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Tag: Travel (Page 5 of 7)

Travel Journal, 37

November 7, 2019 / / 0 Comments

Companions

Sometimes it’s just the two of us traveling together. Travel is so much sweeter when somebody you love is there to share in the experiences and sights. I almost never travel alone. But there is a sweet spot when it comes to travel companions. A giant bus filled with tourists rumbling from one site to the next might appeal to some, but not to me. But I’ve also heard stories of two people that may be friends on a daily basis, but might tire of each other before the trip is over.

Some porridge is too cold, some too hot.

My wife and I often travel with the same group of four or five. And that group is just right. The fun experienced becomes heightened. Conversations richly deepen. And each person’s strength becomes the groups’ strength.

One of the friends we travel with is a bold gal. She has no misgivings about walking up to a stranger and asking for direction, even if she doesn’t speak the language. She’s also gifted at striking up random conversations with random people. She is the social needle that introduces us into the country or culture we are in at any given time.

We walked along and talked during a recent visit to Ireland. Though each of us may be able to go unnoticed alone, the four of us stood out like sore thumbs. A passerby asked us where we were from. Our social butterfly stepped in. She stuck up a pleasant conversation with a man who happened to be Ukrainian.

He spoke of his president and asked about ours. They talked on about the tensions between our respective nations. But they came to the conclusion that our lives were barely affected by the decisions of faraway people in faraway capitals. In the end, a comedian from Ukraine and a billionaire from America can’t change the color of the grass in County Claire, Ireland.

As I walked along with my friends and my new acquaintances from Ukraine, it struck me that I certainly would not have had this conversation without the binding agent of good travel companions.

 

anthony forrest

Travel Journal, 36

October 31, 2019 / / 0 Comments

Aedan and the Roots

Our bus pulled into the city of Ennis in County Clare, Ireland. The only other person to get off the bus was a talkative, late middle-aged lady holding her purse close to her chest. She was apparently the second cousin of the bus driver. After chatting with him for an hour during transit, she disembarked the bus and we made our way to the front. We exchanged pleasantries with the driver and soon found out that the purse lady was not the only talkative one on that bus.

Most of my conversations with Irish people had started the same way.

“Where are you from?” they would ask.

And every time, in all of my vast intelligence, I would respond, “the United States.” In case the point is in question, it is very apparent that I am from the United States, especially when I open my mouth. Further, the Irish have a deep affinity for the USA. And the feeling is mutual. During an extraordinarily dark time in Irish history, the American people welcomed Irish refugees and immigrants with open arms. Ireland had been devastated with a crop-killing blight, sending the island into the Great Hunger. Millions died, and help was nowhere to be found. The Irish flocked to the far reaches of the world, but mostly to the United States. But the relationship has been very reciprocal. Without the Irish population, the Civil War could have ended far differently. Our roots go deep into Irish culture, and millions of Irish in Ireland have family here. It’s nearly symbiotic.

Our conversation continues. Soon, we become friendly. Names are exchanged.

Aedan drives commuter bus all over the southern par of the island. He tells us of his family in the USA. He smiles with pride. And I can’t help but draw similarities between our two countries. All I can think of is how many people are doing the same thing right now in my own country—excitedly telling somebody of a long-lost family in Ireland.

Aedan tells of watching American TV in the 70s and how he had never had a milkshake until his first trip to America. He goes on and on and it’s refreshing. Aedan marvels at the beauty of the Grand Canyon. And I express my marvel at his Emerald Isle. Perhaps there’s a lesson there. But maybe not.

Our two countries have shared roots and connections that reach far deeper than this. But it is a beautiful thing when those roots occasionally spring to the surface.

 

anthony forrest 

Travel Journal, 35

October 24, 2019 / / 0 Comments

The Cliffs of Moher

There are times during our travel when we seek out the “unvisited.” This world is dotted with tourist attractions and traps that draw people from everywhere. And often, these places do not attract me. The last place I want to visit is a crowded beach, an overfilled museum, or a man-made tourist trap. I would much rather be the only American walking through a market in Tachileik, Myanmar; or maybe be invited into a local’s home for tea. But not every trip has to be hellbent on avoiding every popular location. Some spots you should just see, busy and iconic or not. In fact, some of the most amazing places on earth are indeed “touristy.”

The Pyramids in Cairo.

A sunset in the Caribbean.

Have you seen the stunning exhibits at the British Museum in London?

How about the leaning Tower of Pisa?

Or the Grand Canyon?

Try seeing any of these (and more) without the crowds or acres of fanny-pack wearing tourists. But missing out on the iconic places on earth is just that—missing out.

One such place is located in County Clare in the west of Ireland. Just south of the seaside city of Galway, runs a length of ocean-carved rock formations called the Cliffs of Moher. This location draws nearly a million visitors every year—and there’s a reason.

The raging sea hundreds of feet below slowly chip away at Ireland’s coast. At the top, strong cold winds create waves along the tall grass on rolling hills. The sheer majesty and the dramatic vertical plunging of cliffs evoke emotional overflow and speechless stillness.

 

Tall grass green

And short tufts too

Lay head

Sloping toward rough oceans

And not so blue

But grey and wild

A Wild Atlantic Way

Turning, curving

Rocky coast carving

Covered in ocean spray

 

Sudden stop

 

A drop

Without warning

Solid rock walls

Often trouble by storming

Stand as Garda

With enemies naught

Save wild waves

Who win (eventually)

All battles fought

 

anthony forrest

 

Travel Journal, 32

October 3, 2019 / / 2 Comments

Borders

My first memory crossing an international border eludes me. As I understand the tale, my mother and father carried my baby self aboard a plane and into Canada. They tell me that during the plane ride I became, shall we say, violently explosive. I apparently went through most of my clothing during that one trip. Since then, I have crossed international borders dozens of times. The experience continues to be adventurous. However, I am proud to say that I have not had a similar gastrointestinal event—not yet anyway.

Crossing an international border is almost a religious rite. Whenever I step onto foreign soil, I stop for a moment and mentally mark the event.

I am here.

I am no longer where I was.

Right now, my life is different.

For the traveling visitor, differences in culture, time, food, and simple daily life clearly reveal themselves. In some lands, stores don’t open until almost noon. Some places don’t eat dinner until 10:00 p.m. Some people talk constantly, others never so. One group prays five times a day like clockwork. Another group goes to mass every morning. Some gestures are rude. Other gestures seem rude to us, but not to the people around us.

My wife and I walked into the small, sunlit cement room. Two border guards accompanied us to the desk of their superior. We were crossing from Myanmar into Thailand. (Some minor issue occurred during the crossing, but was easily resolve with our visit to the border guard. But this story is not about the problems, it’s about cultural differences.) Our guard escort handed his boss our passports and he began perusing them. He sat at a low desk with a low chair. He suddenly looked up and made a muffled comment. I leaned in to try and understand him. I eventually squatted down on my haunches, to his level. Immediately, everybody in the room rushed to me and earnestly implored me to stand up. Everybody was saying no, no, no and shaking their heads. One of the guards hurriedly presented us with chairs. We eventually cleared up the issue and were on our way.

I found out later that squatting down in that manner was offensive and eluded to a certain, shall we say, toileting motion. I’ve squatted down so often that it’s mindless and second nature.

Around a campfire.

Looking at books on the lowest shelf.

Talking to a toddler.

Every difference is clear. But the cultural differences that I rarely ever pick up on are my own. It is easy to think that everyone else is different. But thinking that I may be the different one catches me off guard. But we all have differences. Simply recognizing those differences and respecting the culture is the first step to softening those borders. For in finding our differences, we better know our similarities.  

 

anthony forrest

Travel Journal, 30

September 19, 2019 / / 0 Comments

Earbuds Out, Smiles On

Entertainment screens on the back of airplane seats are not a recent advent. My first experience with in-flight TVs were drop-down screens playing one, perhaps two films during the flight. This luxury came only to those willing to fork out absurd amounts of money for the accompanying headset. Now, most major airlines in the US have loads of in-flight entertainment. One major airline boasts over 3000 titles from which to choose.

And yet, on every flight longer than three hours, I can look over at my wife’s screen and see that she is watching the same movie she always watches on long flights, The Sound of Music. And I’m not much better. On flights longer than 6 hours, I gravitate toward Dances with Wolves. With new movies released monthly and tons of other options, you’d think we would branch out. But alas, no.

I so easily become engrossed with my movie that it can be easy to forget the goings on and the everyday business of the flight operations: passengers filtering in, pre-flight announcements, those safety messages that keep getting trendier, and finally, the beverage and snack service. I’m usually deep into my movie by then and forget to press pause on the screen. I fumble with my headphones and struggle to get the tray table down. I look at the attendant and they look back. I ask for what I always ask for: black coffee. I repeat myself because nobody can hear anything. Then, with coffee in hand, I get back to Lieutenant John Dunbar and his heartwarming efforts to understand the Lakota culture.

But some people aren’t so fortunate and forget to stay awake for the service. Or maybe they’re not paying attention at all. I was three rows back from a gentleman who did just that. I watched with interest as the attendant tried to get his attention and take his order. He could not be pried from the screen. She moved onto the next row. And as soon as she reached it, the guy awoke from his stupor and flung his arm back to try and catch her. Consequently, he grazed her with a backhand. She turned and agitatedly took his order. I could hear the attendant complain loudly to her coworker.

“Why don’t they just pay attention? They know that we are coming!”

On and on she went. When the attendant got to me, I tried as hard as I could to smile and cheer her up. I asked how her day went and she told me in no uncertain terms that the guy three rows up had hit her. She was clearly not having a good day before that, but this was the nail in the coffin—and we still had 11 hours.

If there is one thing to remember about a flight, it’s that the attendants work hard and it does not feel good to be ignored. You never know what kind of day somebody is having.

I’ve made it a point since that incident to be ready for my attendants, earbuds out and smiles on.

anthony forrest

Travel Journal, 28

August 29, 2019 / / 0 Comments

The Holocaust, Pearl Harbor, and Meaningful Travel

I have said this before, many times. And I will, no doubt, say it again.

Traveling is different than vacationing.

Sometimes, after walking in work or church or upon meeting a friend for coffee, I will hear a question that I get a lot.

“Were you on vacation?”

It’s a good question. Friends and acquaintances see pictures of my wife and I on social media. Perhaps we’re standing near an old statue in another country, or eating barbeque in the deep south. We have smiles on our faces. We are indeed enjoying ourselves. But to say that we are always vacationing would not be accurate. But it’s unfair to drop into a philosophical discussion on the subtle (and not-so-subtle) differences between travel and vacation when having a five-minute chat. It’s more important than that.

While vacation may appear the same as travel, it is vastly different. But I’m not going to begin bashing vacation. Sometimes you just need to sit on the beach and take in the ocean breeze. Taking a break from the stresses of career and life in general helps to reset the mind and greatly benefits emotional and mental health.

Please, by all means, take a vacation.

But how does one travel? Most of the time, travel wears on you. Travel tends to be a lot of work. It involves less rest and relaxation. And when you get back, all you feel like doing is sleeping. But if it’s so much work, why travel at all? Because travel is growth. It informs your soul and changes your perspective on life and the lives of other people.

Mark Twain published Innocents Abroad in 1869, but I think his words cut deeply into today.

“Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts. Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one’s lifetime.”

June, 2017

We stepped off the train into the heat of the German summer. We had not planned on this. However, our flight out of Munich back to the US wasn’t scheduled to leave for 8 hours more. One of the biggest travel tips I give others is to not miss opportunities, especially when you have extra time. We had extra time. And not too far from Munich lies the small city of Dachau. If that name sounds familiar, it’s probably because you heard it in a history class. Atrocities happened here. It was the first of many concentration camps during WWII. Thousands of people suffered and died at the hands of an evil regime. Jews, Catholics, political prisoners, homosexuals, gypsies, and anybody else that didn’t fit rightly into the Third Reich’s false picture of utopia, were imprisoned here.

We carried our bags on our shoulders because we couldn’t find a luggage locker at the nearby train station. We payed our fee and entered the massive complex. Overhead a cast iron, barred sign read “Arbeit macht frei.” Work will set you free.

It never did.

Acre after acre of sprawling complex-turned-memorial displayed pictures, signs, statues, and artifacts of the evil capabilities of mankind.

This room was used for solitary confinement.

The poles over there are where the Nazis used to hang rulebreakers.

See that door? That leads to where the “doctors” performed medical experiments.

How fitting that we were stuck with hauling around our luggage for three hours. But the weight we felt that day couldn’t have been made worse by a couple of bags. We sweat and staggered around until we couldn’t take it anymore. We could have spent two days studying and viewing the Dachau Concentration Camp. But there was no way. We can only take so much death and dying in one day.

Come, follow me to Hawaii.

May, 2018

Our mothers joined us for a fantastic and relaxing adventure to Oahu. We drove the island, ate tons of great food, relaxed, and spent time by the ocean. Most of it was vacation. But it had one blemish, leaving a bitter (but important) taste.

We stood near the bay at Pearl Harbor. Thousands died here during a surprise attack from an exotic country with which we weren’t even at war. The Imperial Japanese military carried out one of the most iconic and deadly attacks of the 20th century. Their goal was to destroy US aircraft carriers, delaying or preventing any US involvement in a brewing Indo-Chinese and Pacific conflict. Though no carriers were destroyed, thousands of people lost their lives. The US entered into war with Japan the next day. Americans died. Japanese died. And though we tend to think about “who won” WWII, nobody really won. Everybody lost.

Our boat cruised the watery graveyard. We saw pieces of ships rising above the sea, as the guide spoke of bombs falling and fires starting. I imagine battleships, full of fuel oil, leaking into the ocean. An oil slick on the surface, six inches deep in some places, ignites into a black-smoke fire. Bombs drop onto ships. Seamen leap to avoid death, only to find it faster in the hellish, burning ocean.

The visit to Pearl Harbor was amazing, but not because it was fun. It was amazing in the truest sense. Loss of life should always amaze. The incident was not that long ago. And it was perpetuated by fellow humans. Pearl Harbor changes you; teaches you.

Not every traveling experience will brand sadness into your soul. But sometimes it will. Neither Dachau nor Pearl Harbor are good places to vacation. But they are excellent places to travel. Taking the time to travel is soul-instructing and character-changing.

Travel if you dare to better yourself. Gather your bags and make a personal journey. Grow yourself and become more human. Release the prejudice in your grasp. But take caution, traveling is not for the faint of heart.

For travel can be fatal to preconceptions.

And it is much different than going on vacation.

anthony forrest

Travel Journal, 26

August 15, 2019 / / 0 Comments

Connection

My eyes opened. Turning over in the bed, I picked up my cell phone and checked the time. The bright screen showed 3:00 a.m. I was not surprised.

“Sweetheart,” I whispered, “are you awake?”

“Yep,” came the very awake-sounding voice of sleep-deprived wife.

Ah, jet lag, you enemy of travel. You unwanted companion of every trip. We turned on the light and rolled out of bed. This was our first night in Salzburg, Austria. The next few nights would go easier, but the jet lag would have its grip on us until the end of our trip. After we ate a snack, I looked at the top bar on the screen of my cell phone. It was connected to the free internet provided by the tiny inn.

Over the past decade, internet connection and connective communication has changed more than anything else in travel. Wireless internet is now readily available in almost every café, hotel, gift shop, and even city. Most of the time we travel we simply wait to use our phone until we connect to one of those free sources. And when we want constant connection, we always have the option to rent a wireless internet device.

In Tokyo, for example, one simply has to walk through the airport to see booths renting hotspots for a reasonable price. For 20 bucks, I can throw a little device into my backpack. Everybody traveling with me can then connect to the internet. It’s brilliant. The more technical connective option is to use a different SIM card. But that’s a deeper level of geek than I’m willing to get into right now.

Twenty years ago, many places across the world had spotty (if any) land-line telephone service. Running lines and poles and making physical space for the telephone is more involved than you may think—and unreliable. At some point in the past couple of decades, technology jumped from not being able to have a land-line telephone, directly to crystal clear cell phone service. It’s mind-blowing.

“Should we call my parents?” I said.

“What time is it there?”

“Oh, about 6 p.m. yesterday.”

I tapped the free app on my phone and it began to ring. Soon, the smiling faces of my mom and dad in California popped onto the screen.

Worldwide connection has not made travel less interesting or less valuable. It has made travel more accessible, doable. Connectivity allows the traveler to share experiences and keep in touch with loved ones.

Easy worldwide connectivity is one of the most positive aspects of modern travel.  

 

anthony forrest

Travel Journal, 20

July 4, 2019 / / 0 Comments

Everything Important

All six of us piled into the Bolivian taxi. The back row sat three. But it’s not like they have seatbelts anyway. The driver threw all of our belongings into the back and slammed the door. Most taxis here are white and in pretty rough shape. But the little Toyota hatchbacks seem unfazed and resilient. Riding in those cars, rocketing down the dirt or semi-paved city roads at ramming speed and not falling apart at every pothole, still shocks me. Streets, whether marked or unmarked by signs, flew past us as we merely honked through intersections and dodged fellow thrill seekers. Every ear was tuned to a steady stream of inordinate honking and crazy-loud blarings of accordions and flutes and guitars pouring from the radio (only piece of working tech in the car).

This was my 5th month living in Bolivia. And I love Bolivia. Vibrant and eclectic, Bolivian culture has no equal. Perhaps being locked in by five other south American countries has preserved its bold flavor. I can close my eyes and still see bright and colorful dresses. I hear flutes of many varieties. I smell the salteñas (a type of meat-filled pastry). And for some reason, the smell of burning propane reminds me of the propane mantle lanterns that gave off light. I was traveling and occasionally staying with, Devon and Jenny and their raft of boys (all of which behaved better than I, but that is a story for another time). We were in the city of Santa Cruz for a couple of days. The never-ending sea of paperwork demanded that we present ourselves in an official capacity. And after several hours of filling in forms and standing in lines, we were simply ready to get back to our rooms.

After arriving at our destination, we clambered out of the taxi, paid the driver, and watched him speed away in a cloud of dust. At that moment, Devon began spinning around like a dog chasing his tail.

“Where’s the backpack?” he choked.

All the color left his face as he realized that his backpack was behind the last seat, in the hatch.

“What was in it?” I asked.

“Our passports, our money, everything important!”

If you are reading this and wondering what could be the worst-case scenario for international travel, wonder no longer. The odds of the situation improving after you lose your passport and money are comically low.

But we knew a guy.

In fact, we knew the guy who was a driver of another taxi. And he knew the guy that ran the taxi dispatch. And the dispatcher knew all the taxi drivers. And they actually found our driver.

He returned the backpack, passports, money, and all.

And instead of going to the American Consulate, we just went home.

 

anthony forrest

Travel Journal, 19

June 27, 2019 / / 0 Comments

What happens when things go bad? What do you do when your day goes sideways and your control crumbles? And that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? When I’m traveling, I feel the most comfortable when I feel like I am in control.

On a sudden, chaos strolls in and starts naming names.

You reach for your wallet, gone.

The hotel clerk can’t find your reservation.

Open up your suitcase. The contents are covered in shampoo.

Three policemen step onto your train and start questioning foreigners, that’s you.

You have to “go” but apparently all of Europe does not believe in the public restroom.

You run to your gate to find your flight has left without you. We did. And it had. There we sat, hoping we could get onto another flight. Our control was completely gone.

But as we sat there sulking, a small crowd ran up to a different gate. They too had missed a flight. The airline agents had left by now, and I could see the plane taxiing down the runway. One guy screamed for assistance. Others just stomped around; mouths agape. One man jumped behind the counter and started banging on the jet-bridge door. Several airline agents soon arrived and a shouting match ensued. Somebody threatened to call the police. Another swore loudly, frequently, pointing a finger into the agent’s face.

No bad day justifies that kind of bad behavior.

Travel does go sideways.

Because life and the human experience does not stop when you travel. If anything, travel is a portrait of life. The good is often very good. But the bad things will come. The traveler (truly any human being) can learn to be comfortable in the chaos.

Chaos is the teacher. And giving up without learning from it is a waste. For, it resets our expectations and makes us grateful—regardless of who we think is in control.

anthony forrest

Travel Journal, 18

June 20, 2019 / / 0 Comments

Tube and the Laughing Man

The fluorescent lights flicked off then on in the Tube as we rode the Underground subway back to South Hampstead. Every head bobbed back and forth like Chinese lanterns on a windy day. Most eyes peered down at their respective phones. Some sat with solemn looks; end-of-the-busy-workday-in-London kind of looks. Fellow tourists perused tour maps. Construction workers with yellow vests and dust-covered work boots fingered cigarettes, awaiting their stops.

A canned voice from a speaker squawked from above, “The next stop is …Green Park… station. Change here for the Victoria and Piccadilly Lines.” We came to a slowing stop and a human voice said dully, “mind the doors please. Mind the doors.”

A man stepped onto the train. He was engrossed with his phone. Long grey hair fell to his shoulders and a wide smile sat under a wiry grey moustache.

He sat down right next to me.

Throughout the remaining eight minutes of our ride, the man next to me would simply burst into a goofy giggle, unashamed of the fact that he was producing the only sound on the train. After a while, I just couldn’t take it any longer. I had to know

“What’s so funny?” I asked.

Unfazed, he turned to me and showed me his phone.

“A book,” he squeaked.

“It must be a funny book,” said I, smiling back.

In a dense accent, he said, “It really is quite funny!”

And then he turned back to his book. The automated voice announced our stop. I turned to my new friend and told him to enjoy his book.

“Ah will, mate, thanks.”

And then we stepped off the train. It’s just nice to see a happy person enjoying a funny book.

 

anthony forrest

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