Wine & Stein[beck]: It Happened in Monterey

Jules Older
Culinary Travel

by Jules Older

Back when I was a grad student in New York, I was lured to Monterey in California. The words of John Steinbeck are what lured me.

© Effin OlderA Baltimore boy who'd discovered Steinbeck in my teen years, I wanted — no, needed — to see and smell and walk the streets where Doc and Mack, Hazel and Wide Ida, Danny and Pilon plied their trades and plotted their scams.

Now, those same Steinbeck characters help entice three-to-four-million tourists every year and have, in the words of Diane Mandeville, vice president of Cannery Row Company, “changed us from a dirty, smelly industrial town to a clean and green tourist town.”

That’s all well and good, but it wasn't just The Grapes of Wrath that upgraded Monterey. It was also the grapes of Chardonnay, Pinot Gris, Cabernet, Chardonnay and almost every other potable varietal under the sun. Like Napa and Sonoma to the north, San Luis Obispo and Santa Barbara to the south, Monterey is now serious wine country.

And it was on my last trip to Monterey that I got into the fermented grape juice.

For the same sort of reason — if ‘reason’ be the word for it — that I skied the French Alps with French-speaking Quebecois, sightsaw Kyoto with one of those Japanese tour parties and toured Israel with the Black Hebrews of Jerusalem, I now found myself in Monterey with a group of dedicated oenophiles.

Suddenly Seeking Sunshine

Jean Kepler Ross
Life Lessons

by Jean Kepler Ross

I was trimming my geraniums the other day, preparing to bring them inside for the winter.  As I worked on my plants out in the garden, I appreciated the warmth of the sun on that beautiful fall day and thought of a woman I encountered once in Siena, Italy, on another sunny fall day.

photo via Flickr.comMy husband and I were on our honeymoon, a five-week tour through Italy.  We arrived in Siena by train and found our way to the plaza where the famous Palio horse race is held twice a year.  We ordered lunch at an outdoor café and my husband went to look for lodging while I guarded the suitcases (I loved that job).

All of a sudden, an elderly woman with white hair and crinkled skin sat down in my husband’s chair.  I tried to explain to her that that was my husband’s chair and could she please move.  The woman just said, “sole.” My Italian isn’t very deep, but I gathered she was enjoying the sun.  I didn’t know what to do, but I again told her that that chair was for my husband and we were having lunch.  She said to me, “He can sit over there,” in English and kept sitting next to me with her face held up to the sun.

I am usually a peaceful person but I felt so upset with this woman that I actually felt like pushing her out of the chair.  What kind of manners were these? We were customers at the café and she was intruding on our romantic fantasy. After indignantly repeating that that was my husband’s chair, I gave up and the two of us sat next to each other quietly taking in the sun.

Up, Up and Away: Lessons Learned in the Clouds

Stacey Marcus
Family Travel, Life Lessons

by Stacey Marcus

The genesis of the idea was as sweet and breezy as the day we drove up from Boston to Saint-Jean-sur-Richelieu by way of Burlington, Vermont. My husband, Mitch, had always dreamed of floating in the clouds on a hot air balloon and serendipitously stumbled across  the International Balloon Festival of Saint-Jean-sur-Richelieu  near Montreal. An extended weekend in Canada seemed a great idea for an end of the summer family trip.

We were invited to ride in the VIP specialty balloons and excitedly anticipated floating in the clouds and seeing the world from an aerial perspective. As we drove into Saint-Jean-sur-Richelieu, we saw the colorful balloons dot the skies, a rainbow of colors and sea of shapes  delighting spectators lining highways and fields.

As we stood in the VIP section watching 150 balloons travel to the heavens, we were introduced to our pilots who explained that the specialty balloon protocol. After all the balloons were launched, they would evaluate whether our balloons could travel to the sky as the weather conditions were not ideal for the specialty balloons and time was running out. A spontaneous surge of stress spilled onto the field as we awaited the pilots decision.

The long-awaited ride to the sky quickly went south as time ticked by, the balloons sat on the ground, one daughter went to the ladies room and the other began to spiral. Out of nowhere the pilots announced we were leaving and everyone sprang into action. Emily and I went up in one bee-shaped balloon and Mitch and Rachel tumbled into the other.

Ask The Captain: What Was Going On With Those Northwest Airlines Pilots?

W.M. Wiggins
Air Travel, Ask The Captain

Plane Talk: Got a question? Ask the Captain!

Do you have a question about airline safety, flight etiquette, jet lag, or air travel in general? Submit your question and look for answers in a future column. Answering your questions in our NEW ASK THE CAPTAIN column is, Michael Wiggins, a retired airline pilot who has spent the better part of his life shuttling passengers around the globe.

We'd been planning to launch this column ever since a chance meeting brought Michael onto our radar screen. We KNEW we wanted him to bring his expertise and humor to our YourLifeIsATrip family, but who knew we'd start the dialogue with the question on everyone's lips these days...

by W. M. Wiggins

What was really going on with those Northwest Airline pilots in the cockpit?

 

About those NWA pilots over flying ( MSP ) Minneapolis/ St. Paul Airport by 150 miles. Jeeeez. It's a reasonable question. How CAN that happen?

The lack of attention to detail is obvious. Someone has to be driving that big ol’ Bus (AIRBUS) and somebody has to be monitoring the radios. And as they say in California, that’s a definite “for sure, for sure” dude.

It sounds to me like a couple of guys had their radio volumes turned down …. way,     w a y,       w   a   y        down. This is an especially bad thing when you are traveling at 500 miles per hour……hummmmmmmmm, divide that (500 mph) by 60 minutes ( 60 minutes is an hour….I think? )…….and you can see that  this “winged” aluminum beast is smokin’ right along at about 8.4 miles per minute.

TRANSFORMATION IN KENYA

Judy Crawford
Life Lessons, cultural immersion

by Judy Crawford

It may have started in 3rd grade—this need for transformation. Unlike most kids who would say, if asked, that their favorite holiday was Christmas,  mine was Halloween. Whether dressing as a ghost, a witch, a gypsy, or a bum the idea of becoming someone else for even a short time held and continues to hold a fascination for me. Junior High brought other attempts to change - experimenting with make-up, trying to adopt an exotic accent, changing my name from Judy to Judi. High school was a time to learn more about who I was, but mostly to try not to stand out from the crowd. Then, at university all hell broke loose. It was the early 70’s at a very liberal university in Colorado. My liberation that year consisted of wearing jeans to class, letting my hair grow long and straight, shedding my make-up, and trying on radical, new ideas.  But then as I got older, I lost my edge.  I became a woman who is personable, somewhat outgoing, active in my church and community, but most often enjoys just staying at home, reading or doing art projects. I suppose this places me in the “Boring, but nice” demographic. 

I didn’t even think about transformation as I packed my bags for my trip to Kenya. I work for a non-profit, Waterlines, located in Santa Fe, New Mexico, that funds clean drinking water projects in developing countries. One of the great benefits of this work has been the opportunity to visit projects that our donors have sponsored. The two week period was spent in rural areas of Kenya, four hours from Nairobi. Most of the projects we visited were schools where Waterlines, in partnership with the local communities, has funded  rain collection tanks. These large tanks (33,000- 50,000 liters) are filled with rain water collected through gutters from the roof of a classroom during one of the two rainy seasons Kenya has each year.  Without these tanks, children are required to bring water from home or spend class time going to a river several kilometers away to haul back polluted water for drinking and cooking. Obviously neither is a good solution to the drinking water problem. For me, a former public school teacher, visiting schools is a holiday!  It is both inspiring to see how much teachers do with so little in resources, and sad to see how the students struggle to pay fees for secondary school and learn without adequate books, lab equipment, or even pencils and paper.

Trip Tips for Coming Home

Judith Fein
Life Lessons, Travel Tips

by Judith Fein

The worst part of travel isn’t the security checkpoints with prison-issue wands, puffs of air blowing in your face or gloved agents pawing through your belongings. It’s not the airline seats with their lumbar supports that spear your spine or the $2.25 you pay for a small bottle of filtered tap water at airport restaurants.  It’s not the jetlag—which can be so brutal that your left foot doesn’t know where your right foot is walking—or the suitcase that vanished with the travel clothes, gadgets and gear you have spent half a decade assembling.

The worst part of travel is actually coming home. One day you are in Peru, gaping at Machu Picchu or in Quebec City, learning about why the English and the French both coveted the area. Maybe you’ve been cycling in Italy, trekking in Nepal, cruising down the Nile in Egypt, or sauna hopping in Finland. The next day, you open the door to your digs and…chaos.

The answering machine is blinking, there are hundreds or thousands of emails, the snail mail spills over the edge of a huge tub and stares at you from the floor.  There are bills to be paid, deadlines to be met, appointments to be kept. Your hair needs new highlights, your car is due for servicing, there’s a leak in your office, you forgot to send your sister-in-law a birthday gift. The exotic fades as you slip into the quotidian and start trouble-shooting, catching up, returning calls, and squirming in the dentist’s chair.  Hooray! You are home.

I have not yet figured out how to make homecoming a celebration.  But I have a few tips if you are as overwhelmed as I am when you step over your own welcome mat.

1) Even if you are committed to NOT being wired when you travel, try to check your email at least once before the big return.

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.

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