We managed to jump over a couple strings of cars and get out of the yard and were wandering past suburban houses when two cop cars rolled out of nowhere. A bald, angry-looking officer swaggered over to us. “Cat-and-mouse game, huh? Looks like we win,” he scoffed. The other, a soft-spoken “good cop,” asked us a lot of questions about ourselves, and we managed to build up a friendly rapport. The bald one narrowed his eyes and glared at Jackson: “You’ve got a wedding ring on and a nice-ass camera around your neck. So what are you doing out here?”
If you’re a longtime reader of the sweet lifestyle-y musings of A Cup of Jo, you might’ve noticed a trend toward travel tips as of late. She’s covering anything and everything — from travelling with your young one to simply packing your bag, to a helpful secret when you might be feeling a little jetlagged. She’s even got a guide to her home base, NYC. You’ll find her advice is always simple and straightforward and maybe secretly inspirational. Don’t you want to hit the road already? Just look at that bike…
It’s not just anyone who can come, but everyone too – and they do. In the previous month, 10,000 tourists had entered Sagarmatha National Park. The trail north from the scary little airstrip at Lukla is chocker with trekkers – at times it’s more like a queue than a walk. Antipodeans trade matey banter; purposeful Germans with trekking poles overtake on the straights; the French, beautifully turned out, shrug indifferently; fat tattooed Brits huff and puff on the inclines. Above us, the air is alive with helicopters ferrying Japanese tourists who have neither the time nor the inclination to walk up the valley. They will spend a night in the Hotel Everest View, gasping into oxygen cylinders. In the morning they will take photos on the terrace, then fly away. Tomorrow they’ll probably be in Bangkok, or the Philippines.”
Even on Everest, time marches on, and Sam Wollaston’s trudging in its Gore-Tex’d footsteps for the Guardian. (Read it in full here.)
…..I rearrange the fragments. What was I thinking when I cropped them? Why did I cut the sky-blimp out of my picture of the Chicago World Cup parade? Why did I cut Graceland Mansion out of my picture of Graceland? …Removed from the official photographic memory, the fragments demand an exercise of actual memory, an act of reclamation. They are like phantom limbs: You have to dream the body back into being.
Paddling one day about ten miles southwest to a headland, I caught sight of an island that had been hidden from my campsite — a new hump of rock where I saw a sandy beach and some huts. A Germanic-looking man in a green bathing suit stood on the beach to welcome me. “Hi,” he said and grabbed my bow line and helped pull my boat to shore.
“Nice kayak,” he said. It was salt-smeared and wet from the long haul from the headland. “Isn’t that the kind of boat Paul Theroux paddled in his travels around the Pacific?”
Being cautious, I said, “You read that book?”
“Oh, yeah. Great book.”
This happens now and then — more often in a remote place like Palawan than in places closer to home.
“I wrote it.”
“Cut the shit.”
Home and away: you can love both, yknow. A Montrealer Abroad is a perfect example — Marie details her travels and her hometown in easy, conversational pieces accompanied by her gorgeous photography. Like any good traveler, she knows that where you’ve been is only trumped by where you’re going next, so she features her future plans as well as a roundup of her globetrotting thus far. In between, she gives you guides to cities in Canada, Europe and the US: where to go, what to see, and of course, images to dream about.
Her guides for those looking to relocate include real tips like how to budget, find a flat, and use crime maps to understand the lay of the land. And let’s not forget the namesake, the city that started it all: the ins and outs of Montreal from her local perspective are invaluable to those dropping into town for just a short while. So follow her wandering already… weren’t you convinced like 100 words ago?
This was not a garden variety safari. The destination was the Congo, and the journey was difficult, although not for Alice, who was carried most of the way by porters. Later she wrote that “If I dropped something I was quite accustomed to clap my hands and have six large, naked cannibals spring to attention and pick it up for me.”