual personalities and characteristics, yet together we have created another entity—mysterious, powerful and wonderful.

FALLING IN LOVE WITH AN ARROYO

Carolyn Handler Miller

by Carolyn Handler Miller

Arroyo. The word doesn’t exactly conjure up magic. In the Southwest, where arroyos exist in some abundance, they are usually just scruffy riverbeds without water. Sometimes these dry channels are brightened by a few brave weeds, but more often they are littered with garbage – everything from plastic water bottles to old car parts and rusty shopping carts. Arroyos also tend to be the kind of place where dead bodies are found. Murdered dead bodies.

So I wasn’t at all impressed when the condo sales agent I was trailing around pointed enthusiastically out a window and said: “And right over there is the arroyo!” She obviously thought this was a worthwhile selling point. “There’s a trail along it that goes for miles,” she went on. “Nice for walks!”

But I was far more interested in things like closet space and the size of the rooms. My husband and I needed a part-time residence in Santa Fe for our work, and I was concerned the condo would be too tiny for us.

As it turned out, we bought it anyway, though the arroyo certainly didn’t factor into our decision.  But after some weeks there, I started to feel itchy to get outdoors and remembered the sales agent’s words: “Nice for walks!”

Staying Sane in Segregation

Alfonso Rodriguez Puente
Life Lessons

by Alfonso Rodriguez Puente

I can't remember when I first started writing to Alfonso Rodriguez Puente, who is incarcerated in Texas. Was it six years ago? Eight? From the first letter, I knew I was dealing with an extraordinary man who had lived through hard times and made some pretty bad choices in life. Over the years, deprived of freedom, normal social exchanges, and a support system, Alfonso has somehow grown into a published poet, artist, philosopher. He has been totally rehabilitated and yet, because of certain affiliations, he lives in segregation, locked in a cell 23 hours a day. I asked him to write about how he survives such deprivation and what coping mechanisms he has developed. I hope you enjoy looking into the heart and soul of Alfonso as much as I do. - Judith Fein

Write, do exercise, read, play chess or draw. Don't allow your feelings to override reason. Segregation, especially in a tiny cell of about 8.5-feet by 10-feet, can break your spirit and make you lose connection with reality.

Being in segregation, a person is deprived of human touch, food is passed through a food-slot, and movement is brought down to four paces back and forth. A person remains inside the cell, at least, twenty-three hours a day. The convict may develop tendonitis or other illness associated with stepping, constantly on the hard cement. The challenge is not only physical, but also mental, because a convict may be reduced to an animalistic state of mind. Deprivation of contact with other people and communication are two important deficiencies that play an important role in developing psychological illness.

10 Ways to Start Your Day around the World

Vera Marie Badertscher
Culinary Travel, cultural musings

by Vera Marie Badertscher

I am not one of those Americans for whom a familiar breakfast serves as a security blanket.  You know what I mean.  “I must have fresh ground coffee.” “I have to start the day with a three-minute egg. Don’t those people have an egg timer?”

I welcome that plunge into local culture, as, not quite full conscious, I am confronted with something on a plate or in a bowl that seems, well, foreign.

 photo by Meaduva via Flickr

 

How to Eat Breakfast around the World


1. New Zealand

Baked beans. Okay, get over it.  Beans are a good source of protein, have a touch of sweetness, and the fiber equivalent of stewed prunes.  The milk for your tea will be down the hall in the hotel in a small fridge. 

2. Austria

Loosen your belt. Several times a day, stop in a café for Austria’s favorite sport—piling schlag (whipped cream) on coffee mit chocolate mit maybe a slurp of rum. But that is not for breakfast. At breakfast time, stack your plate from the tidy buffet with meats, pink and brown rounds, cubes, rectangular slices marbled with white.  Beside the meat, platters with neatly arranged stacks of cheeses—hard, soft, pale yellow to pumpkin orange, and hard boiled eggs in egg cups. Appel strudel and amazing breads. Try the sour pickles—honestly they go well with the meat.  Be sure to walk a lot between castles and churches.

3. Switzerland

Same as Austria, but with more cheese. Stuff your pockets with Gruyere and break it out for lunch on a mountainside overlooking a lake.

4. Ireland

Ireland cooks up the kind of breakfast that leaves you in a stupor. Three kinds of meat and four kinds of bread (including Irish soda bread and heavy country wheat bread) and butter so good it makes you wonder if calling that yellow stuff wrapped in foil that you eat at home should be prosecuted for false labeling. Pile on some fried potatoes, some eggs, and take a nap before lunch. Only a few cups of strong Irish tea will keep you alert.

Virtual vs Real: Out There In The Real World

Eric Lucas
Camping, Family Travel

by Eric Lucas

Hurricanes prowl the Atlantic. Stocks are down—so is consumer spending. Battles rage over health care. Michael Jackson’s burial is set. Bombs blow in Russia and Iraq.

Thunk.

Scritter scree scree scrabble thunk.

photo by Jeff Henshaw via FlickrThe commotion 30 feet away in an old fir pulls my gaze up from the computer to a branch at a high angle just over my wife’s drying beach towel. It’s a Douglas squirrel, harvesting late summer cones to fatten up for winter. This consists of sawing them off the branch and pitching them to the ground 50 feet below, where they land like golf balls hitting the green after a good approach shot. I watch for a while—the commotion represents intermittent squabbling with another squirrel which is, I guess, trying to perpetrate the rodentian felony of unauthorized downloading.

Back online, I check the overnight baseball scores. Yep, another loss, 11-3 to the Yankees. Surprise.

S&P’s off 1.7 percent. There goes the new Prius.

I’m on vacation and, I admit, I am using the guest ranch’s WiFi at our cabin in the pines to stay in touch. It’s 7am. The rest of my family snoozes away. It’s not work if no one knows, right?

ALIENS IN PUERTO RICO

Sharon Spence Lieb
Eco Travel

by Sharon Spence Leib

So you know me: always the first landlubber to hop off the ship, soon as it docks. But there I am, your Lazy Highness, hangin’ off the balcony, watching three hundred Holland America passengers trudge into Old San Juan, Puerto Rico. Me? I’m headin’ straight to the cool blue pool for a mojito and a nap. 

photo via flickr by FloodkOffThree mojitos later, Jennifer pinches my ankle. Even my best friend can be annoying sometimes.

 “Hey sloth,” she whines, plopping onto the chaise lounge next to me, “Wanna kayak with me tonight?”

“Kayak in the dark?” I mumble. “Why?

 “To see green glowy creatures. At Laguana Grande Bay, off the island’s east coast.”

“Do aliens drink mojitos?” I reply. “Ok, sign us up.”

At sunset, we take a bus with the other passengers, and then scramble into those cheapo orange sit-on-top kayaks. “Follow me,” calls Carlos. He’s one of those too good-looking guides you think about seducing, but not in a kayak, I guess.

Anyway, Carlos thinks we know what we’re doing, so he takes off and next thing we’re inside this claustrophobic tunnel of mangroves, bouncing our kayaks off monstrous tree roots. I’m thinking “If a snake falls off a tree onto my neck, I will kill myself and then Carlos, or vice versa.”

They paved paradise and put up an all-inclusive resort

Allen Cox
Travel Opinion, Uncensored Travel

by Allen Cox

When a mangrove falls and there's no one there to hear, does it make a splash? You'd think the answer would be a resounding “yes.” But when nearly an entire coastline of mangroves fell along the Mexican Caribbean from north of Cancun to Tulum, business interests turned a deaf ear and environmentalists wept.

Of course, the trees didn't fall all at once with a single tsunami-inducing splash. Instead, it was one little splash after another over the course of four decades. One tree after another. Splash. One grove after another. These mangroves, as well as the dune plants and the jungle beyond, were standing in the way of progress. Now, they are not standing at all.

H i s t o r e c t o m y

Paul Ross
Travel Opinion, Uncensored Travel

by Paul Ross

Remember when you were a kid and some relative dragged you, with the best of intentions, to an historical “re-creation” because it was fun AND educational!? You don’t remember what you learned -- so much for education. And it was only slightly more fun for you than for the poor souls who suffered through the real thing ... because they were so miserable, they didn’t mind dying at age 19 from enlarged pores while semi-skilled barbers attached leeches to their appendages.

Photo Slide Show by Paul Ross

These glossed-over, sanitized, falsely nostalgic, contemporarily cosmetic pseudo-experiences invariably celebrate a time of exploitation. And the POV romantically, religiously and ideologically chosen is from the lowest rung of the social ladder. The idea may be noble, but you are not.

Look North, America

Judith Fein

by Judith Fein

A few days ago, my husband Paul and I took a water taxi to Norris Point, in Newfoundland, and tried to get a cab to go to the Lobster Cove Head lighthouse, where a rug hooking class was taking place. The taxis were busy, the class was starting, and I asked a man who was walking toward his car if he could give us a lift. “Of course,” he beamed. He had four people in his small vehicle, and they all scrunched and squeezed to make room for us. Then they insisted on taking us to a lookout point before dropping us off at the lighthouse.

Photo Slide Show by Paul Ross

View in Photo Gallery

An isolated incident of kindness? Hardly. In Nova Scotia locals welcomed us into their houses. On the island of Quirpon, Newfoundland, the owner of the lighthouse handed me a book ten minutes after I mentioned that I was interested in a subject. On Moose Factory island, our Cree guide Phil invited us to his camp and cooked us dinner. In Toronto, our guide added two extra hours to a tour after we showed interest in the booming art scene. In Montreal, we were invited to tea at a woman’s home.  In an Inuit community, a woman asked if we wanted to see how she lived and visit her home.

American ambassadors in Arab lands

Judith Fein
Travel Opinion, Uncensored Travel

 by Judith Fein

Photo Slide Show by Paul Ross

View in Photo Gallery

 

“What country you from?” two young men shouted at me from the stalls where they sold clothing.

“United States,” I answered.

“America! We love America!” they replied, grinning broadly.

The stalls were in the souk in Aleppo, and Aleppo, which has been inhabited by our species since the llth century B.C., is in northern Syria. Yes, an Arab country. Where cautious Americans are not supposed to go.

In Damascus, the capital, I was picking food from a sumptuous buffet and piling it on my china plate when the restaurant owner approached me.

“Where do you come from?” he asked.

“The United States,” I said. “And it’s my birthday today. This is my celebration.”

“Your birthday? Come with me, please.”

I followed him over to a large, standing, locked glass showcase which displayed jewelry and antiquities. He unlocked the case and withdrew a stone.

“Here, for you,” he said. “It’s a rock from the moon. May you have a wonderful day.”

Slumdog Millionaire – The story Hollywood left behind

Shelley Seale
Travel Opinion, Uncensored Travel

by Shelly Seale

By now everyone has seen, or at least knows about, the movie Slumdog Millionaire and its astounding sweep of the Oscars, the Golden Globes, and millions of movie-watchers' hearts worldwide. For good reason – the film is affecting without being affected, has great multi-dimensional characters, and gives us phenomenal cinematography with brilliant India as its backdrop.

Now available for purchase in TheTrip Shop!This tale of life and love in the slums of Mumbai alternates between heartbreak and triumph. The story follows two brothers who live in an underworld of abject poverty, far removed from the country’s glitzy upper class or technology and business boom. Their lives become even more brutal after they are orphaned.

Following them throughout their childhood and into early adulthood – along with their friend Latika – we see them fight against exploiters, brothel owners, child abusers, and even each other, in their struggle to survive.

Slumdog Millionaire is a fictional movie ending with a bizarre twist of fate. However, the reality of the story is that for millions of children in India, the life portrayed in the movie is a a world away from the rags-to-riches ending of the film. Today there are 25 million Indian children living without parents, on the streets or in orphanages or other institutional homes – some good, and some bad or corrupt like the one portrayed in the movie. They live in orphanages, slums, railway stations or on the streets, where they are highly vulnerable to abuse, harassment, HIV/AIDS, and being trafficked into child labor if they're lucky - brothels if they're not.

Slumdog Millionaire shows us a side of India, and a way of life, that hundreds of thousands of children in Mumbai alone struggle to survive every day.

You Cruise, You Lose

Paul Ross
Travel Opinion, Uncensored Travel

by Paul Ross

A vacation on a large cruise ship is a lot of things: convenient, easy, hassle-free (unpack once!), planned and scheduled, largely affordable, entertaining and unchallenging. You’ll know when, where, with whom and pretty much what you’re going to eat, who won the knobby-knees contest at the aft deck pool between the disco and life raft station zebra and exactly how long the “endless night soiree” will last. What’s not to like? At times, and on specially-themed outings, there are even opportunities to learn something. But, mostly, there is relaxation--especially during those long “days at sea.” Yes, vacation cruising can be many things. But it is not travel.illustration © Paul Ross

Travel can include difficulty, surprise, expense (both monetary and personal), challenge and always a chance of the unknown, which necessitates awareness. There are “lessons” aplenty but they’re rarely pre-digested and aren’t spoon-fed. You not only learn about the places and people you visit, but also about yourself.

You’ll have to find eateries on your own and they may be native and weird. Or, as an adult, you might even enjoy a brand new taste sensation. There may be a schedule--which can vanish in the instant it takes to get a blown out tire, be caught in a storm, or meet an unexpected situation or person of interest. Cruising is Disneyland afloat. Travel is what happens behind the scenes, beyond the gates and out in the world. The challenge is real but so are the adventures, discoveries, revelations and delights.

Air Travel Madness

Air Travel Madness

Eric Lucas
Travel Opinion, Uncensored Travel

We have rules, people.

Sure, I feel sorry for those 47 passengers stuck on a Continental Express plane for nine hours at the Rochester airport, but just because they’re trapped in a device where excess flatulence violates EPA standards doesn’t mean they should be allowed outside the jet.

We can’t let people wander willy-nilly at our airports late at night because, heaven knows, even a blue-haired grandma or a nearsighted professor or a Nintendo-crazed kid might actually be a world-class terrorist who is going to hide in a broom closet until dawn, headlock the pilot of a 747 who’s having a triple latte, put on his uniform and commandeer the plane, take off, fly the jet into the command center at ESPN over in Connecticut, bring down sports broadcasting and cause widespread panic, tempting Vlad Putin to lob a few SS9s our way, starting World War III and causing the collapse of civilization and, not incidentally, indefinitely postponing the start of the NFL season.

Can’t have that. Right?

Keep the Americans out of Cuba

Patricia McGregor
Travel Opinion, Uncensored Travel

by Patricia McGregor

Now that the US ban on Cuba travel seems about to disappear, and hordes of American travelers are poised to save Cuba from itself, I say, keep the ban. It will make very little impact on the average Cuban’s lifestyle and merely serve to line the pockets of the rich.

photo via Flickr by Robyn JayFor periods of time over the last four years I have lived with a musician in Havana. Because of him, my Spanish improves and his friends become my friends. I live like he does. I become Cubana.

Parties and discussions are our entertainment. His friends feel that they have nothing to gain by having American tourists in the country. Tourist money will not filter down to them.

Although there are many hotels, with the current tourist numbers it is often difficult to make a reservation. An influx of Americans (one estimate is 1 million per year) will put pressure on the tourist infrastructure.

Where will they stay? If they bump out tourists already on a Cuban holiday routine, hostility will surely grow.

New hotels will have to be built. Most Cuban hotels, like the Sol chain, are financed by foreign interests. Are these companies stretched to their last euro in this time of financial difficulties? Will they start up dozens of projects only to abandon them half-built? Will American companies be allowed to invest? Construction workers and such might be busy for a while, and then it will be back to the old life. If they are thrifty, they will save the money. There is no unemployment insurance.

I do not love Venice

Vera Marie Badertscher
Uncensored Travel

by Vera Marie Badertscher

Everyone must visit the three sisters of Italy: Rome, the serious one dedicated to preserving the glories of Italy’s Roman heritage. Florence, the studious and artsy one. And lastly Venice, the flashy younger sister who knows how to flaunt her beauty.

photo via Flickr by Brian WallaceSo say the Italy travel experts. At the risk of having the pigeon poop of San Marcos Square dumped on my head, I say: Not Venice, the beautiful darling that everyone falls in love with before they have even set foot in Italy.

Venice? Don't bother.

“But it is so ROMANTIC,” Venice fans sputter.

Ahh, yes, the famous romance. Funny how they have been able to continue that marketing campaign. And right after advocates tell you how romantic Venice is, they say, “You MUST see her at night.”

Well, of course you must if you are looking for romance. Gilbert and Sullivan had that wonderful line in Trial by Jury, “She may very well pass for forty-three in the dusk with a light behind her.” Old hags look so promising by candlelight.

Like everyone else, I thought I would fall in love with Venice. People travel by boat instead of car-- romantic charm! Bridges arch gracefully over canals--aesthetic charm! And history lurks in every doorway, down every cobbled street--historic charm! Oh yes, Venice is lively, too, with residents shopping at open air markets and having a coffee at the neighborhood bar.

Killing whales loudly, with their song

Eric Lucas
Travel Opinion

by Eric Lucas

If it’s August, whales are suffering.

I live on America’s Pacific Coast, a world-famous summertime visitor destination where hordes of ordinary, well-meaning people harass, torment and torture some of the world’s most charismatic wild creatures. The whales that ply our seas—especially the breathtaking, much-loved orcas of inland Northwest waters—wake up each morning, June through September, to the approaching howl of boat engines. They spend their days dodging a huge fleet of boats packed with googoo-eyed tourists who think they are at a Roller Derby match, an impression exacerbated by tour-boat operators who “honor” their so-called voluntary guidelines just like athletes do steroids prohibitions.

There are less than 100 Puget Sound orcas left. Holdovers from the days this inland sea wasn’t an exurban pond, they forage in waters fouled with urban runoff and toxic contaminants; they chase down remnants of our once-massive salmon runs, now reduced to trickles of minnows; they come up for air amid the whale-watch hordes to breathe clouds of engine exhaust.

And, underwater, all day, they listen to unspeakable nonstop caterwauling.

“Like a rocket ship taking off,” reports a Canadian scientific researcher who studied the noise impacts of whale-watching on the industry’s victims. He hung a hydrophone in the water and measured the decibels.

Try to imagine life, 10 hours a day, with a hundred or so helicopters buzzing a few feet overhead. That’s what it’s like for Puget Sound orcas.

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