WIN-A-FREE-BOOK-CONTEST CELEBRATES YOURLIFEISATRIP.COM AUTHORS

Editors
Announcement

A WIN-WIN SITUATION:

Everyone loves to WIN, and YourLifeIsATrip.com wants to bring the WINNER'S smile to your face. From November 11-20, 2010, we'll be GIVING AWAY one of our author's books each day.

From the jungle tribes of Papua New Guinea and buying art in a Mexican prison to internal voyages of self-discovery and the digital world of storytelling, the featured books have subjects as diverse as the authors themselves.

All you have to do to win is sign up to receive the FREE YourLifeisATrip.com newsletter, 'like' us on facebook, or become a new twitter follower, and you're automatically in the random drawing.

Daily winners will be announced on YourLifeIsATrip.com, on our facebook and twitter accounts, and at the close of the contest.

If you enjoy YourLifeisaTrip.com, we encourage you to use the links below to share the contest on your facebook page, give us a shout out on twitter, link, blink and a free book can be yours. Good luck!!

YOURLIFEISATRIP.COM BOOK GIVEAWAY SCHEDULE:

November 11, 2010: Morning Light by Nancy King

November 12, 2010: Life Is A Trip: The transformative magic of travel by Judith Fein.

 

Manatee Hormones

John Lamkin
travel essay

words + photos by John Lamkin

 

Dani has a face that only a mother could love, but he doesn’t have a mother – he’s an orphan. Dani is a manatee, sometimes referred to as a sea cow. I guess if he had a mother she would think he was beautiful. The horny seafarers of earlier times thought manatees were beautiful. When seen in the ocean from a distance, they were mistaken for mermaids or sirens.

 

Dani was found by a couple of boys, four days old with an injured flipper – caught in the mangrove roots. He was left an orphan, unable to leave this annual birthing lagoon with the other manatees. The lagoon lies just off the Caribbean Bay of Chetumal in the south of Mexico’s Yucatan Peninsula. The villagers took him to Chetumal to have his wounds attended. Once treated, the state wildlife department decided to return Dani to the lagoon and put him in the care of the village until he recuperated. Well enough to swim, he was released to return to his manatee family, but he didn’t want to go.

A Chocoholic Falls off the Wagon

Elyn Aviva
Culinary Travel

by Elyn Aviva

I don’t know what I was thinking. Or rather, I wasn’t thinking. Like a lamb being led to slaughter, I followed our friend Jack into Oriol Balaguer’s chocolate kitchen in Barcelona. I knew I was a dead duck the moment I walked in. The sweet spicy scent of Gran Cru chocolate filled the air, and streams of satiny liquid chocolate poured exuberantly into stainless steel sinks. It was like being transported into paradise.

It’s true confession time. I used to belong to a Chocoholics Club. Note the operative verb: “used to.” Once a month, one of the members would make an over-the-top chocolate dessert, which we would savor briefly and then devour. Devotees of chocolate we were—and some of them still are. For health reasons, I had sworn off the dark, creamy, butter-and sugar-laden delights. And, except for an occasional lapse, I usually avoided succumbing to temptation.

So what was I doing in Balaguer’s High Temple of Chocolate? Jack (www.discovergirona.net) leads specialty tours in Catalonia, and the opportunity to do an interview with master chocolatier/pastry and dessert chef Oriol Balaguer was too good to pass up. I hadn’t considered the consequences—but now I knew. I knew I would live to regret it—but I also knew, as I took another deep, soul-satisfying inhalation, that I didn’t care.

Oriol has been winning prizes for his chocolate and pastry creations for the last 17 years—and he’s only 39. Best Pastry Chef, Best Book (The Dessert Book) in the World, Professional of the Year—the accolades don’t stop. Not only is he a brilliant inventor, he’s also a master marketer. He’s turned buying chocolate into a time-valued event.

When is chocolate like haute couture? When you are Oriol Balaguer and you present twice-a-year collections of new tastes, textures, and shapes. Last season’s collection is so last year—but so good that it is still available and still in great demand. Oriol also launches monthly “concept cakes” in his specialty shops, where each item is displayed like a precious jewel. Suddenly, everyone wants to purchase the latest product, score the most recent release for their dinner party.

My Spiritual Journey

Margie Goldsmith
Personal essay, Spirituality

by Margie Goldsmith                                                                       

 

A year ago, I met Belen Stoneman, a Native American from the Akimel O’otham of the Hohokum tribe. She was a spa therapist and resident “healer.” at the Sheraton Wild Horse Pass Resort & Spa in Chandler, Arizona, and happened to be at a spa event in New York. As I walked by, she stared at my beaded moccasin boots, which look as though they were made on a reservation, but are actually from New York. “I like your boots,” she smiled.

Belen at Aji Mountain“And I like your necklace,” I answered, admiring the chunky turquoise strands almost hidden by black hair cascading priestess-like down her shoulders. She was in her late forties, olive skin, dark eyes, about 5/4’, and wore a long flowered skirt. I’d been told she was a clairvoyant.  “Would you like a reading?” Belen asked

One of my college professors had told me I was psychic, a gift, he said, I should develop in a positive way. I hadn’t been aware of such a talent nor did I know to tap into it. Years later, a cigar-smoking Shaman on the Amazon River told me I had special powers. I almost believed him, until he told the next person in line exactly the same thing.

Belen indicated I should sit on a stool.  How would she do the reading? Animal cards?  Feathers?  She picked up a pen and sheet of paper, closed her eyes, and moved the pen around the paper as if in a trance, drawing squiggly circles, star shapes, and curlicues.  She opened her eyes, studied the design, and said, “I have a spiritual guide named White Cloud. He directs me and sends me messages. White Cloud says you can see things other people can’t. White Cloud says we played together as children.”

I felt a small tingle. Did that mean that in a former life – if there was such a thing – I was Native American?  Is that why I always rooted for the Indians and not the cowboys?

“White Cloud says you are very comfortable in the mountains,” she continued.

“I love mountains,” I said.

“My people lived in the mountains, and the spirits of my ancestors still live there.”

Trying To Make Sense of ‘The Great War’

Tom Adkinson
Historic Travel

words + photos by Tom Adkinson

As a kid growing up in the early baby boom years, I could understand World War II because it was familiar to me. The stories were all around me.

A friend’s father down the street had a Japanese carbine.Guadalcanal Diary was an exciting read, as was Thirty Seconds Over Tokyo. Movies such as “The Sands of Iwo Jima” and “The Longest Day” (which seemed to star every major actor in Hollywood, including John Wayne, Richard Burton and Sean Connery) filled the movie screens.

It was World War I, the one known as “The Great War,” that didn’t make much sense. It was long ago and complicated, a jumble of combatants that were difficult to sort out. It seemed to lack the drama of Midway or Normandy or the Flying Tigers. 

That ended with a single museum visit in an unlikely place – Kansas City, Missouri – where I began to make sense of it all.

Kansas City is the home of the National World War I Museum, and the enormity and pathos of that horrible time hit me as soon as I entered.

Once inside, I stood on a glass bridge that leads to the major exhibit areas. Beneath my feet and through the glass was a field of poppies, 9,000 of them. It was an attractive and appealing art installation until I read that each of the red poppies represented 100,000 lives. More precisely, each poppy represented 100,000 deaths. That beautiful field of poppies was a statement about the nine million combat deaths of World War I.

Downtown Kansas City is a pleasant place with big office buildings, hotels, sports facilities, restaurants and the like, and the National World War I Museum is one of its landmarks. 

Ask The Captain: Is My Pilot Flying Drunk?

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.

by W. M. Wiggins

"It feels like you can't turn on the news these days without hearing about a drunk pilot showing up for work ready to fly under the influence. Is this just media hype, or should I really be worried?"  - Kathryn

 

I hear ya, Kathryn. "THAR she  B L O W S" could be the lead-in line to the almost-monthly apprehension of professional pilots caught while flying legally drunk. But the fact remains that of the 11,000 commercial pilots tested annually, only 12 on average fail to pass. Now, that's not the zero percent we'd like to see, but it does mean that chances are good that your pilot is NOT flying drunk. 

Now, for the rest of the story, which takes us to Amsterdam. 

Amsterdam is known for it's tolerance and quirkiness. 

Tolerance for cafe drug purchases and prostitution in it's Red Light District.

From Africa With Love

Dr. Marissa Pei
Transformational Travel

words + photos by Dr. Marissa Pei

 

I went to Africa expecting to have my paradigms blown out of the continent.  And bombs away, my mind detonated, but in a way that was entirely unexpected. 

Dr. Marissa Pei and friend in AfricaI went to Africa thinking that I would learn to be more grateful. And I am grateful, especially for the conveniences of western civilization that I have grown accustomed to. I missed having toilets that flushed, toilet paper supplied, toilet paper that would flush, stalls where I could sit and not have to stand, and bathrooms where I didn’t have to breathe through my mouth. 

Yes I am grateful for sanitization that uses up exorbitant amounts of natural resources. Would I give it up?  Not in this lifetime!  Will I be more grateful for American bathrooms? Absolutely! But by being appreciative for our sanitation and building codes, am I implying that we in the west are more civilized? Well if “civilized’ means beautifully-constructed and aesthetically-pleasing on the outside, yes we in the West are definitely more beautiful on the outside. But are we more beautiful on the inside?  

I went to Africa thinking that I would be triggered by the haunted look in the children’s eyes, you know...like the World Vision pictures or National Geographic images…and to some extent I was. But 88 percent of the time, our eyes would meet, I would smile, and a spontaneous answering grin would break their face wide open, tapping into the reservoir of love and joy in their heart which splatters all over me. 

Living Life Barefoot On the Yoga Mat

Bethany Ball
Personal essay, Wellness

by Bethany Ball

 

By my late twenties, I’d been unhappy with my body for a while. I had put on and dropped the same twenty pounds over and over again. Thin, I felt glamorous, but was in fact starving. My ideal weight was not one I could maintain. And heavy was something I was always fighting against.  I needed to find a new journey to health and wellbeing.

photo by lululemon athletica via flickr common licenseFor years I’d gone to the gym and it made me feel energized and strong. But it made my body bulky. My already naturally broad shoulders resembled those of a line backer. They’d bulked up after years of competitive swimming. My thighs were too heavy to fit in the narrow boot cut jeans, fashionable at the time. Boyfriends described me kindly as “athletic,” when I’d dreamed all my life of being lithe. 

Working out made me feel powerful, but that feeling of power morphed into a feeling of being overly caffeinated. I would walk out of Crunch gym, after my regular work out, feeling twitchy and sometimes irritable. I used to call my work out my “Prozac” but, in fact, it didn’t relax me. I no longer felt powerful, I felt combative. Going to the gym made me hungry, sometimes ravenous. In college it was not  unusual for me to whip up a batch of Pillsbury cinnamon rolls, eat them all, and then march over to the gym for a couple of hours. I would push my heart rate up to 110 percent, measuring it with two fingers on my wrist. I was “exerlimic” – binge eating and then exercising to the point of exhaustion.

Seeking advice, I emailed an old friend. I considered him a good source of basic wisdom, and he knew my body pretty well. I had been a photography model for him a couple of years before when I’d lived in Santa Fe, after college. Also, he wasn’t the type of guy who would brush off a very genuine comment like, “I hate my body and I don’t know what to do, since going to the gym isn’t working for me anymore.” He responded, “Why are you going to the gym all the time, anyway? Do you want to beat someone up?” He suggested I start doing yoga. “Some of the most beautiful people I know inside and out do yoga. You ought to give it a try.”

Looking for Paradise? It may be closer than you thought.

Sara Morgan
Personal essay, travel essay

words and photos by  Sara Morgan

 

Most people are surprised to learn that I have never been to Disney World. That’s right – a middle class American mother of three school aged children that has never been to Disney World. Imagine it.

I am actually quite proud of this unique distinction. I am also proud of the fact that even though I have never being to Disney World, I have sunbathed nude on a beautiful, white, sandy, and very secluded beach. And no, I was not in another country at the time and I did not get arrested.  Nope, I was less than 30 minutes from my rural home in South Louisiana.

Don’t believe me? Take a look at a picture I took from a recent excursion to my private/semi-public beach. And no, I am not nude in the picture. In fact, the person way off in the distance is my six-year old daughter, who happened to join me on this particular all clothing outing. 

I included the picture to give you a sense of how isolated and remote this beach is. The only footprints on the beach that day belonged to my daughter and me. The rest of the beach was pure white and the water in the creek beside it was cool and crystal clear. It was a perfect day and there was not another person in sight.

So, how is this possible? And, what did I mean by my private/semi-public beach?

The beach I am referring to is nestled deep within an upscale senior community; a community that prides itself on its well manicured golf course, but not on the spectacular beach that is accessible from one of their overlooked fitness trails. In the three years since I discovered the beach, I have come across only a handful of people out walking dogs on the fitness trail, and no one on the actual beach. 

 

A Backup Plan: Don’t Leave Home Without One

Elyn Aviva
Family Travel, Life Lessons, Travel Tips

words + photos by Elyn Aviva

At last the long-awaited day arrived. Our kids (Jesse and Yui) and Sophie, our adorable granddaughter (two years and eight months old), were flying from California to visit us in Spain. My husband, Gary, and I took the train to Madrid on Wednesday, the day before they were supposed to arrive, and spent the day exploring museums and sipping espresso at outdoor cafés. It was a lull in the middle of Holy Week, which runs from Palm Sunday through Easter.

That night, just before we went to bed, the cell phone rang. It was Jesse, my son, calling to say their flight had been cancelled and they would update us when they knew more. Two hours later, another call. Jesse again. They’d managed to be rebooked, but instead of arriving at Barajas Airport at 11 a.m. on Thursday, they would be arriving at 7 p.m. No problem, we assured them. We were relieved they were still arriving the same day.

The initial plan had been to drive north on Thursday to Sahagún de Campos, the small town where Jesse and I had lived for a year in 1982. Jesse was hoping to reunite with schoolmates he hadn’t seen in 28 years. These friends were returning to their pueblo, Sahagún, to celebrate Holy Week. We realized that if the kids arrived at 7 p.m., by the time they got their luggage and we picked up the rental car, it would be too late to drive all the way to Sahagún. So Gary went online (we had free wifi at our hotel) and booked two rooms in a hotel in Segovia, en route to Sahagún. We knew that Jesse and Yui wanted to see Segovia, so we figured that would make the best of the situation.

Migrating South

Rachel Dickinson
Personal essay, Wildlife

by Rachel Dickinson

This time of year when I drive along the road toward the school – the road I know like the back of my hand because I’ve been traveling that road for fifty years – I always notice the starlings on the wire. As the weather turns and the nights get cool and the purple asters and yellow goldenrod fight for space in the meadows, the starlings begin to gather. First there are just a few, balanced precariously, claws gripping the telephone wire as they sway in the wind. But soon it’s like a party up there with hundreds of birds chit-chatting as they cling to the now-drooping wires.

My Life As A Clown

Steven R. Shapiro
Personal essay, Voiuntourism, cultural immersion

by Steven R. Shapiro

 

I just began the book ‘Life is a Trip’ by Judith Fein. What an inspiration. Stories with heart, just begging the questions: Could I write about a few of my recent experiences?  Do I really want to try?  And would anyone really care? 

My introduction to writing began with a Spiritual Writing Workshop in the Yucatan several years ago, led by none other than Judith Fein. To be honest, I hated writing.  But that trip gave me something to write about. Judie actually encouraged us and made writing fun. Is that possible? I actually began to enjoy trying to piece together my thoughts into a cohesive, semi-understandable story. And so, with that crude introduction, I continue.

photo by Stephen Poff via Flickr (common license)I have begun a mid-life journey, unexpectedly. For many years, I have taught children who struggle in school, offered workshops on learning disabilities, was even on national TV and radio, had a wife of 30+ years, raised a wonderful family, bought several homes in the suburbs. You would think I was leading a fulfilling life.  I did all the proverbial right things. Yet, I was bored, frustrated and angry.  Something was missing. I realized that I found the way Americans interact and connect shallow and I began to question who I was. What do I have to offer? What were my gifts and skills? And what do I really want to experience out of life and people? I wanted something real and authentic.

And then Cabo San Lucas, Mexico, came into my life. Originally it was just a trip, a getaway to a beach paradise. But something in me yearned to find something real. I hunted the Internet and happened to find a children’s daycare center there and a boy’s orphanage, and in-between playing volleyball, getting exceedingly drunk on the beach, wondering what I was doing at a posh Cabo resort, where people seemed like shadows passing each other, I became a clown. Just like that. I wanted to visit the daycare center and orphanage but didn’t just want to walk in and say:  “Hey kids, I’m here." So I pondered: How could I relate? How

Certified Extra Virgin

Charmaine Coimbra
Culinary Travel

by Charmaine Coimbra

 

When the Los Angeles Times reported in July that approximately two-thirds of extra-virgin olive oil (EVOO) sold in California grocery stores isn’t so virgin after all, and that the problem comes from imported olive oils, I dashed to my pantry, flung open the door, and sighed.  My EVOO bottle was on the list of claims-to-be-extra-virgin-but-don't-believe-it olive oil. The alleged EVOO from Italy in my pantry apparently shacked up with cheaper canola, seed or nut oils—thereby losing any hint of virginity. Shame on my olive oil, and shame on Italy.

Arbequina Extra Virgin Olive Oil from Kitehawk Farm in Atascadero, Ca.Double shame on me. One, the report went on to say, “No such mixing was found in the recent tests of products produced in California…” and, two, the nearby foodie-town-in-training, Paso Robles, CA, is home to over two dozen olive farms that co-habit with the burgeoning world-class local vineyards. Why did I not buy local?  I preach it, so my bargain EVOO shopping vs. quality EVOO shopping was about to change.

Last week, I slipped into the 7th Annual Olive Festival in Paso Robles, and it was a voyage into the new world of an ancient food. Mostly family-owned farmers/producers poured samples of their oils for visitors to taste. Vendors supplied bread for dipping—but I watched as the purists went directly for the straight on sipping. Without a clue as to how oils are tasted, I chose the purist route.

It’s Not Spain, It’s Pais Vasco

Aysha Griffin
Personal essay, cultural musings, travel essay

by Aysha Griffin

 

I fell in love with Spain. First it was a week in Barcelona, then, a year later, a week in Madrid. By year three, following a week’s tour in the Midi-Pyreees, I couldn’t resist the opportunity to return to Spain and travel its length from Bilbao in the north, through its geographic center of Madrid and on to the former Moorish capital of Granada in the south. But first, I was told, I must visit – and eat in – San Sebastian.

by SwansonRut via flickr (common license)Located on the eastern end of Spain’s Atlantic coast, known as la Golfo de Vizcaya (Bay of Biscay), San Sebastian is considered one of the culinary capitals of the world, a distinction largely lost on this non-foodie. But, as much as gourmandizing does not excite me, the idea of bars competing to outdo each other with exotic and cheap finger food called “pintxos” (pronounced “pinchos,” and essentially tapas) was an adequate inducement, along with San Sebastian’s picturesque setting in a horseshoe-shaped bay with golden sand beaches.

I arrived by train from Toulouse, France, with the rugged Pyrenees providing a continual and stunning southern vista. At the border city of Irun, Spain, the civility and cleanliness of the French train, with the melodious lilt of that language spoken in hushed tones, was markedly replaced by a grimy and worn Spanish train, boarded by shoving one’s way in, and the shouts and grunts in Spanish and Euskara, a baffling pre-Indo European language spoken by the Basque people in northeastern Spain. I was back.

San Sebastian’s seaside does not disappoint. Its broad promenade skirts the entire bay where locals and tourists of all ages, most smartly dressed, stroll arm-in-arm or glide by on bicycles or skateboards. White walled restaurants with royal blue awnings and outdoor seating offer exceptional people-watching opportunities on the promenade or beachside, while upscale apartments and commercial buildings line the boulevard, looking over a green-hilled island and bobbing sailboats to sea.  

 

Searching for Vikings in Norway

Judith Fein
Art and Culture, Historic Travel, travel essay

by Judith Fein

I wish I could climb into a time machine and be catapulted back to the Viking period between 793 and 1066 A.D. I don’t care for the raiding and pillaging but I have been to L’Anse Aux Meadows in Newfoundland twice (the only authenticated Viking site in North America), I have held my breath as I read the Iceland sagas, and I know these hunting and planting people were resilient, artistic and resourceful; the women had power and prestige, and their governance was of the democratic variety. They wrote on rune stones, were brilliant ship builders and goldsmiths. They drank mead from horns, braved the cold and produced mighty sorcerers.

Photo Slide Show by Paul Ross

Last month, I went to Norway on the trail of the Vikings; actually, I felt as though I were in Viking school.  At the archeological museum in Stavanger, I learned that the Vikings probably practiced a form of yoga and that diverse elements in nature like swimming birds and halibut were thought to help the sun on its daily journey. They believed in night ships that went into the water and the dark earth at night, and day ships that came up again in daytime.

The Lost Maya City

John Lamkin
Art and Culture, Historic Travel

words + photos by John Lamkin

Cora Amalia, the president of the municipality, affirmed the stories I’d heard for a while. There was a “lost” Maya city in the nearby jungle that rivals Tikal in Guatemala and has a pyramid larger than the one at Palenque in the state of Campeche.

“When can I go there?" I asked the government tourism officials. “Only when you get permission from INAH (Instituto Nacional de Antropología e Historia),” was the answer, “And you can’t go now because the jungle roads are too muddy. You must wait for the dry season.”

Well, the dry season came. We applied for and got the INAH permit and set off on the adventure – seven of us in Luis’ Suburban.

Our crew consisted of Luis Tellez, professional guide and photographer and his wife Leti, myself and my significant other Susy, two expats that lived locally and had done some research on the city, and don Millon a 90-year-old farmer who had worked in the area as a chiclero, one of the men that harvested the chicle for making chewing gum, and who had visited the ruins in his youth.

We located the turn-off from the paved road that led to a small Maya community of a few traditional thatched huts. We presented our permit to a Maya woman who was the designated caretaker. She read the permit and then herded her family out to be photographed by us.

On the Road with THE GHOST OF TONY HILLERMAN

Anne Hillerman
Family Travel, Life Lessons, Literary Travel, Personal essay, cultural musings, road trip, travel essay

by Anne Hillerman 

        

In addition to nearsightedness and a deep sense of curiosity, my Dad and I shared a love of good stories. After his death two years ago, I had the opportunity to travel in his tire tracks. My road trip became a lesson in discovery, geographically and emotionally, showing me aspects of my father I had never seen and beautiful places I’d never visited. Ghosts have a creepy reputation, but my father’s made the perfect traveling companion.

Let’s start at the beginning. My Dad was Tony Hillerman. During his 35 years of writing best-selling mysteries, millions of fans treasured his stories of Navajo detectives solving crimes on the panoramic Navajo Nation. He also inspired me to start The Tony Hillerman Writers’ Conference, where he served as our most popular faculty member for several years. 

Before Dad died in late October of 2008, my photographer husband Don Strel and I had launched our own book project, “Tony Hillerman’s Landscape: On the Road with Chee and Leaphorn” to show readers who had never been to Indian Country the settings in which the fictional Tribal Officers solved crimes. I gathered quotes from Dad’s books that described places where his detectives pause to comment on the scenery in Arizona, New Mexico, Utah and Colorado. Then we hit the road for Baby Rocks, Teec Nos Pos, Toadlena, Church Rock, Kayenta, Tsaile, Tuba City and other breathtaking places Dad loved.

Don and I finished the book with both relief and regret a few months after Dad died. We decided to promote it and honor my father’s memory with talks and slideshows to support public libraries. Little did I know that I would be getting most of the benefit, priceless stories from people in the audience whom my Dad had touched: loyal readers, distant relatives, Indian consultants, long-lost friends, and former co-workers and students from his days at the University of New Mexico.

At the small Placitas, N.M. library, a woman came up to me after my talk. “I have to tell you how I stalked your father,” she said. I was all ears.

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