When people say we are on “vacation”, we correct them: we are traveling, not on vacation. If we were on vacation we wouldn’t spend 34 hours transiting a space that a flight could do in 5. We wouldn’t wash our clothes in a bucket borrowed from the cleaning lady. We probably wouldn’t get a good portion of our calories from instant noodles. And we wouldn’t wake up at 4:30am to catch a cheaper flight. However all vacationers, just like all travelers, will get up at the butt-crack of dawn for this: sunrise over Angkor Wat. Continue reading
The sunrise is moving, it’s perfect. And we are all together. A niggling regret in the back of my mind: it would have been nice to see this from inside the temple… the guide books say to look to the East and the West during the sunrise. But I wouldn’t trade these moments for anything and that’s enough. Continue reading
I recall quite often a story my Mom told me when I was little, and struggling with “fitting in” at school (no, I wasn’t always the gorgeous bombshell I am now… wait, when did I last shower?). This story is one of the most profound paradigm-shifting mind-blowing truth nuggets I have ever had laid before my ear holes (probably on par only with my high-school boyfriend Ian telling me my knees were weird looking and a university professor explaining that you can’t “catch up” on sleep, but I digress). Continue reading
I’m self-conscious saying it, because it’s so cliche and just so… average… to feel this way, but what I thought I would get in Thailand, what I was looking forward to, was an ideal of a pristine white-sand beach with turquoise waves crashing softly. I’d be laying in my hammock, or sitting on my deck-chair, on the porch of my bungalow – un-bothered by mosquitos – perfectly tanned, reading a thought-provoking piece of literature and contemplating my perfect life. My belly would be full of $1CAD curry. Possibly, depending on the time of day (after 10am?) I would be holding a sweating tumbler of some pinky drink, resplendent with little umbrella and slice of non-hepatitis carrying ice. And I would keep up this routine for five months. Continue reading
Before coming to India, we did a bit of online research regarding the Toilet Situation over here. We had heard a bit about the TS from coworkers and other travel blogs, and really wondered how it all actually worked. For example, lots of Westerners hear that you should always eat with your right hand only because your left is the one you use for going to the bathroom. Continue reading
Of course, just our luck, we arrive at the Ashram within a few days of a nine-day festival for the nine iterations of the Goddess Durga – the Navratri festival. So: food, dancing, music, henna on hands and feet. Yes please. Our co-host, Shree, is a certified girly-girl so she is our guide around town (such as it is) to the local jeweller and tailor, getting us kitted up and fitted out with party dresses, rings, bindi, anklets, and arranging for a local girl to come do our henna. Continue reading
Today Ken and Clare drove us 2 hours north to visit Juno Beach, a mythological place for young Canadians. We grow up learning about the “victories” at Juno and Vimy Ridge in the world wars, as evidence of Canada’s contribution to the worldwide stage. But it’s one thing reading about it in a 4th grade textbook and quite another to stand in a bunker on the actual beach. Continue reading
And now, the moment you’ve all been waiting for. Or, we have anyway.
In case you live under a rock: La Tomatina is essentially a giant food fight (using tomatoes that have supposedly been crushed first to avoid the sack-of-oranges invisible bruise effect) in a small town in Spain, once per year. It’s “one of those things you do” in Spain, like running away from giant bulls or drinking so much Sangria that you vomit in the streets, or drinking so much Sangria that you vomit while running away from a bull.
After our super-fun “challenge” at the Lagos bus station and an extra-long and tense bus ride (in which I can feel the frustration coming off Marc in waves) we arrive in Seville in the dark.
It’s hot. As. Balls.
Every 50 meters I’m asking Marc “how much longer does Google maps say?”
685 Continue reading
It started out fine: we cleaned up our room (suspecting the Israeli couple would be moving in to the non-squeaky bed before our footprints were even cold) and Ole dropped us off at the bus station. Hugs at the side of the road and this lovely man even waited for our bus to pull away from the curb, waving at us as we drove away. As we drove South through the hills we felt very content…