Sacred Ground Travel Magazine

Road Babe Dispatch From An Island

2012-02-27T11:16:00.000-06:00

Before going to Thailand, I heard what a tourist’s mecca it was. I knew my greatest challenge would be finding authenticity in places the tourists hadn’t already overrun, plus avoiding the party scene in the name of accessing something pure. Does pure still exist in Thailand, I wondered? Or should I have booked my ticket to Vietnam instead, which they say is like Thailand circa 1998?

My goal, in one of the most touristy places in Asia, was to discover a secluded island – the kind you refer to when you ask hypotheticals beginning with “if you were stranded on a deserted island …,” the kind where you’re more likely to see an animal than a human and the kind where people you see are locals because tourists have never heard of it. Well, much to my surprise, I found it.

Though Bangkok and Chiang Mai did surprise me with their eclectic beauty (like hearing a Thai with a voice like Barry White singing the blues), nothing could compare to this island, my own little slice of paradise. I stayed in a simple bungalow where a lovely family not only provided me with shelter but became my friends. I saw maybe 10 other tourists on the whole island. Grabbing a kayak, I hit the ocean then found the most perfect isolated beach in the world – with nothing in sight behind the palms but a grazing cow.

In the tiny 3-stool reggae bar where a cool Finnish chick Nina worked, I drank Mai Thais and discussed the nature of the travel industry with a small world-trekking clique: a Brit, a German and fellow travel writer Ian Ord. “What does it mean that places like this still exist?” Nina was quick to chime in, “It means people like you haven’t written about it.”

Ouch. Yet, I knew she was right. Travel authors are like gatekeepers for the best kept secrets of the travel world. Are we obligated or even permitted to reveal all of them? If we do, what will remain? Before I left, Nina and I shared a breakfast. She was quick to bring it up again. “You know what will happen if you blog about this place, right?” I laughed. “You’re giving me too much credit. No one reads my stuff.”

“It doesn’t matter. This is how it starts.” We sat there in silence. I had brief flashbacks to Tonsai, a beach that 10 years ago was a hidden secret but now might as well be Krabi Beach. She had a point. “Promise me,” she insisted. She didn’t have to spell out the promise. I knew she wanted to keep something so pristine and perfect a secret. I agreed.

Mittie Babette Roger is from Louisiana but lives in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. She received an M.F.A. in Creative Writing from Naropa University and authored the book It's Better to Visit the Shaman Without Questions to Ask. She travels the world volunteering to help disadvantaged children and promoting Blue Iguana Tequila to empower serious drinkers.

Johnny Depp's Puerto Rican Rum Diary

2012-02-23T10:27:00.000-06:00

Just when the world couldn't tolerate another Pirates of the Caribbean sequel fleecing cash out of the cool original, super-wealthy super-Johnny makes Journalists of the Caribbean: a literary film that restores his reputation as a serious artist who despises the rich. Actually, it's called The Rum Diary. Based on the Hunter S. Thompson novel, this movie is more than good enough to let our beloved Deppster take his wad of money back to France and hold his head up high amongst his Disney-and-new-money-hating neighbors. Good call Johnny.

The setting is 1960 Puerto Rico. Yet, the green plants and brown folks are mostly just props behind a conflict between conservative businessmen who know the price of everything but the value of nothing and liberal journalists who wanna fix the world but can't fix their own laziness and drunkenness. Can you feel the drama? I know I can. Plus, as if that weren't enough, we have streamlined cars and babes from an age when you were allowed to appreciate the beauty of such objects without being a machismo jerk.

(Yes, women are objects: something material that may be perceived by the senses. However, I promise to acknowledge every day of my life that you ladies are soooooooooo much more. May I now have absolution for my sins and my very being? Thank you. I can feel the healing touch of hundreds of women coming across the internet, simultaneously forgiving me for my frighteningly-masculine ways. Oh yeah ... that healing touch ... a little lower please!)

The Rum Diary is a picturesque film with a good sense of time and place but would be a better movie were it not so superficial. Johnny believes it's meaningful, because Hunter S. Thompson is his idol. The journalist lead character claims to understand why kids scavenge for food while banks have shiny brass doors. Yet, he is only gonzo for getting the scoop on "bastards" of the opposing viewpoint. I've also spent years in Latin America. I've discussed the suffering of the poor, the inequality of opportunity and the exploitation of nature in country clubs where that doesn't make you popular. Likewise, I've discussed substance abuse, lack of self discipline and dysfunctional family planning in barrios where that won't get you elected to office.

Until one sees and covers both sides of the story, one isn't such a courageous truth-seeking journalist. Both sides have well-trained pet-writers. For the respect of the informed, Hollywood needs to produce movies which suggest they know more about the world than the view from a hotel balcony and understand the causes of global misery coming from the left as well as the right of the ideological spectrum. Such perceptive films may not garner vast audiences or pirate booty, but wasn't this supposed to be a literary film? I guess highly literate and globally informed are two different things.

Rachel Weisz Can Blow My Whistle

2012-02-20T13:45:00.009-06:00

Heroes do not enjoy staring evil in the face, but when they must, they do not flinch. Kathy Bolkovac was a Nebraska cop. Relocating to Bosnia as a United Nations security agent, she hoped to do some good. Not all fellow agents shared her moral intention. Many were aware that teenage girls were being kidnapped, enslaved and raped throughout the region. Some put up a feeble bureaucratic resistance. Most did nothing. Some used their diplomatic immunity to become the boldest perpetrators of the crime.

In the film The Whistleblower, Rachel Weisz portrays Bolkovac with her usual beauty and fiery integrity. The movie is gripping. The glimpse it offers of slimy creatures that hide under rocks-seldom-turned and in places-seldom-visited is enlightening. Yet, there's a big problem. When she finally confronts the beast, she is relatively powerless. She doesn't even bring "a knife to a gunfight." Rather, dashing into a mafioso brothel to rescue horribly-degraded victims, she repeatedly shoves their brutish oppressor then yells at him to go away. Of course, this accomplishes less than nothing. Even when she melodramatically smuggles damning evidence out of the country, we learn that little is done and no one is punished.

This is a significant film. The impotence of well-intentioned Kathy Bolkovac is actually a microcosm of the general impotence of the United Nations itself. We can learn something here. While opening the door to criticizing the often-revered U.N., the filmmakers consider these events to be an unfortunate aberration. They are not. Only Sacred Ground Magazine has the guts to report the whole story.

That the United Nations sometimes acts in ways that are bureaucratic, incompetent and even corrupt is a sad fact. However, the real bubble-burster is that the U.N. is not an organization to support human rights even in theory. Look clearly at the situation. The U.N. has a general assembly where everyone who calls themselves a country gets a vote. That means there's some sweet Indian person representing the more-or-less democratic government of India and more-or-less 17% of humanity who gets one vote. Sitting around him and probably yanking his prayer beads are 10 to 20 other people who are buddies or brothers of dictators that managed to subdue a population with torture and intimidation. These guys representing 10 to 20 creeps get 10 to 20 votes. Now, you may hate math as much as I do, but you can see the flaw in the equation.

Fortunately, the United Nations has a higher court. This is the security counsel, which is a good-old-boys club of the countries who dominated the world by different means (colonialism, communism, heartfelt love, whatever) at the time of the U.N. founding. Some of the most influential governments in this group believe people who support human rights are an obstacle to governing. They believe these pests should be jailed, tortured, or simply detained overnight to be fed radioactive food then released. Waterboarding is an elective aquatic sport in the prisons of these countries.

Thus, those who think the United Nations is a human rights organization are confused. Those who hope it will protect human rights have more romantic faith than those who put their trust in God, themselves, or true love. In fact, those who find the Virgin of Guadalupe's face in a tortilla are hard-core rationalists compared to those who trust in the United Nations. If the world needs an international body that stands for human rights, someone better start one. I don't say this to discourage. Life is beautiful but brief. We all need something meaningful to believe in, not false hopes. So, go forth with open eyes and open heart and find that something somewhere else besides the United Nations.

Twisted Vagabondage Tale From An Airport

2012-02-17T16:58:00.001-06:00

My flight, for once, was not late. I’m almost not surprised, though. It seems part of the “meant to be” flow of the whole trip—the unimaginable coincidence of our having been sent independently on business trips to wildly different destinations that still require us to overnight at the same airport on the same day.

I step into a restroom between two closed gates. First I brush my teeth at the sink. Cinnamon is a much nicer taste for kissing than stale coffee. I then go into the spacious handicapped stall, unzip my carry-on, and take out a fresh dress to change into; I’m not going to come to you reeking of Tripoli airport cigarette smoke or the stale interior of an aircraft. I dab vanilla scent on the small of my back, the nape of my neck, and the pulse points of my wrists. I put on a new pair of sheer nylons and then slip on my black high-heeled pumps—also not something I’d travel in. I step into my black sheath and zip it up. I so love this dress, which hugs my curves just right. I look amazing in it, and I know it. Finally, I put on a pair of simple silver earrings and my silver collar. It gleams against my skin, set off by the black of the dress. There isn’t much to be done with my hair—I simply scrunch the curls up and shake them loose again. I wipe my face clean with cool water, and, just for you, put on a rare touch of lipstick. It’s a dark shade, and I pucker my lips in the mirror as I apply it. Looks a bit wanton, I think. Good!

It’s getting late, and the airport is not so crowded. The people seem to move more slowly, too; these are the stranded travelers whose flights have been canceled or those with long layovers. Schiphol means "ship hole" in Dutch. There used to be a lake where the airport stands—six miles southwest of Amsterdam—a lake that swallowed ships. As I walk through the wide hallways, the shops are pulling down their barred gates. No more Dutch chocolate and wooden shoes and Delft plates and vacuum-sealed bags of tulip bulbs till morning.

I cross from the E wing, stop before the F gates, and walk past the escalators as I always do to the stairs, continuing up one flight. I walk to the bar at the end of the balcony. I slow down to make sure you are already there, but I am not surprised to see that you are seated at a table. No food in front of you, only a drink; you probably haven’t been there long. I seat myself before any helpful waiter can approach, making sure that I’m sitting where you’ll catch sight of me when you look up. While waiting for a menu, I take out my book and start reading.

Before long, a menu arrives. I pretend to study it, glancing out of the corners of my eyes to see who is seated nearby. A few couples, a few single travelers, and one party of four men who look as if they’ve been sitting a while, unless they started drinking somewhere else first. I’m attracting some glances myself, dressed more elegantly than one expects for a traveler, but the unwritten rule in airports is to travel in your own bubble, so the looks are discreet.

I see you talking to a waiter, loud enough for people around you to hear, though I can’t make out what you’ve said. A few moments later, the waiter arrives at my table, carrying a gin & tonic. “From the gentleman,” he says, motioning to you. I look over at you as I hesitantly accept the glass and nod a thank you. You raise your own glass in salute. A few people now look on with amusement or curiosity. An old-fashioned gesture, and an unexpected one in an airport.

You rise, pick up your drink, and walk confidently over to my table. “May I?” you say, in a voice that carries somewhat. People are looking less discreetly now and are less amused. Do I need rescuing from this man? How dare he approach a single woman? But I put my book down on the table and gesture to the chair opposite, inviting you to sit. You take the seat on the side instead and raise your glass. I hesitate, blush, and then raise mine to yours.

The waiter is carrying a plate of something over to where you used to be sitting; he looks around in confusion, but then spots you and comes over. He places in front of you a large plate of shoestring sweet potato fries; he looks rather pointedly at my wedding ring and then moves away. You move the plate in between us. You think of everything, don’t you? You know I don’t drink much and will need something salty to eat. “Those look delicious,” I say. “Though a bit greasy. It would be a shame to stain the pages of my book.”

“Then I shall just have to feed them to you,” you grin.

As you start feeding me the fries with your fingers, people stare at us more openly. I eat delicately at first, between sips of my drink. But soon you are running your finger over my lips, and I can’t help sometimes advancing my tongue to lick a little salt off, then closing my lips around your finger. … Soon I am kissing your fingertips whenever you’ll let me, trying to suck your fingers more deeply into my mouth. Around us, a few people look amused (or envious?), though most react with shock or disapproval. Still, though, they cannot help watching us.

I hadn’t even noticed you pay the bill, but you let me know when it is time to go. You stand back to let me go first, and as I pass, you slip your arm around me. You let your hand settle briefly on my hip, then slide down further till it is cupping my ass. “There’s a little hotel at the end of this floor,” you say loudly. “They rent rooms by the hour.” Everyone in the restaurant must have heard. I can feel my face flame, but it’s also all I can do not to laugh. We wheel our carry-ons out the door, walking side by side, your hand still on my bottom,
possessively.

It’s true, of course—there is a hotel at the other end, the Yotel, a sort of budget travelers’ place, and of course you’ve already checked in. We separate just a bit as we get to the door, so it’s not clear whether we’re two single people coming in at the same time, or if I’m really with you. I fumble in my purse for something—my key?—while you swipe your key card in the lock. When the door opens, I follow behind you. I can see the questioning look on the face of the woman at the desk. She doesn’t remember checking me in, and yet I could have done so before her shift started. You’ve paid for a single room, so surely you couldn’t have…but we have already vanished around the corner.

We turn another corner in the narrow hallway, then another. … Suddenly you push me back against the wall, take my face between your hands, and kiss me deeply. It’s the same demanding kiss that I love so well, but this time it expresses a new intensity, some emotion I don’t expect. I pull back just a little, and you let me go. You have an unerring instinct for when to pursue and when to back off and let me come to you. And the night has not even begun for us.

You take me by the hand to your (well, our) room. Although I couldn’t explain why in words, I’m somehow pleased that you knew to ask for the very smallest. We barely fit: two bodies, two carry-ons, one purse. I don’t think it's possible for us to stand in any configuration where we are not touching, and I intend to take advantage of this. I kiss you again, and you respond lightly for a few seconds. You unzip my dress and ease it off. I reach for you, but you stop me and hold my arms to my side. “Let’s shower first, so we can go straight to bed and stay there.”

I hate to wait even ten minutes, but I know that you’re right. Taking out toothbrushes and removing shoes means we’re constantly rubbing against each other, and I’m getting more agitated. Finally, though, we manage to undress, put our clothes away and step into the shower. There’s almost more space in the shower than in our “room.” I lather my hands with soap and run them over your body to wash you. I kneel in the shower to wash your legs, moving slowly up. You’re hard, even in the hot water. I open my mouth to take you in. I run my tongue over the tip, then down the underside of your shaft, cup your balls with my hand, and move to take you into my mouth; but you stop me with your hand. “Be patient, now,” you say with a smile, though I can’t see why I should have to wait. I do what I’m told, however. I stand again, and it’s your turn to wash me, which you do with firm, knowing strokes. It feels heavenly. Any touch anywhere melts me, but even when washing my breasts and pussy you don’t linger. You don’t tease. Your matter-of-fact touch is maddening. I
almost say something, but think better of it.

You turn off the water, towel me off and then yourself, and we edge toward the single bed. Oh, finally! You switch the light to what Yotel calls their “mood” setting, an odd but not unpleasant green glow. You know I like you to look at my body as you take me.

I lie face down on the bed in the enclosed capsule-like alcove. My body is warm from the shower, still slightly damp, and needing you. You move over me—we can just manage to fit two bodies here, as long as you don’t lift your head abruptly. You shift my body a bit to a position that pleases you. I can feel you over me—your body heat, soft kisses that land on my shoulders and upper back. I can feel your cock, hard against my thighs and ass, and I open my legs to the extent that I’m able, trying to raise myself up to meet you. And … you’re still caressing me—a kiss here, a kiss there. Sometimes your stiff cock presses into one ass cheek or the other but doesn’t stay for long.

What the hell are you doing up there? Are you positioning yourself? I know there’s not much space, but I’m lying down, you’re lying over me. How difficult can it be? I’ve been waiting for this all day, I’ve been teased along for over two hours now. I am ready.

“Just fuck me already,” I mutter in irritation into the pillow.

“Excuse me?” you say. “Were you talking to me?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact I was,” I said. “Just fucking fuck me already.” My words still half go into the pillow, though I’m sure you heard. But you lift my head and turn it so my mouth is free, and ask me to repeat it again.

“Will you fucking fuck me already?!”

SMACK. Your hand lands on my ass, totally unexpected. I don’t know how you even had room to swing, but you hit me hard, harder than usual, and I jump.

“How about a little respect?”

I can’t believe it. I’m so frustrated. I need you so badly that I’m actually angry at you. Between clenched teeth, I hiss, “FINE. WILL YOU FUCKING FUCK ME ALREADY … SIR.”

You laugh out loud. “You’re pretty mouthy for a submissive woman, aren’t you?” You bend to kiss my neck tenderly, though with a bite at the end that makes me shiver. “But you know that I like that about you. And you know that I always take care of your needs, Shar, I always take care of you.”
And finally, finally you enter me. Slowly, so I can feel every blessed inch fill me. I hold absolutely still at first, not wanting to miss a single sensation. This is what the wait was for—this heightened sense of you, of me, of us together. Then you start moving, and I want to move with you. I try to push back against you, but I can’t. Somehow I’m lying too flat, and my knees and elbows can’t find purchase on the narrow mattress. You put an arm under my waist, raise my body, and slip a pillow under my hips. You pull my hands over my head, pressing them against the wall, and hold them down with yours. Yes, this is the right angle! I push back to meet your thrusts. I know I’m making some kind of sound in my throat, and I wonder very briefly how soundproof these walls actually are, but I don’t care. I try to pull my arms out from under your grasp, which tightens. The more I struggle, the more firmly you hold me. I’m so turned on I’m panting now. When I stop fighting you, you release one hand, and I move it under my body, over my pussy, to finger my swollen clit. Your free hand finds my ass; you work your thumb into my asshole, which clenches around you, and you grip my cheek with your fingers. I can feel my body gathering up, pulling me together from neck to toes, all energy flowing to my groin. After the slow, drawn-out build-up, my orgasm is hard—hard and long. The irregular spasms of my pussy and ass over your cock and thumb pull your orgasm into mine, you starting as I finish, you finishing as I lie beneath you, not breathing, for I don’t need oxygen now, every cell is full.

After some period of time (minutes?—I wouldn’t know), you roll to the side, your back against the wall. You pull me to my side too, so that you’re spooning me; it’s the only way we’ll both fit in the bed. I switch off the mood light and we’re in total darkness. You have one arm up over my head and the other across my body, holding me close to you. I’ve already warned you that I don’t sleep much. Indeed, I hadn’t expected to sleep at all this night. I was too wound up with the excitement of seeing you again, not wanting to miss a moment. I thought we’d talk all night, about important things and trivial ones. But I feel so safe and natural, curled up against you. I find I have nothing to say, for you know it already. You kiss my hair, then my neck, and give my torso a squeeze with the arm around me. I sigh, and settle. And I sleep.

Sharazade authors Twisted Vagabondage Tales for travelers who like it rough. She is prettier than Vagabonding author Rolf Potts (though Rolf is very pretty) and could kick his ass (though only if he'd like that). Her new book called Transported: Erotic Travel Tales is published by Fanny Press.

Road Babe Dispatch From Thailand

2012-02-15T13:01:00.004-06:00

My next adventure in Chiang Mai was to check an item off my bucket list. What you ask? Take an authentic Thai cooking class. Thai food makes me weak in the knees. As in, if there were a way for Thai food and I to have a serious relationship, I'd sign on. This seemed like the perfect first step in our courtship.

The coolest option I found involved a trip to the market, a tour of an organic farm, and then finished up with cooking six different dishes under the supervision of a sassy Thai woman named Mam. I instinctively felt that this might turn out to be the best day of my life.

We went to a tea shop, where we sipped pots of Chinese tea and selected the dishes we wanted to cook: an appetizer, a soup, a noodle dish, a curry with paste, and a dessert. My choices were spring rolls, Tom Sab soup (which Mam called Sexy Soup), Pad See Ew, Panang curry, and deep-fried bananas with a coconut cream batter. I sensed that Thai food and I were going to be the perfect couple.

We set off to the market to choose some of our ingredients. Monks in saffron robes and plastic flip-flops strolled among aisles of rice-filled baskets and open fire grills where fish and peppers roasted. I just tried to avoid the Durian, which stinks like a rotting corpse. Funny enough, there were signs on many establishments that said “No Durian.” I imagined people casually carrying Durians home and being turned away from shops along the way.

After we'd selected the things we'd need for class, we headed out to the farm. Apart from the herbs and veggies growing all around, the farm was cool because of the bizarre and eclectic mix of flea-market-type stuff everywhere. From old instruments to barbershop chairs to stacks of rusted bicycles, it was fascinating.

Before we started, we took part in a traditional Thai welcome, which is more or less the equivalent of a stiff shot. It consisted of a betel leaf stuffed with raw garlic, ginger, a wedge of lime, peanuts, red onion and a sliver of spicy pepper. This is a welcome that's not easily forgotten, but I was getting in good with Thai food and went back for seconds.

Then the cooking began. We prepared one dish at a time then ate, sharing samples with each other. We all used enormous hatchets and made menacing faces as we chopped and laughed. The food was divine, especially the deep-fried bananas.

The hardest thing we made was the curry paste, which has to be muddled by hand with a mortar and pestle. Thankfully, there were enough of us to take turns. I hoped my Thai-food love-affair wouldn't go South because of this. (Did my beloved feel used with all this sharing?) The easiest thing I made was Pad See Ew and Pad Thai was also fast and simple. I was impressed with my new skill and ready to impress friends back home at a Thai-inspired party. Hopefully, they'd be as inspired by it as I was.

Chiang Mai is a mecca for backpackers, with the funkiness of Bangkok but a fraction of the traffic and smut. There is so much to do there, whether temple hunting, elephant treks, cooking classes, orchid farms, or just a stroll through the colors and lights of the night market. I did it all and wanted more, but limited time required I move on to other parts of the Land of Smiles.

Mittie Babette Roger is from Louisiana but lives in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. She received an M.F.A. in Creative Writing from Naropa University and authored the book It's Better to Visit the Shaman Without Questions to Ask. She travels the world volunteering to help disadvantaged children and promoting Blue Iguana Tequila to empower serious drinkers.

Italian Women Tend To Be Horny

2012-02-13T09:37:00.002-06:00

Italian women have a lot of testosterone and this tends to make them horny. It can also produce a hint of a moustache. Still, you can shave an Italian lady in under five minutes, rather than spend an hour getting a Swedish girl in the mood. Plus, when the Swede finally warms-up, she may turn on some ABBA music, then it'll take another hour to turn the guy on again.

Like Ferraris, Italian women have high-performance cold-start-capable engines. (Although the standard warm-up and lube procedures are still recommended.) Just walk your Italian girlfriend past a salami hanging in the market. She'll be on your leg like a Neapolitan Mastiff in the Spring.

Now, I'm not just waxing poetic about Italian chiques for no reason. I wanna talk about my favorite Italian author in all the world: Barbara Conelli - who possesses the refined good taste to never speak to me again after reading this.

When I first saw her photo on the back cover of Chique Secrets of Dolce Vita, I knew she was a high-maintenance luxury edition. Yet, after getting to know her, I sensed that this custom model was packing serious horsepower under the hood. (Barb, if you need a good mechanic who cleans up reasonably well....)

So, I read her chique lit book, which has more pink on the cover than you'll see in a cotton-candy factory. The first thing I noticed was how smooth her prose is. It reminded me of the days when literature was supposed to be enjoyable, rather than impressive and enigmatic. This allows modern readers to save time and energy for regular tune-ups and oil-changes to the aforementioned engines, so we can all stop being cranky and make the world a better place.

By the way, the world actually is a better place in Barbara's writing. She has a travel promoter's knack for finding beauty. Yet, she does it without the fluffiness. She has a journalist's skill for recording detail. However, she does it without the cynicism. As she leads you around Milan in Italy, you find delicate pastries and elegant fashion. Thus, it's a perfect chique book.

Nevertheless, you also learn about Humphrey Bogart's classic hats, Leonardo da Vinci's art, and a famous jazz saxophonist. I felt like I was the one guy hanging out behind a tour group of smart, beautiful women. Not a bad place to be at all. Had the title been Finding the Good Life In Milan, I wouldn't even have considered it a chique book, just a damn-good travel read.

Disclaimer: Barbara Conelli has not offered to let me "drive her Ferrari" in exchange for this endorsement. If she does, the book review will be vastly enhanced, adorned with five stars, and reposted weekly.

Twisted Vagabondage Tale From A Bookstore

2012-02-09T11:58:00.001-06:00

It was a wonderful concert (Bach suites, arranged for chamber orchestra and thankfully not performed on period instruments, much as I might admire the intentions), and as I leave I’m feeling slightly charged. Most concert-goers drift off towards bars and coffee shops. It’s too late in the evening for me to drink coffee, and I’m not much for alcohol either, not without company anyway. The others, after all, are in loose knots of friends or paired off with spouses or lovers. Very few people, it seems, attend concerts alone. If I hadn’t been traveling, I probably wouldn’t have either, but here I am alone. I’m quite comfortable in my own company, and I wouldn’t have missed this music just because I have only strangers to share it with me.

Although I have nowhere to go, I’m not ready to return to my hotel yet. I wander along the well-lit street at an unhurried pace, looking into the windows of closed boutique shops. It’s not a large downtown, and I’m pleased to see that many of the shops are local, not branches of the ubiquitous chains I encounter almost everywhere as I travel. Then, oh, miracle, I come across a bookstore, still open, its racks of onsale paperbacks edging into the sidewalk. I check the sign: “Open Fridays till midnight.” How perfect! I enter to discover that it’s one of those narrow-fronted stores that open into a sprawling maze of aisles. It must go back quite a ways. New books are mixed in with a good selection of used material, paperbacks and hardcovers side by side. I expect the owners wish they could expand, judging from the unshelved copies piled up at the ends of the aisles and in front of many of the stacks. I don’t mind stepping around the overflow. The air is like that of an antique store, with treasures to be found by those with the time and patience to hunt.

Where to go first? I browse through fiction, checking for favorite authors, though the books I find are ones I’ve already read. Still, it’s like meeting old friends to see them again here. A sign towards the back of the store catches my eye, prompting me to take a sudden right turn. Could any of my books be here? Well, no. To be expected, I suppose.

I scan the aisle around me. Theology, Travel, Yoga. I guess they’re alphabetical. I choose Travel. I do love travel writing, but it’s a hard category to browse, since the books are arranged alphabetically by authors’ last names, giving no clue as to what country they’re writing about. Often the titles aren’t much help either. I pick out a few and study their back covers, rolling my shoulders (stiff from sitting still for two hours) a bit in my dress. I’m dressed for a classical concert, but it seems appropriate for books too, at least to me: a black dress with a velvet bodice that follows my shape faithfully, though not snugly enough to bind. It’s a warm evening, so I wear no bra underneath. I’m not large enough to need one, and I enjoy the feel of the underside of the velvet rubbing against my nipples. The knee-length taffeta skirt is full and swishy, a full circle of fabric that falls in pleats when I stand. A pair of black pumps, heels higher than I would normally wear, but no stockings or hose—not in summer. My unruly hair is pinned up neatly tonight, revealing sparkly crystal stud earrings. I wear no necklace or other jewelry, not even a watch.

I can’t seem to find anything I like in Travel. I don’t want to read about someone’s chartered wine tour of France or family road trip through the Midwest in a camper trailer with Nutsy the Dog. Doesn’t anyone bicycle solo through Pakistan anymore? I stroll down to the end of the aisle and turn. Art? Either I’ve come full circle or someone can’t alphabetize. I intend to walk straight through it, but my eye is caught by something Japanese. I step in to take a closer look. Oh…erotic Japanese woodblock prints. I glance up and down the aisle to see if anyone’s around (not that there’s anything wrong with perusing an art book), but there’s no one in sight. I open the book at random and turn a few pages. It’s nicely done … not too samurai-n’-geisha, and the quality of the printing is superb. I check the publisher—as I suspected, a small Asian press. I slow down my page turning, studying the pictures in more detail. They’re quite arousing.

I stop at one of a woman alone, nude, lying half on her side, half on her stomach, and bound with rough hemp rope. The background is vague—some arrangement of cloth—so the focus is all on her body. Her arms are twisted behind her and tied tightly, almost uncomfortably, and her hair is in disarray. Only part of her face is visible, eyes half-closed and her expression one of…not pain exactly, or at least not entirely, but some intense feeling. She seems to be waiting for something, a blow or a kiss. I imagine that her lover is in the room with her, just out of view of the picture frame, and I wonder what he has been doing to arouse her feelings of pain/pleasure.

I don’t hear your footsteps until you’re almost behind me. I’m tempted to shut the book quickly, but then I’ll just look guilty. And it’s art, after all, the kind of book one is actually encouraged to browse through. Besides, I assume you’re just moving through to some other section.

You turn sideways to fit behind me in the narrow aisle, and I press up a little closer to the shelves to let you by. But you don’t pass. Can you possibly be searching for a title in this section? Should I move? I take a tentative small step to the side, in case I’m blocking something you’re looking for and close the book slightly. “Oh, sorry,” you say, in a low, resonant voice. “I was looking over your shoulder at the picture.” You move in tandem with me, so that you’re still standing behind.

What? Did you really say that? I feel a blush spread across my face, invisible to you. How embarrassing. What must you think of me for looking at pictures like this in a public place? I scramble for an excuse. “Oh, I lived in Japan for years, so ... um ... Japanese art ... I mean, historically, it’s...” Who am I kidding? I don't have a thing to say about Japanese art, other than that these pictures turn me on. “Yes, they’re very well done, aren’t they?” you say, easily, seeming not to notice my stuttering embarrassment. “The artist certainly captures the expressions well. And … how nice to see a woman who can appreciate the visual.” As though we were two serious art students. I open the book again, almost defiantly, this time making sure that you can see the page as well.

I glance around to see if anyone is watching—no, and thank goodness for that. To assess the situation, though, I had to step back one step. In the meantime, you had somehow moved closer, so that now I’ve accidentally backed into you. And … I’m sure I felt the hardness in your trousers. Oh, dear. Now what? I can’t leap forward or you’ll know that I felt you, and then you might feel embarrassed. These things happen when looking at erotic art, and they’re nothing to be ashamed of. Best to pretend I didn’t notice, to act completely natural and nonchalant. I shift my weight, which eases me very slightly forward, and then casually turn the page, showing you the next picture. Nothing wrong with two people just looking at an art book.

Oh...now, who would have guessed it would show a couple standing just as we are? A man behind a woman, in front of a shelf. She’s reaching for something not clearly defined, and he’s looking over her shoulder. Her yukata, the Japanese summer kimono, is tied loosely around her, the fabric half off one shoulder. There is certainly no mistaking the erection of the man in the picture—or his intentions. He has one hand on her shoulder and the other snaking around her waist, pulling her to him tightly while his hand cups her breast. Oh yum. The man in the picture can’t see his woman’s face, but we can. It’s a picture of desire, of wanting him, of wanting more. We study our Japanese counterparts in silence for a few heartbeats … and then I feel your right hand on my shoulder ... Now your left hand is on my waist, where it curves in from my hip. Just resting there lightly, but with intention. I can’t help it; I lean back into you, pressing my ass back just a little bit, hoping to feel you hard against me again...

Yes, there it is. I feel the heat, too, though whether it’s from your body or mine or both so close together it’s impossible to say. Your right hand increases its pressure on my shoulder, holding me still, even as your left hand moves slowly, slowly but purposefully, around my waist and then up toward my breast, resembling more closely the position of the couple on the page. I can feel my nipples stiffen. If you leaned in any closer, you’d be able to look down my dress and see them. I can feel your breath on my neck.

“Let’s look at the next one,” you say in my ear, brushing a kiss on my neck. To still the trembling of my hand, I turn the page. Hmm … apparently that was the first of a series, because here is the same couple again. In this one, the woman has arched her neck back to rest her head on the man’s left shoulder, leaving his right hand free to caress her right breast. Her arms are outstretched, as if inviting the man behind her to take his liberty with her body. His left hand, now descended to her hips, makes that abundantly clear. Your lips follow his by kissing the nape of my neck, and then you bite down—a wide open-mouthed bite—at the juncture with the shoulder.

Oh, god, the neck, you’ve found my weak spot. Or one of them, anyway. I wish I too could stretch my arms out like hers...but I’m holding this book. I wiggle my ass in frustration... then again more slowly, because I’ve found your bulge. I gradually center it between my cheeks. I am wearing underwear, but only a thong, so it must feel to you as if I’m knickerless beneath my skirt. It must be getting to you, too, because I can feel your grip tighten. I close my eyes for a moment, drinking in the sensation of your hand on my breast. You pinch the nipple between your thumb and forefinger, and I almost moan out loud, though I manage to change it into a heavy, breathy exhale.

“Next,” you say, your voice hoarse with desire. I’m not sure if I feel hopeful or fearful, but I try to steady myself as I turn the page. Well, that is one useful feature of the yukata—once the sash is undone, the rest just falls away. Lucky couple. He’s got his left hand directly over her sex, and I want that too. We look at them for a couple of breaths, and then I feel your teeth on my neck again. Now I’m undone as well. I look up and down our aisle again, and listen ... Still no one near, though there are footsteps and light murmurs from other sections beyond our towering shelves. I place the book on the shelf. I can hold it open by placing other books at each of its edges. I lift up my full skirt and spread it over us, leaning forward a bit as I do. I reach back and unzip you. Then I lean forward again, my arms outstretched as hers were, gripping the shelf in front of me. I’m not really sure what I’m expecting you to do—will you actually fuck me in a bookstore? Will you finger me till I cum? What can I do for you? I haven’t thought that far ahead. All I know is that I’m so wet I’m practically dripping, and I need release.

You must have slipped out from your underwear, because I can feel the tip of your cock brush the top of my ass. Your right hand has slipped under my dress from the armhole and is cupping my bare breast, toying with the hardened nipple. Your left hand makes its way up under the front of my skirt, first over the cloth of my panties and then down inside, resting against me. I shift my stance to widen my legs, inviting you to go where you will. Your fingers move with delight in the slick wetness they encounter.

I feel your hand lifting the fabric of my thong up and over, off my sex—then the head of your erection replaces your fingers. I can’t help a soft whimper. With a hand on me from above and a cock pushing into me from behind, I don’t know how long I can keep from cumming ... but then this is a public place, so prolonging the experience isn’t a great strategy anyway. Your right hand leaves my breast (oh! I miss it already!), hooks over my left wrist, and slides over to my right one. You are holding both wrists together against the shelf with firm authority. Oh ... is it possible to melt and tense with desire at the same time? Apparently so ...

I have to go up on my toes at first to let you fully inside. I lean into the bookshelf to tilt my ass up to you; then I can sink back on the high heels of my shoes. You’ve returned your left hand to the front of my sex, holding me steady as you push in more firmly from behind. You move slowly, deliberately at first, and it’s maddening. Every thrust pushes me against your hand. I grind my clit onto you, desperate to reach my climax. I can hear conversations swelling and fading from other aisles, and I shut my eyes. Even if a tour group comes down our aisle, god knows I cannot stop now. Somehow you can tell I’m about to cum (is it the shaking legs, the panting? my squeezing pussy walls?) and you start thrusting harder, increasing the pressure with your hand, too. I’m there, oh yes, whole body shaking now, involuntary contractions rippling through me. I squeeze tightly onto your cock, trying to pull your fullness inside me. I feel your hand tighten even more over mine, and you give a push that lifts me almost off my feet and utter a groan whose meaning no one could mistake. (Did anyone hear?) I let my head sink onto my arms to rest, my knees sagging, still keeping you inside me. You cover my neck with soft kisses and gentle, firm bites.

You whisper something into my ear, a single word. I’m confused at first; it’s hard to bring my mind back from the non-verbal. Then it hits me—you’re telling me your name. “Shar,” I give back, on an exhale. I want to say it’s for Sharazade, not a mere Charlotte or Charlene, but I can’t manage that many syllables just yet. You move your right hand off mine, though I leave my hands where they were, and I can still feel the pressure of yours. Both your arms encircle me in a tight embrace, holding me even as a little orgasmic aftershock trembles through my body. Then you move your right hand, and I feel something briefly press into my back. I need to straighten up now, and as I do, you slide out. I move my thong back into place. I can’t very well drip onto the floor of a bookstore. It crosses my mind that I’ll need to slip into the restroom and clean myself up. You reach over my shoulder, tuck something into the book, close it, and place it in my hands. I hold it, and you hold both my shoulders. Then, with a final kiss to the back of my neck and a deliberate squeeze to my left ass cheek, you move away.

I resist the temptation to turn and look at you as you leave. Instead, I open the book to see what you left there. A business card? Seriously? I have to fight not to laugh. Am I supposed to call for an appointment? Is it a coupon for 10% off? But no, now that I look at it, I can see that it is not your business card at all. Rather, it's the card for a local hotel. And on it you’ve written your room number. Oh ...

I smooth and straighten my clothing back into place. I’m about to replace the book on the shelf when I think, no, this one I’ll purchase. I slip the book under my arm and move off to find the restroom, still moving the card between my fingers, thinking.

Sharazade authors Twisted Vagabondage Tales for travelers who like it rough. She is prettier than Vagabonding author Rolf Potts (though Rolf is very pretty) and could kick his ass (though only if he'd like that). Her new book called Transported: Erotic Travel Tales is published by Fanny Press.

A Warm Review By A Hot Reviewer

2012-02-06T10:43:00.001-06:00

Sacred Ground & Holy Water by Lyn Fuchs is not your usual narrative travel book, and if you should read just one book of travel essays in your life, this is the one.

Lyn takes you on a wild adventure around the world: he’s been there, he’s done it, he’s got the t-shirt, and obviously he’s not afraid to talk about it. The book is straightforward, open, raw, edgy, hilarious, sexy and smart. And it’s definitely not a book for the faint of heart.

Sacred Ground & Holy Water is a thrilling read for the open-minded reader willing to explore the world beyond tourist resorts and sights. Every chapter presents a piece of this beautiful Earth just the way it is, with the good, less good and shocking.

I must say I absolutely love the language of the book. It’s rich, vivid, lush, colorful and one-of-a-kind. Lyn has a unique gift to share the emotions and make you live them as you read his words. His writing is honest, fluff-free and candid, full of apt irony and sharp-wittedness.

There’s just one thing to say: Bravo, Lyndiana Jones! And please, write on.

Barbara Conelli writes with art and passion about the good life in Italy. She is the author of the books Chique Secrets of Dolce Vita and Chique Secrets of Dolce Amore. Follow her inspirational work at http://www.barbaraconelli.com.

Road Babe Dispatch From Chiang Mai

2012-02-03T11:59:00.001-06:00

Chiang Mai was the first place I went in Thailand. The friendliness of the people and the ease with which they smiled while offering me whatever assistance they could really impressed me. Aside from the strange local fascination with skin bleaching, I felt at home right away. After kicking some mean jet-lag, I spent my first day bumming around downtown, stumbling into ornate temples, and sitting silently before different sized, shaped and colored icons of the Buddha.

My next day was packed. I kicked it off with a visit to the Maetang Elephant Park where spotted Asian elephants bathe alongside rafters and paint pictures of each other. Being an animal advocate, I was concerned that this show wouldn't be something I'd enjoy contributing to but found myself quite surprised.

The painting was amazing. The elephant Suri chose green for grass and black for the bodies of her friends without any guidance. Another interesting part was the dancing cued by a specific song rather than a physical prod. I also rode one through the lush northern Thai landscape.

Later, I peeked into the Aka village where heavy bronze rings are used to lengthen necks, calves and ankles. The shy women wove exquisite fabrics. Even the children had begun the process of extending their limbs. Roosters darted around the dirt paths that lined nearby staircase waterfalls.

The place was overrun by in-and-out tourists. So, I felt sad for the locals. While their work provides income for the village, they've been converted into an attraction that belittles their way of life as strange. I wondered whether it was worth it to them or whether they wished they could shoo the tourists out with dried-grass fly swatters.

Next, I dipped into an orchid farm, which was a glorious swell of color and texture. Though I've never been much of a flower person, I couldn't deny the rich, even sexy, beauty of the hanging plants with their vibrant colors, insect-mimicking design and visable roots.

That night, I wandered under the lights of the market. Stall after stall of multi-colored lamps, spices, textiles, masks and statues filled the sidewalk. The fabrics were especially eye-catching with their detailed hand embroidery, bright hues and a myriad of styles and textures.

The Thai are particularly famous for their silk, so the market was peppered with elegant silk stores, which custom make suits and dress shirts for men. Their attendants call out in the street at every handy passerby to come in for a measurement.

Metal and wood workers tooled away, while sitting guard at their stalls. Elaborate hand-made pieces are more common than rare, plus the quality is exceptional. Sculptures, masks, puppets and wall hangings of many forms and materials abounded.

Local street food is delicious and undervalued, with a full meal including drink at around 2 US dollars. My personal favorite was Pad See Ew, which many foreigners aren't hip to, having been bombarded by its also-fantastic cousin Pad Thai. After a few Chang beers and eating myself into a coma, I was ready to hit the hay and work off a little more of the impressively-ass-kicking jetlag.

Mittie Babette Roger is from Louisiana but lives in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. She received an M.F.A. in Creative Writing from Naropa University and authored the book It's Better to Visit the Shaman Without Questions to Ask. She travels the world volunteering to help disadvantaged children and promoting Blue Iguana Tequila to empower serious drinkers.

Twisted Vagabondage Tale From Golan Heights

2012-02-01T13:23:00.001-06:00

Majdal Shams is a dusty gray town on a rocky green hillside in the Golan Heights. This is located in northeastern Israel. Of course, that depends on who you're talking to. If you're talking to a Syrian, the town is located in southwestern Syria.

Israel basically set up martial law in the region after annexing the Golan Heights from Syria in the wake of the 1967 Six-Day War. Israel launched surprise air strikes against Egypt, Syria and Jordan. According to Israeli accounts, the attacks were preemptive as the three Arab countries were in the process of initiating similar assaults. The Arab perspective is that Israel acted without provocation. Thankfully, the Golan Heights are currently being monitored by the United Nations.

The presence of the UN is particularly important in the town of Majdal Shams, since it's the largest of four Druze villages in the Golan Heights. The Druze are a distinct social and religious group, who speak Arabic and practice a secretive religion considered to be an offshoot of Islam. Many Druze still live in Syria and Druze only marry Druze, so marriages are often arranged between adherents on the Syrian and Israeli sides. Since relations between Israel and Syria remain hostile, the UN is integral in helping the couples come together.

A good dramatization of this situation can be seen in a 2004 film The Syrian Bride. The movie is about a Druze woman in Majdal Shams, who is going to marry a Syrian Druze man she has never met. It took six months to obtain permission from the Israeli administration to walk over the border zone, a very rare crossing.

Now, the wedding day has arrived and Israeli officials want to stamp her passport. The Syrian side won't admit her with an Israeli stamp. (When my husband and I passed from Israel to Jordan, we asked Israeli border control not to stamp our passports. While Jordan and Israel now have friendly relations, a stamp would preclude ever traveling to a country having hostile relations with Israel.) In both The Syrian Bride and real life, a Druze fiancée who passes from Israel into Syria can never return to see her family in Majdal Shams.

Strained relations between Syria and Israel also led to the development of what is called Shouting Hill. One kilometer East of Majdal Shams town center, on the edge of a ceasefire zone, Druze families in the village used to get together on a hillside to shout through megaphones at their relatives in Syria. Thus, the name Shouting Hill. Of course, the advent of cell phones eliminated the need to yell across the border at your friends and family. Now Druze just visit the Shouting Hill when they actually want to see their Syrian loved ones with the help of binoculars, though I suppose Skype has reduced this need.

My husband and I wanted to visit Majdal Shams, because the Druze are an interesting people in and of themselves. Adherents believe in Allah, but also believe Mohammed was succeeded by another divine messenger. The Druze also believe in reincarnation. For this reason, their headstones bear no name. I mentioned the religion is a secret one. Only a select inner-core of men and women actually understand the way the religion works. They are also the only Druze permitted to read their holy books. These are individuals who have passed severe tests and are considered to have led clean, modest and exemplary lifestyles.

Rob and I were only around Majdal Shams for a couple days. We stayed in nearby Neve Ativ, driving up into Majdal Shams during the day, then down into the surrounding cherry and apple orchards, which are harvested by the villagers and contribute a large part to their local economy. I recall cruising along the tiny dirt roads that weave in and out of the orchards, encountering a Druze man on a mud-caked tractor every so often.

Ironically, one of the best things that happened to us in the village was that we laundered our clothes for a very low price. By the time we hit Majdal Shams, we'd been traveling through Europe and Israel for about a month. We were in dire need of clean underwear. I can't say we became clean and modest enough to be initiated into the secrets of the Druze, but it was never our intention to stick around the town forever.

Lara Sterling authors Twisted Vagabondage Tales for travelers who like it rough. She is prettier than Vagabonding author Rolf Potts (though Rolf is very pretty) and could kick his ass (though only if he'd like that). She has written for Playboy and Larry Flynt Publications but now hosts an online radio show at writersradioresource.com and blogs at yourplotthickens.blogspot.com.

Wandering Mystic Meditation From Miramar Beach

2012-01-30T10:51:00.002-06:00

There is a fluttery anticipation that accompanies the planning and packing for a trip. Deep down, I want more than anything for the journey to exceed the preemptive excitement. I hope something outrageous will happen. Yet, over and over again, small surprises tend to exceed any pre-travel fantasies.

It's those everyday scenes stumbled upon that make such an impression. So, I have no choice but to write about them, creating the backbone of lasting memories. This tale and its hero made a winter getaway in Santa Barbara exponentially more than the sum of my expectations.

I saw him standing on the edge of the sand, where the tide makes a tiny cliff, and with arms stretched out like wings he stepped off and landed on his rump, squealing as he slid the entire two feet of the slope. He did this over and over, his periwinkle clothes and striped cap flashing color against the paleness of the beach.

Jogging back, I noticed someone had dug a large hole, and the blue adventurer was on tiptoe at its edge. Then he yelled into the darkening air and jumped, only his head poking out over the rim. Later, I passed him on the steps leading up to the parking lot. He had tangled blond curls and a mother who held his small hand in hers, coaxing him up the long steep stairs.

It's hard work stepping off the edge of the world and shouting each time with joy. Hard work to scramble back up and do it over again and again, until you know down in your bones that the descent will always be thrilling and the bottom will always hold.

Nancy G. Shapiro is a coach and writer who conducts writing and well-being retreats at LifePath Center http://www.lifepathretreats.com/ and other exotic locales http://nancygshapiro.com/retreats.

Primal Wilderness Rambling From A Cave

2012-01-27T09:37:00.001-06:00

I've been a life-long victim of claustrophobia. So, when I visited Lava River Cave, I viewed my excursion not as a day-trip but as a conquest of sorts. Twelve miles south of Bend Oregon, I arrived at the Newberry National Volcanic Monument. Disembarked on a dirt clearing in the forest, surrounded by dry sagebrush and juniper trees.The August day was hot and thick with dust.

At the lantern station, I was greeted by a familiar face: Bali Ram. He's an internationally-acclaimed Indian dancer. I met him months earlier, through a mutual friend. Before living in Bend Oregon, he had anything but an ordinary life. From studying with the Russian Bolshoi Ballet to dancing for the United Nations, not to mention working for Mother Teresa and meeting Gandhi, his resume is a tad impressive. Bali Ram took the lantern lighting job for summer work. Thus, I had a humanitarian and world-class dancer lighting my lantern - an elegant way to start the adventure.

Several people entered the cave with me. I was feeling light-hearted and adventurous as I descended 126 steps down into the gaping mouth of Lava River Cave. I remember gripping my lamp intensely, afraid of dropping it and starting a fire, even though there was nothing but large rocks, cold puddles and dry sand beyond. Not to mention that the temperature in the cave was a mere 42 degrees, a drastic but refreshing change from above, where it soared into the 90s that day.

The cave remained spacious for most of the journey. I was feeling pretty good about myself. Maybe the claustrophobia had been conquered. It was hard to see a lot, as my traditional Coleman lantern failed to illuminate much more than the sand in front of me. The dark was comforting, until I reached the last part of the cave. Things went from a vast cavern carpeted by sand to a small crawl space of dirt getting smaller and smaller as you went back. I decided to mentally pull up my boot straps and continue on. There were a few people in front of me, so I was surely safe. Even if I got stuck in a nook or cranny, someone would pull me out, right?

My breathing became labored. I felt like a brick was sitting on my chest. People started crawling on their hands and knees in front of me. I had visions of some previously-watched documentary program about people getting stuck and crushed in caves. I let panic make the decision and turned around. My walk turned into a brisk trot by the time I reached the wide-girthed section of the cavern. The soft floor felt like a mud pond, which took forever to plow through.

Up ahead, I heard the voices and saw the feet of a group of people. Quickened my pace to catch up with them. I trailed behind at a polite distance, until literally seeing the light at the end of the tunnel. Climbed the 126 steps rapidly in my eagerness to get a breath of fresh air. Some people gave me strange looks, but I was just happy to see daylight. Still, in the back of my mind, I missed the coolness and the dark respite of the cave. Would I do it again? Hell yeah!

Later that evening, I met my friend Julie at the local McMenamin's Brewery. These pubs are a religion for the beer-loving population of Oregon. During the day, you can find Oregonians trail biking, snow boarding, rock climbing, canyon scrambling, or cave spelunking. However, you can find us at night enjoying an ice-cold brew and noshing on some serious pub chow. My favorite McMenamin's product is Black Rabbit Porter. It's dark, rich and chocolaty.

The McMenamin's in Bend is located at the Old Saint Francis School. It includes a cigar room, private party rooms, hotel rooms and a movie theatre. Julie and I found ourselves in the cinema, drinking our beers and enjoying a foreign movie that I cannot remember. I do remember reflecting, “I live in the coolest place on earth. Everything smells like the wilderness. Everything is wilderness. Plus, right in the middle of the wilderness sits Bend - a magical town full of wood-burning-stoves, antiques and microbrews.” I live in Los Angeles now. What I wouldn't do to lose my breath again in Lava River Cave, then get my beer on afterwards in town - two ways to ditch your inhibitions.

Aimee Conner crawled out of a cave in a remote part of central Oregon. She can play the old-time fiddle and work the ancient magic of baking. She has now joined "civilized" society in Los Angeles, where you can't shoot the animals, but the animals sometimes shoot at you. She's the author of the psychological thriller Scrapbook.

Recorded Live, Uncensored, and Nearly Sober

2012-01-25T11:09:00.005-06:00

A Delicious Fat-Free Italian Dessert

Travel author and fat-free dessert Barbara Conelli interviewed me on The Chique Show. Not many women could get me up early on Sunday to do a girlie broadcast. Yet, this fine Italian delicacy could no doubt get me up anytime - and anyway.

Gather your loved ones around the blog-talk-radio icon and hear the most historic fireside chat since F.D.R. or Winston Churchill. We will promote our books over the air. We will ship them by land or sea. We will never, never, never give up!

Listen to internet radio with Chique Show on Blog Talk Radio

Spice Girl Caravan To Pongal Festivities

2012-01-23T17:11:00.002-06:00

India is a land of festivals, with at least one a month, plus an auspicious occasion every other week. Despite regional culture differences and rapid lifestyle changes, festivals are times when the ancient traditions of India come to life. This year, I visited Hindu friends at Hyderabad in Andhra Pradesh, during their celebration of a harvest festival similar to American Thanksgiving.

Every state has its own way of celebrating this event, commonly known as Pongal or Sankranti. It goes on for 3 or 4 days, most prominently in southern India where the harvest comes in at this time. The mid-winter Hindu celebration also coincides with a kite-flying festival in much of the country.

Though the family I visited with is modern in their dress and standard of living, it was fascinating to see them transform during this time into wearing traditional clothes for the festival. They decorated their house with mango leaf and marigold flower garlands. The aroma of sandalwood incense was everywhere. Plus, the front porch of the house sported a variety of brightly-colored designs.

This was my first experience seeing the festival celebrated in a traditional way. I didn't witness the actual harvest. Yet, the singing and dancing around a bonfire combined with a bullock cart race made the celebration quite grand.

Everyone got up early in the morning to bathe and greet the sunrise with water and flowers. These gifts were offered to the rising sun along with chants and prayers for the blessing to live a dynamic, inspired and righteous life.

Each day, there was a unique design in the front yard to match the different themes of the festival. In fact, such designs or rangoli muggu are drawn on the porch every day for a month before the celebration.

On the first morning, they draw a pot overflowing with rice, flowers, sugarcane and seasonal fruit, which they offer to the rain god. Also, rice and milk are cooked into porridge as an offering to be accompanied with other delicacies. For lunch, a mixed veggie curry is traditional.

The second morning includes worshipping the goddess Lakshmi who blesses finances. This time the design is in the form of a table as an invitation for dieties to be enthroned on it and then come into the house. Some believe if the designs are drawn improperly, this may annoy the gods. The main meal for that day, rice and legumes called pulses cooked together with ghee and milk, is offered to the family deity after ritual worship.

On the third morning, devotion is offered to ancestors with requests for their blessing. Incense and food are placed before their photos. The roots of the trees of their lives are considered to remain intact. If nourished well, they will continue to bloom and flourish in the midst of the family today.

In villages, even animals such as cows and bullocks are bathed and adored as a thanksgiving for the hard work they have done. Chariots drawn with bright colors signify divine chariots to carry their weary, worthy spirits to their destiny. This third day is also one of compassion and charity. No one is supposed to go empty handed with alms from rice to clothes being distributed.

During the Pongal festival, neighbours exchange special recipe dishes and varieties of sweets. They get together in the evenings to fly kites. As I watched the kites soar upward and cover the sky, I reflected on how good it is to see people joining together in harmony and reverence.

Evelyn Hills is a spicy Indian girl who loves to sing or dance and play guitar or piano. Unlike the famous British Spice Girls, she's not a ho and speaks comprehendible English. She's the author of the book Ivana and the Secret Lake Adventures: Magic vs. Love.

Road Babe Dispatch From Los Piccachos

2012-01-20T09:53:00.001-06:00

Driving through Los Piccachos, a mountain range that is home to the volcano Palo Huerfano, I found myself pondering the pyramids I was about to see and reminding myself how they were built without beasts of burden, machines, or even metal tools. Cañada de la Virgen is a recently-discovered archeological site outside San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. My tour leader Albert Coffee, an expert in Mesoamerican archaeology who helped excavate the ruins, prefers to say the site was "rediscovered" by outsiders. Locals never forgot it existed.

Due to the volcano looming over the valley, ancient people had fertile soil, sharp obsidian to make tools, plus basalt and cantera stone for building pyramids. Yet, natural resources weren't the only thing these sophisticated people had going for them. For millenia, they understood the symbiotic relationship between corn, beans and squash, which provide just the right combination for growing conditions and human diet when cultivated together. Moreover, their knowledge of astronomy and architecture is astounding.

Señor Coffee explained their horizon clock, which aligned with the sunrise on two crucial days a year: planting and harvest. The sunken patio structure of the pyramids allows for natural reflection-pool observatories to chart the movements of planets and stars. Ancient people mirrored the terrain and cosmos in their architecture, lining up landmarks as well as equinoxes with points on a pyramid's structure. “I consider myself an interpreter for people who can no longer speak for themselves,” Coffee said.

Side-stepping up the temple stairs, we had a perfect view from the top of landmarks and their alignment with the pre-Columbian constructions, including the house of the wind, the house of the rain and botanical gardens scattered with fragments of earth-tone pottery. While there are theories on who built these pyramids, Coffee isn't convinced that the evidence gives a definitive answer. So, who does he believe built the structures? Only more research can say.

Albert Coffee guides as a part of Coyote Canyon Adventure Tours. It was undoubtedly the best experience I've had visiting archeological ruins, rivaling Phaestos in Crete, Larabanga in Ghana and Macchu Picchu in Peru. Coffee shared with us a vast knowledge of details from ancient practices to the site's modern context. Had I paid the fee and walked around the grounds reading signs (as I had originally planned), I'd have received only a fraction of the informational wealth he had to offer. Next on the agenda? His tour that ends in a tequila tasting!

Mittie Babette Roger is from Louisiana but lives in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. She received an M.F.A. in Creative Writing from Naropa University and authored the book It's Better to Visit the Shaman Without Questions to Ask. She travels the world volunteering to help disadvantaged children and promoting Blue Iguana Tequila to empower serious drinkers.

Primal Wilderness Rambling From Niagara

2012-01-18T13:06:00.003-06:00

When you have a global wonder in your proverbial back yard, you rarely go to see it, unless you have visitors in from a long way off. Such was the case growing up in southern Ontario. Niagara Falls was an hour or so from home. Because it was so close by, it wasn’t the sort of trip we’d take all that often. It’s been awhile since I’ve seen the Falls and the River, so I thought I’d take you along today.

The Falls have been cutting their way through the Niagara Escarpment since the last ice age and are presently divided into two main sections (the Horseshoe and the American Falls) by Goat Island. There’s a third relatively-minor section called the Bridalveil.

The cascade has been an object of fascination almost from the first time Europeans saw what local natives had been living around for thousands of years. Since then, the Falls have been a magnet for tourists, daredevils, suicides, hucksters and opportunists.

Today, most of the carnival atmosphere has been moved away from the Falls, and the adjoining terrain is primarily parkland, especially on my Canadian side. You can get grand views from both sides, but I have a somewhat better vista than my Yankee friends. You can also see it from below on boats that travel into the boiling cauldron. That’s if you have a strong stomach for rough rides and can handle getting mesmerized by the hypnotic water. Trust me, it happens.

Visiting on the Canadian side, you have two options after seeing the Falls. You can enter the carnival part of things, tucked away from sight of the Falls. There you’ll find stretches that make Las Vegas look dignified and classy. Or you can do as I would and take the parkway down river to other spots well worth the drive.

Queenston Heights sits at the Niagara Escarpment crest, above the village of Queenston. It was the site of a battle in the War of 1812. In October that year, American invaders swept into the area and were defeated by British troops, Canadian militia, and Native warriors. The battle resulted in the death of Isaac Brock, commanding general of British forces in Canada. His remains are interred on the battlefield, where an imposing monument stands watch. The entire site is well preserved and filled with lush gardens, quiet walkways and the odd ghost here and there.

The river meets Lake Ontario at the last spot on the drive. Niagara-on-the-Lake is a small town with a lot of history. Briefly the capital of Upper Canada and the scene of much action in the War of 1812, the town has preserved its historical sites and small town atmosphere well. Fort George and the Shaw Festival are two of its big tourist draws, though the Festival has neglected the works of George Bernard Shaw lately, so complaints should be addressed to the board of directors.

With its friendly disposition, beautiful architecture, and peaceful sensibility, Niagara-on-the-Lake is a tonic, especially compared to the carnival upriver - plus it has a reputation as the most haunted town in Canada. That fellow you see in the British officer’s uniform might not be a Fort George re-enactor.

William Kendall is a writer, photographer and rock climber from the Ottawa Valley. When he's not working on his world domination scheme (no golfers allowed), he can be found writing the forthcoming Heaven & Hell, plus his personal blog Speak Of The Devil.

Authors Deserve A Midnight In Paris

2012-01-16T09:35:00.004-06:00

Are you prestigious authors tired of hearing your spouse say they found more money in the sofa than you made writing last year? Are you weary of telling your mother that interaction with your characters is different from your cousin's imaginary friend? Are you sick of explaining to the government that cheap wine and pricey hookers are classic artistic muses thus a legitimate business expense? If so, you deserve a Midnight In Paris!

In this film, Owen Wilson is a romantic and nostalgic writer, who wants to savor his experience in Paris. Yet, his practical and materialistic fiance disrespects his artistic yearnings. So, he escapes the unsatisfactory here and now, when he is picked up at midnight by Ernest Hemingway and Scott Fitzgerald. Their horse-drawn carriage transports him to a Golden Age Paris, where he meets Cole Porter, Gertrude Stein, Pablo Picasso, Salvador Dali, T.S. Eliot, Henri Matisse and other artists, plus a bombshell blast from the past to rival Hiroshima, played by Marion Cotillard. Ohhhhhh Marion!

If you like viewing our flawed world through the warm light of Rembrandt or the rosy glasses of Louie Armstrong as I do, this is your movie. Watch it with a sip of port and a chocolate truffle - not Beyonce, she's mine. The film offers a delicious taste of the Golden Age, before bringing us back to the reality that every age is a golden age, which people will look back on in the future. We prefer to believe the present is a little unsatisfactory, because life is a little unsatisfactory, and we don't wanna believe that.

The movie notes profoundly: "the problem with writers is they're so full of words." Yet, this is also an author's greatest strength, because words seldom equal reality but often help us rise above it. Midnight In Paris is a self-esteem boost for artists, letting us once again feel superior to less-intelligent cultural-neanderthals who hold a job, a mortgage and their liquor. God knows we artists need and deserve such a boost. Yet, it's not a deeply-spiritual encouragement but a self-compared-to-somebody-else-esteem-boost. Seems we humans are seldom capable of hoisting ourselves up without shoving someone else down.

For half a century, Hollywood implied that goodness would prevail, once we got rid of those nasty Mississippi buggers looking down on black folks. However, wiser people than Michael Moore knew that the problem wasn't white men but dark-hearted mankind. How many of us have boosted our self-esteem by comparing ourselves to hateful, ignorant, toothless Klansmen? Talk about grading on a curve! (How many modern travel authors can't come up with much to say without smugly bashing America?)

Many idealistic voters are now losing their psychological virginity, discovering that the first non-white president isn't the Messiah. Some will no doubt soon realize that the beloved Morgan Freeman isn't actually God. Blasphemy I know! When we finally elect a woman president and see her imperfection, let's hope mass hysteria doesn't break out. Accepting humanity's inglorious place in the universe isn't easy.

Accepting our individual ingloriousness is also tough. It's astonishing to see the lengths we authors will go to in getting our names into print. We often work for free to chisel our names, not in granite, but in digital light-pulses like this site. It's even more astonishing to discover that most of the writers/typers are doing so while cooking food and parenting children. If the two most important and indispensable activities on the planet can feel routine and unfulfilling at times (which they can), what hope is there in finding true fulfillment in lesser pursuits? Probably none.

Cooking, parenting, farming, teaching, writing, painting, drinking, screwing - it's not about what we do but who we are, and whether it's Midnight in Paris or midday at the office, that's what we're all here to find out. Being a great artist is good; being a good person is great.

Twisted Vagabondage Tale From Lourdes

2012-01-12T09:42:00.003-06:00

Typically, I only have praise for France. French fashion, French cuisine, French art, French film. Even French perfume - magnifique! However, if you think the French are immune to bad taste, think again. The French do have an aesthetic slip-up now and then. If you don't believe me, just go to Lourdes. This town is located in the South of France, but not by way of San Tropez. Look a little more inland to find Lourdes. It's just above the Spanish border, nestled in the French Pyrenees.

Take a walk up one of the town's winding, cobblestone streets and get assaulted by the high-pitched religious music blaring out of speakers affixed to the tops of buildings. While you're at it, buy a packet of sugared almonds that proclaim “I prayed for you at the Grotte de Lourdes” or a snow globe where little bits of white plastic forever fall on the shoulders of La Virgen like tiny flakes of holy dandruff.

The main attraction the place has to offer is the Grotte de Lourdes. In 1858, a peasant girl named Bernadette Soubirous, gathering wood in a cave, saw a vision of Virgin Mary in a crevice of rock. Today, streams of believers swarm the cave for a taste of the spring water oozing out of the rock wall, with hopes for a miracle. The Basilica of the Rosary, which is just above the Grotte, was designed by Leopold Hardy in 1899 to look like a big, gothic Cinderella castle.

I guess that's why I traveled to Lourdes: I was in search of a miracle. It was in the wake of a particularly-intense period of heavy partying in my life that I found myself shacked up in a modest hotel room with only a nun for concierge. Voila, a miracle did happen. The only rowdy parties I attend now are with puppets and adults dressed in furry outfits. I'm not talking about some perverted fervert fete, so get your mind out of the gutter. I'm talking about the kind of rowdiness you get when you put twenty three-year-olds together in the same room, high on cake and ice cream. So, next time you're in Lourdes, take a swill from the algae-ridden spring yourself. You never know what miracles might happen.

Lara Sterling authors Twisted Vagabondage Tales for travelers who like it rough. She is prettier than Vagabonding author Rolf Potts (though Rolf is very pretty) and could kick his ass (though only if he'd like that). She has written for Playboy and Larry Flynt Publications but now hosts an online radio show at writersradioresource.com and blogs at yourplotthickens.blogspot.com.

Road Babe Dispatch From Lake Chapala

2012-01-09T16:38:00.001-06:00

Recently ventured to Lake Chapala in Jalisco Mexico. I had an image in my mind of a small lake lined with restaurants and vendors. However, people kept asking me, “Have you actually seen Lake Chapala?” Not sure what all the fuss was about, I assumed it must be some hidden secret. So, with a few shots of tequila down the hatch, I was ready and willing to find out.

Chapala is a town as well as a lake. Plus, it's a place with a lot of amazing dulcerias or sweet-shops, where handmade candies abound in a myriad of colors and flavors. Narrow streets, sporting brightly-painted shops and houses, vanish into mountainsides. I strolled down to the waterfront, finding the town cute and quaint (assuming that word doesn't make you vomit in your mouth) but nothing awe-inspiring. Right about then, I saw it: Lake Chapala. Enormous is an understatement. This is a lake that looks like an ocean. It's a lake dotted with islands that has mountains for a horizon. Lake Chapala is Mexico's largest body of water overlapping two states: Jalisco and Michoacán.

After photographing birds flying over the water and Scorpion island, I realized that sunset was soon approaching, thus tequila was clearly in order. So, I headed to a small town called Ajijic to eat in the carefully manicured gardens of Nueva Posada, a hotel and restaurant on the lake shore. I enjoyed a few caballitos of tequila, accompanied by mineral water mixed with fresh lime juice - a personal favorite. Watched the sunset over an immense body of water and laughed at myself for previous ignorance of this wonder.

I later learned that Lake Chapala is changing. Providing the primary water source for booming Guadalajara and absorbing pollution from a confluence of contaminated rivers, its fish population is being devastated. With the lake shrinking in size (hard to imagine after seeing it) and invasive Water Hyacinth feeding off the pollution, it'll take a lot of awareness and responsiveness to make meaningful improvement. Consciousness of the hazardous situation has focused some attention, and purification efforts have increased water quality. Isn't it good when we value our effect on the environment? I'll raise my caballito to that!

Some Prefer Living Off The Map

2012-01-06T09:27:00.015-06:00

An odd but loving family lives a slow organic life on an isolated New Mexico ranch. Charley is a silently-depressed veteran. Arlene is his Hopi Indian wife, who gardens in the nude. Bo is their charismatic daughter. She uses time, creativity and good old-fashioned hard work to build a solid business: mail fraud.

George is their sweet half-witted friend. He considers proposing marraige to his new therapist, because she's the only woman who really listens to him. William is an IRS agent. His financial audit is supposed to get to the bottom of this caring, cashless and clueless bunch who don't fit well into the boxes on a government form.

Charley treats his depression with drugs, but doesn't improve much, until he focuses on helping someone else. (Readers with seasonal blues: try nature's remedies - a balance of aerobic and resistance exercise, early-to-bed-early-to-rise consistent sleep, veggies and whole grains and lean meats rather than processed carbs, brief daily doses of sunshine, a higher purpose, and sex. If natural remedies don't relieve depression, prescription medication may be the best option. Doctors disagreeing with all this are urged to give a full name plus comment, so we'll know who the drug company's butt-boys and bitches are.)

Off The Map is a film to remind us that it's not a sin to deviate from the herd. (However, it may be a crime.) Perhaps, a tender but weird family is an option that deserves a little more respect among the hordes of rich, cool and soul-less people-clusters often called families today. These New Mexico nuts are more than they're cracked up to be. This movie offers the profound suggestion that flyover-country losers may be mocked in New York but still have the last laugh when the golden sun sets over the desert.

Road Babe Dispatch From Rock City

2012-01-03T12:03:00.002-06:00

It's funny how time and space change. This is what I was thinking when Eddie told me it would only take two days to return home. “But it took us a month to get here.”

“Thank God it won't take that long to get back.”

We planned to camp at The City of Rocks in southern Idaho. The homeward road was a long one, especially since the theme had changed. Now, it was all about “making time” and stopping as little as possible. When we finally reached the turn off for the preserve, it was after sundown - way after. No color remained in the sky, leaving a black moonless blanket above. There was no light for miles.

We drove slowly down a dirt road with no sense of our epic surroundings. Maybe, if we'd known, we wouldn't have bickered so much. “In the words of Bugs Bunny, we should've turned left at Albuquerque,” Eddie said. Exhaustion seeping from every pore, I wanted to smack him, but that's when we saw the entrance.

“We're here.” It was well after 11. Out of 55 campsites, only one was open. We went to bed without dinner and I contemplated sleeping in the car.

It wasn't until morning that we realized what a cool wreck of eerie rocks we'd slept among. We crawled from the tent around 8 into a sea of groundcover and dust. Slanted sandstone formations rose from the earth at awkward angles. The air dried the sweat off my body. Only one thing to do: make breakfast while enjoying the scenery.

At Dinosaur National Monument, we snuck off the fast track to a scenic highway. Rain began to fall as we crossed a high mountain pass, cleaning and cooling the wind that swirled inside the car. Flecks of water peppered my face. I started marking the miles in my head: 1000 miles to Bozeman, Montana; 2000 miles to Coeur D’Alene, Idaho; 3000 miles to Portland, Oregon; 4000 miles to Roosevelt, Utah.

We were at the end of something. A Robert Pirsig quote came to mind. “I'm happy to be here but still sad to be here, too. Sometimes it's better to travel than to arrive.” Outside the window, a strong wind moved my wet hand like a wave. I glanced in the backseat at my dog Shakespeare, his exhausted little body lay over our packs sleeping soundly.

Mittie Babette Roger is from Louisiana but lives in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. She received an M.F.A. in Creative Writing from Naropa University and authored the book It's Better to Visit the Shaman Without Questions to Ask. She travels the world volunteering to help disadvantaged children and promoting Blue Iguana Tequila to empower serious drinkers.

New Year's Friends In High Places

2011-12-30T17:22:00.007-06:00

Just got back from freezing a part of me that's hard to thaw out on Mexico's highest mountain: Pico de Orizaba. Some New Year's reflections are in order. To guard my rep as a fearless adventurer and journalist, I showed up at base camp without any high-tech equipment. (Except for the expandable, long-lasting, him-a-layin' recreational pole that nature hung on my sleek durable frame.) Why would I do this? In gathering material for my next book Fresh Wind & Strange Fire, I'm completely ready to give my life on behalf of you loyal readers. Even those too damn cheap to buy my critically-acclaimed Sacred Ground & Holy Water.

Let me grab a tissue here. No, I'm not getting weepy. I came back with a cold. On a positive note, with each noseblowing, I lose 2 to 3 unwanted and unsightly pounds. Anyway, it's essential for us travelers to face the new year with positive global convictions, because earth-tripping so demolishes one's faith in the truisms of this or that culture. (I'll never forget the day I was driving across Oregon, listening to the radio announce the legislation of my inalienable right to choose assisted suicide, when a cop gave me a hefty ticket for choosing to unbuckle my seat belt.) Freezing my butt and gasping for oxygen this week, I was refreshed in my passion for three global creeds with which to celebrate a new year of life.

1) People are good. At base camp, a guy named Peter from my hometown in California loaned me some gloves. Rob from Denver loaned me a down jacket (even though I don't usually hang with Colorado people because they're a different tribe and my grandma said they smell funny). Granted: not all people are good. Yet, there are enough decent folks to fill a life with friends, plus many of the bad apples have smokin' bodies and like to be spanked.

2) Nature is good. Huffing and puffing up a frozen Walden Pond called a glacier, I was reminded that one can suck the marrow out of life in pristine wilderness or let a bad-to-the-bone city suck the life out of you. Know what I mean? If eveyone around you has too many hobbies and gadgets to have any peace, get the fuck out of there - at least as often as you can.

3) God is good. Whether you prefer the name Goddess, Ganesh, or Steve (as I do), the artist-formerly-known-as-God clearly does some astonishing work. Even the most disturbing creations are mostly misinterpreted. Allowing us humans to do bad or good also allows for an artist/artwork relationship that is chosen and authentic, rather than the kind one has with an inflatable blow-up doll, which I've found to be highly overrated.

So, before you watch too many European films and try doctor-assisted suicide, read my cheesy book and try people/nature/Steve-assisted living in this wonderful gift we call another year. Speaking of blow-up dolls, the stuffed old man in this photo (called El Viejo) is a New Year's tradition in my region of Mexico. We're gonna blow his ass up with fireworks to signify "out with the old and in with the new." How dangerous is that? Somewhere between offing yourself and not wearing a seatbelt but a lot more fun than both. Thanks everyone for reading Sacred Ground Magazine in 2012!

Spice Girl Caravan To Srisailam India

2011-12-26T19:52:00.011-06:00

Some friends and I decided to set off on a journey to Srisailam, an overnight destination nearly 480 kilometers from Hyderabad. This was my first getaway since arriving in India and I was jazzed. We had the maps, plus our driver assured us he knew the place we wanted to go. It was 5 in the morning, so the road was pretty empty.

About 80 kilometers into our trip, we saw a restaurant hut. Our group sipped tea and ate the local delicacy of dosas. The sun rose on a remote village with nothing but fields and people staring at us as if we were an edible delicacy.

After another half hour driving the topsy-turvy road, we stopped at Nagarjunsagar Dam, the world's largest reservoir. The view was breathtaking. According to our driver, the reservoir is sometimes half full and the dam gates closed, making it not much fun to see. We were lucky to find water gushing out of the open gates with roaring force.

Our next destination was Ethipothala falls. The narrow, hilly access route (called Ghat road) isn't easy. Ethipothala falls, meaning "lift and pour" in local language, is unquestionably a sight you wouldn't want to miss. The cascade is about 70 feet, forming a small lake at the foot and rejoining Krishna River in 3-4 kilometers.

The waterfall is also famous as a breeding place for crocodiles. Sadly, we didn't spot any. We did see small caves at the foot of the hills where the lake forms. We wanted to explore the caves and check out two temples situated close to the waterfall. However, our driver said it was too dangerous despite no crocodiles in view.

Once again, we were driving up the hill, this time through thick forest grove filled with sounds of grunting and growling. Some turns were quite steep. After an hour, we reached Srisailam and visited Lord Shiva's temple in the evening. The town had many such magnificent shrines with heroic legends from the Mahabharata and Ramayana (sacred epics of the Hindu community) sculpted on stone walls. The village held little else except a local market at the foot of the temples.

Next Morning at 7:00, we went to Akka Mahadev Caves. Akka Maha Devi is believed to be an incarnation of Parvathi, who lived naked yet without physical desire. She performed ritual devotions in these caverns. The boat journey to the caves was exciting, because hills surrounded the Krishna River and animal noises abounded. After exploring the caves, we returned to the cottage, packed our things and started the journey home.

Yet, there was one place left to discover. Mallalathirtham or Mallela theertham is in the Nallamalai forest, around 60 kilometers from Srisailam. We got there by noon, after a bumpy drive on the muddy road. Had it been the rainy season, this excursion would have been impossible. Rumor has it that tigers frequently come there to drink. I put on a courageous mask but was really freaked out about being tiger lunch.

After descending 360 steps, we finally reached the place. It looked quite mysterious with a green lake and huge rocks. This is a beautiful, mystical location, where sages worshipping Lord Shiva perform rituals. I wanted the enchantment to linger on my skin for a while. No tigers invited us to join them for lunch, so we got back around 10:30 at night. For me, this was more than a trip, learning the ancient stories of Hindu culture, which India freely lends to other parts of the world but sometimes forgets here at home.

Evelyn Hills is a spicy Indian girl who loves to sing or dance and play guitar or piano. Unlike the famous British Spice Girls, she's not a ho and speaks comprehendible English. She's the author of the book Ivana and the Secret Lake Adventures: Magic vs. Love.

This Dawg Loves Winter's Bone

2011-12-24T10:08:00.001-06:00

Hillbilly is a word with many connotations. For Americans, it conjures up visions of self-reliant folks living in the Ozark or Appalachian mountains. Sometimes, marrying adolescent cousins. Often, distilling illegal booze and settling disputes between Celtic-style clans with maximum violence and minimum outside interference.

Such stereotypes contain truths and also exaggerations. Yet, hillbillies aren't mythological creatures, nor have they become extinct but simply evolved. Winter's Bone is a film about contemporary hillbillies. I don't know how they could have made this movie any better - other than getting Daisy Duke to sit on my lap and watch it with me.

According to the storyline, Jennifer Lawrence is a teen caring for her brother, her sister and a vegetative mother. She stands to lose the family homestead, if her drug-cooking father jumps bail on his latest court appearance. John Hawkes is a reclusive uncle, who reluctantly joins her hunt for good-old-dad amongst tight-lipped, loose-triggered kin.

Superb acting makes an on-the-edge story surprisingly believable, plus the typical let-down of a crazy movie-ending never happens here. Why don't they make more films like Winter's Bone? Perhaps, it's too much to expect, but I wish Hollywood would throw this dawg a Winter's Bone more often. Female readers desiring a winter's bone more often need only to ask.

Wandering Mystic Meditation From Bear Country

2011-12-21T10:33:00.001-06:00

Snow Flowers by C Morley

Note to self: become bear-like / in these winter months / slow down to a soft snore / lumbering willingly / into my cave / embrace rest and darkness / to rejuvenate then emerge / in spring ravenous / to begin again.

It's winter once more, a time that always blows in with an urge to flee—to blithely take off for some warm, beachy, watery, absolutely-othery place than where I am.

Some winters have been deliciously beachy and othery. Most haven't. This year is one of those. Although, there is a beach getaway gestating in conversations for January? February?

This month I will be traveling, but it will be to my cave, that quiet place where I will (after a time) be able to discern what is superfluous, what is merely a pale imagining, what is begging for attention, and what is asking to be let go.

Then, at some moment when neurons, silence, warmth and unexpected inspiration come together, I will know in my cells what project, writing, or other endeavor is ready, willing and able to emerge—fat, fidgety and fertile—on the other side of winter.

Of course, there will be hard frosts, hard days, hard moods. Yet, the sap will still be waiting to run at the smallest opportunity—there will be no turning back once this bursting forth begins.

Bear Emerging From Hibernation

Wherever you are and however you are hunkering down in preparation for another inevitable and invincible cycle of seasons, may you embrace the cycle wholeheartedly. May you burst forth into the new year with a vibrancy that shocks and delights.

Nancy G. Shapiro is a coach and writer who conducts writing and well-being retreats at LifePath Center http://www.lifepathretreats.com/ and other exotic locales http://nancygshapiro.com/retreats.

Road Babe Dispatch From Columbia Gorge

2011-12-19T09:37:00.003-06:00

There's nothing better than waking up to the organic goodness of Sandborne's. I had a hot mushroom, spinach and jack-cheese biscuit. Portland's great for that: health food and home brew around every corner. “Same as Boulder,” Eddie said with his mouthful of corn beef hash.

After breakfast, we rolled up to Folkerts' place. He's an old army buddy of Eddie's on Mount Scott, a hill of gargantuan houses overlooking Portland proper. It was nice to do nothing – lay around laughing and talking until long after sunset. Then, it was off to Cinetopia, where Folkerts treated us to a film in the swanky, full-bar-serviced, leather-La-Z-Boy-laden theater. It didn't matter what movie we saw. We stuffed our faces with nachos and got drunk as Cooter Brown.

In the morning, Folkerts took us to a local joint called Biscuits for breakfast. It looked like a truck stop and the food was on point. I had been yearning to get back to nature, so we decided the Columbia River Gorge would scratch that itch.

Big grey clouds were swirling over indigo ridges and a light drizzle was falling on the car windshield. Pale mist hung above the green carpeted floorscape and sloshy drops fell on the Bridge of the Gods in a gorge that stretched to the horizon.

We took a micro-hike to Horsetail Falls where water cascaded over mossy rocks and sharp gusts whipped my hair into my eyes and mouth. We wore hooded rain jackets and listened to the pelting sounds against our covered heads. The higher we climbed the more rocky outcrops sparkled with wet needles and leaves.

After driving along the canyon a bit farther, we stopped at a parking area to rest our damp bodies against a short, stone wall surrounded by gusts of air. My dog Shakespeare's long white tail almost carried him away. I suddenly realized that I was sporting an uncontrollable smile and laughing into the wind.

By 7 pm, we'd grabbed take and bake pizzas and were returning to the mansion on the hill. While Folkerts and Eddie had a heated debate about polygamy (which made Eddie furious). I found myself wrapped up in the reflection that our road trip was nearly over. This meant our escapades had nearly ended as well. In the morning, we'd head back home and a month of traveling would conclude. Only one adventure left.

Spice Girl Caravan To Charminar Mosque

2011-12-16T10:39:00.007-06:00

Hyderabad, capital of the Indian state of Andhra Pradesh, has a rich Islamic history. Charminar Mosque, which I recently visited, is a beautiful example of its Muslim architecture. Charminar means four towers and refers to the mosque's four minarets. The monument was built in 1591 by Sultan Muhammad Quli Qutub Shah to mark the end of a plague epidemic. It's a heritage site located in the heart of the old city. In the past, one could walk up to the top for a view of the entire area, but sadly this is no longer allowed.

I was fortunate to ascend the mosque's pinnacle a few years ago, before it was restricted. This vantage point gives you a 360° view of the old city, especially the colorful market that Charminar is situated in. You can also see the High Court and other classic buildings from the top.

The mosque doesn't look as glorious as it used to. Perhaps, traffic, dust and pollution have diminished the beauty. While most of Hyderabad is delightfully historic and worth seeing, Charminar, one of the oldest and most-prominent landmarks, was a bit disappointing this time. Little has been done to preserve it. The mosque is used as just another gate, which the daily multitudes step into, through and out of ceaselessly. There's a nominal charge to enter the structure. However, this is not enough to keep the artistic wonder maintained.

There are two main options for getting to Charminar: you can take a bus or an auto. If you're hiring a car, there's space designated for parking, a rarity in this otherwise-congested area. Fair warning for those who like to travel alone: the old city has some reputation for kidnapping. Women can expect to be stared at or even teased, unless covered from head to toe.

Fortunately, I had my cousins with me, who speak the local language. I remained relatively quiet, since I don't speak it at all. According to my cousins, tourists and those speaking foreign languages are charged much higher prices in the market around the mosque. Unfortunately, this is not something rare for Indian markets, where shopkeepers sometimes gouge tourists. As soon as we reached the market area, we were assaulted by swarms of flies and pushy tuk-tuk drivers (or ricksha wallahs as they are called here) seeking our blood and treasure without taking "no" for an answer.

In the market, there are many good places to have Hyderabadi Biryani (a spicy dish of basmati rice and goat meat) or mouth-watering snacks. We treated ourselves to some delicious cardamom sweets. Ducked inside the shops next to Charminar looking for authentic souvenirs. There were colorful bangles from chudi bazar, attar perfume (sandalwood and lavender are renown), footwear and fabrics with motifs. Pearls are also popular here. These areas have tourists year-round, so make sure you have a local with you and bargain before making purchases, especially in the bangles market. However short your Hyderabad visit, I recommend this neighborhood for a rich experience.

If Picasso was right that two colors can sing, then the spectrum of shops and stalls in the Lad Bazar can be called nothing less than a chorus. The hustle and buzz, the smell of many different fragrances, plus the probing of the market people can create an enigma of confusion about what to buy or not. Everything you see shimmers and looks wonderful, but don't be taken in. All that glitters isn't gold. Search till you find genuine quality. Also, seek out originality, because most items have a clone sold at half price. Looks can be deceiving. A little care will ensure that the bargains you find really are.

Evelyn Hills is a spicy Indian girl who loves to sing or dance and play guitar or piano. Unlike the famous British Spice Girls, she's not a ho and speaks comprehendible English. She's the author of the book Ivana and the Secret Lake Adventures: Magic vs. Love.

How Christmas Mystically Conquered The World

2011-12-14T11:10:00.006-06:00

Why is Christmas the most-popular holiday in the world? I bet you didn't know that this is because of mystic visions by astrologers, warriors and cannibals. You don't believe me? Read on, noble seeker of global wisdom, read on!

Mystic Vision #1

Stargazing Astrologers End Their Quest

A biographer of Jesus named Matthew wrote: After Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea, during King Herod's reign, wise astrologers from the East arrived in Jerusalem and asked, "Where is the Jewish baby born to be king? We saw his star in the East and have come to worship him." Why was Matthew starstruck enough by this heavenly vision to include it in his book? Probably because he was a missionary in Asia, where the reading of stars was and is a common spiritual practice.

Jesus' first worshippers were from the East. You may have heard that Portuguese and British colonizers brought word of the Lord to Asia. Not so. Thanks to Matthew and co-apostle Thomas (whose tomb you can visit in India), Jesus had thousands of followers in the East before there were any in most of the West. Though the colonizers sported virgins and crosses on their ships and sails, Gandhi used the actual teachings of Jesus to show them the way home. Last time I checked, the world's largest church was still in Asia.

Mystic Vision #2

Constantine's Victory Accompanies His Vision

Constantine was a blood-thirsty, power-hungry Roman warrior. He made offerings to a sun icon Sol Invictus, the soldier's deity rebirthed and celebrated yearly on December 25th. One day on the battlefield, Constantine claimed that he was blinded by the sun, saw a cross in the sky, and heard a voice predicting he would conquer under the sign of the cross, rather than the sun star. He did. On becoming Roman emperor, he legalized worship of Jesus and supported its spread across the West. We now celebrate Christmas on the sun's birthday.

Christianity became so widespread in Europe that it was mistakenly deemed a European faith and propagating it became "the white man's burden." (Pop tart Shakira once wrongly identified Italy as Jesus' birthplace.) For centuries, ethnocentric Gentiles overlooked or denied the Jewishness of Jesus. Some Jews likewise insisted that the most globally-inclusive branch of their faith no longer be considered Judaism. Thus, when Whitey Wilson on Doctor House asks Curvy Cuddy whether she'd like to hear comforting words from Paul, she responds, "No thanks, I'm Jewish." Apparently, rabbi Paul has had ethnic-reassignment surgery from proudly-Jewish author to blond Euro-crusader. Since Constantine, Jesus has been more-or-less voted into the European Union and stripped of rabbinical robes without his consent.

Mystic Vision #3

Star/serpent/king Quetzalcoatl returns

Moctezuma ruled the vast Aztec empire with millions of subjects from an impenetrable palace on an inaccessible island fortress, surrounded by labyrinths of waterways and whole nations of allies, buffered by uncrossable mountains and oceans. His sacrificial cult makes Hannibal Lecter look as nonviolent and vegetarian as Siddhartha. Yet, he was out-maneuvered, held hostage, and conquered by the officially-unauthorized, poorly-equipped, grossly-outnumbered, cocky and kooky Hernan Cortez. While all this happened, the most powerful leader in the world brooded about a disturbing vision. Moctezuma found the prophecy of a star in the East, representing a great king returning to establish his kingdom, more compelling than defending himself. The result: one cannot ride a donkey ten feet in the Americas without bumping a shrine to Mary and her star-status baby.

Now, I'm no fan of traditional religion. (If Mary remained a virgin for life, prancing around the house in her pajamas while poor carpenter Joseph had no place to drive his nail, how praiseworthy is that?) Still, this Jesus kid, born in a barn and lying in a hay feed trough, acting all sweet and innocent, was a serious bad ass - and the heavens seem to have conspired with him. Even today, not-so-wise men from the West are compelled by stars (celebrity product-endorsements) to buy as many expensive gifts as their credit cards will allow. So, why not continue the spread of authentic revolutionary spirituality by giving someone a copy of my book for Christmas? All profits are used to benefit impoverished families in Mesoamerica.

Admittedly, my father wasn't much of a carpenter and my mother wasn't much of a virgin. Plus, the closest thing to a miracle I've performed is opening a beer bottle with my eye socket. Yet, somewhat-miraculously, five stars appeared over my book courtesy of Midwest Book Review, then scores of other lofty reviewers chimed in like a heavenly chorus singing "Glory to that volume in the highest!" So, this season's wise men are bypassing gold, frankincense and myrrh for Sacred Ground & Holy Water. Oh come all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant, oh come ye, oh come ye to A - a - ma - zon. Don we now our gay apparel (Ricky Martin, as you were) and let the fa-la-la-la-la-ing begin!

Wandering Mystic Meditation From Within

2011-12-12T10:52:00.007-06:00

People cringe when they hear the word “meditation.” It sounds so spiritual, right? A picture of the Dalai Lama zooms into view and sweat streams down while the pulse throbs. What if people heard the word “silence” instead? Silence is more commonly practiced. Parents tell their children to hush. Teachers instruct their students to quiet down. Movie-goers turn off cell phones and end conversation. Clearly, silence has value.

What if I said that silence transforms? Would that look and sound appealing? Notice how much importance we give to external sense perceptions—what we can see, hear, smell, taste and touch? How about paying attention to what can't be seen by the naked eye but stimulates the brain, or what can't be touched yet tightens the muscles, or what can't be sniffed but burns the lungs, or what can't be heard yet rings in the ears, or what can't be tasted but produces a dread in the pit of the stomach?

It's downright scary for people to acknowledge paralyzing thoughts and feelings, which can keep them locked up in unhealthy patterns and worldly distractions. People take refuge in material pursuits, falsely believing that these will lead to Nirvana. Life becomes a contrived cat-and-mouse game as individuals mindlessly chase after the next job, the next house, or the next partner. Over time, the repetition of these choreographed behaviors only reinforces addictions, compulsions and emotional dysfunction, along with despair, discontent and emptiness, hurling peace and satisfaction into a galaxy far, far away.

So, what's the solution, you ask? Allow me to share my experience of self-discovery. A ten-day silent retreat of vipassana meditation I attended transformed not just my life perspective but also my future. Thus was born my first publication Inner Pilgrimage:Ten Days to a Mindful Me.

Silence or meditation is a tool that can help an individual transcend external chaos and confusion, surrender to their inner calling and resurrect authentic self. Ultimately, most people realize that happiness and satisfaction lie in the present moment—the here and now. This is the ultimate motivator for living a balanced life. Silence isn't just for monks and holy people but for everyone—for you and me. Silence offers a way to tame stress and anxiety—daily experiences in the digital age. Silence can help individuals connect with themselves, just as Facebook helps individuals connect to the world.

My meditation has induced a sense of awareness that is helping me weather life's challenges in a calm, positive way. It has lessened my dependence on external approval, promoting openness, curiosity, empathy, generosity and emotional health. I live mindfully and focus on enjoying the journey of life with a positive outlook. Silence enables me to operate in a realm where I'm truly excited to be myself and energized to serve the greater whole. So, why not give silence a try? It might lead you into uncharted territories, or simply boost your confidence at work. Either way, you'll find a new expression of yourself beginning to emerge. Isn't that something worth exploring?

Raji Lukkoor is a mom, writer and engineer, trying to live her best life. She is the author of Inner Pilgrimage: Ten Days to a Mindful Me. As personal guru to Lyn Fuchs, she has helped him look inward, rather than gawk at her photo, which he unspiritually had made into a snuggly pillow without her permission. Glean more wisdom from Raji at http://www.rajilukkoor.com/.

Twisted Vagabondage Tale From Spain

2011-12-09T09:44:00.006-06:00

Each summer, American university students head out to foreign countries to work abroad. I spent one summer working abroad myself, while I was studying at UCLA. I sent off my CV to some program in Spain, and voila, I was offered a job to work at a department-store/diner called VIPS, a Mexican-owned company located in Madrid. I was already familiar with VIPS as I had traveled a lot in Mexico. I liked VIPS. It was a place where you could eat chilaquiles in the atmosphere of an upscale American diner. They also sold things like books and videos.

I was put to work in the book and video department. However, the second I started the job, the countdown to my dismissal began. Truth be told, I only lasted for three days. I just couldn't figure out the currency. In my haste to seem like I actually knew what the hell I was doing, I continually counted out the money incorrectly, which resulted in my cash register lacking somewhere near one hundred dollars worth of pesetas (this was the era before the euro) each time my shift ended. I was warned by the manager that if I kept this up, I wouldn't last. Instead of waiting around for my dismissal, I fired myself, fleeing Madrid for Andalucia where a friend of mine was spending the summer - or so I thought.

His name was Mike and his folks were Navy. So, they had a house near one of Spain's ports. Many of my travels have started like this. I have a friend I'm not really that good of friends with, who just happens to be traveling abroad, or I meet someone at a party some night, who is visiting from a faraway place. I get the crazy idea I'll go and visit them! We chat, exchange info and make plans. I'm sure most of these folks assume I'll never make it. The only problem is, I do. I'm kind of nuts that way. My hosts are always a little perplexed when I finally show up. Things don't always end well. Such was my youth. I'm married now with children, so I don't do that shit anymore.

Anyhow, I headed down South to visit Mike, who was decidedly not interested in me. He also hadn't mentioned during our short, pre-trip discussion that he would only be in Spain for a short while before heading back to the U.S. Mike was slated to return the following week. So, we hung out for a couple of days, he left for the States, and I decided I'd stay on at his parents' place. After about three days, I found myself in his mum's car, being literally escorted to the train station. She was looking forward to the departure of this strange American girl, who had suddenly appeared out of nowhere to hole up in her house.

So much for the hospitality of my fellow countrymen. I caught a train for Sevilla, where I didn't know anyone. Still, I had heard good things about the city, and decided I would look for work there. I picked up one of those free newspapers that had listings. (This was before the Internet.) Found a family who wanted a nanny. Mind you, at the time, I had no experience with children, not to mention I didn't necessarily like children all that much. Nevertheless, I was magically hired, thanks to my English-language capability. I was thus put to work tending to the needs of three unruly children: a three-year-old boy, a five-year-old boy and a nine-year-old girl.

I lived in the family's apartment, which I was not charged for. In exchange, I looked after the brats during the morning, while Mom was at work. This American woman had been studying abroad during college, when she met what she thought was the love of her life, got married and was quickly knocked-up by the Spaniard. In the wake of three young children, the relationship went bad. Mom left and shacked-up with another guy, plus her three mucous-nosed kids.

It was not the best situation, and I certainly was not the best candidate to deal with this domestic fiasco. The kids had no discipline, and I was incapable of disciplining anyone. I could hardly discipline myself. The eldest girl had a glass eye, the result of a night of heavy partying, when someone mistakenly aimed the cork of a cava bottle at her face. One of my fondest memories of time spent with this family was an evening of sangria and tapas, when Mom let the nine-year-old smoke a cigarette. I found all this hilarious at the time, fodder for many stories once I returned Stateside, never realizing how debauched and sad the situation actually was.

One day, Dad showed up and wanted to take the kids for ice cream. I didn't know I wasn't supposed to let them go. Mom was unhappy. The kids were returned later that night, after much arguing.

Another day, I took the kids to the park. In this part of Spain, on the outskirts of Sevilla, where the apartment complexes are communist chic, parks didn't sport grass, but were just sandy swathes, surrounded by benches. The three-year-old somehow got loose (probably because my nose was in some Gabriel Garcia Marquez novel). I had to sprint after the little guy till I finally caught him by the shirt tails. Needless to say, my time there was limited. I lasted a month. I was an irresponsible reprobate, but woe to the parent who hired a nanny like me, without references or experience, solely because I spoke English. Sometimes you get what you pay for. Sadly, so do the kids.

Lara Sterling authors Twisted Vagabondage Tales for travelers who like it rough. She is prettier than Vagabonding author Rolf Potts (though Rolf is very pretty) and could kick his ass (though only if he'd like that). She has written for Playboy and Larry Flynt Publications but now hosts an online radio show at writersradioresource.com and blogs at yourplotthickens.blogspot.com.

Primal Wilderness Rambling From Taiwan

2011-12-07T11:26:00.003-06:00

My trip to Taiwan several years ago stands as an example of how random events can set off chain reactions that lead to completely unpredictable results. A memorable link in such a chain took shape one evening at an outdoor table high in the mountains of central Taiwan. I was with half-frozen vacationers, huddled gratefully around a steaming pot of shabu-shabu, when a lanky Taiwanese guy named Ah-Li joined us.

Ah-Li was acquainted with Ming, a friend whose persistent invitations had convinced me and my wife Judy to travel there from our home. He took a seat across the table from me, nodded in greeting, and silently poured half of his large bottle of Taiwan Beer into a glass for me. We saluted each other with our drinks. In the Hakka dialect (of which I understood not a syllable), he commented that I looked chilly. Ming translated as Ah-Li produced a snack bag then handed me a green, pecan-shaped object.

“He says this will warm you up,” Ming related. I noticed that Ah-Li seemed comfortable wearing just a sleeveless undershirt, whereas my coat felt completely inadequate. The forested mountains around us rose to 10,000 feet and this was January.

I turned the mysterious thing around in my fingers. “What is it?” I asked.

“Betel-nut,” said Ming's husband Kai. “You don't eat it. Just chew like gum.”

Kai added that he and Ming didn't partake. I felt no desire to put it in my mouth but figured acceptance of the offer would be the only polite course. In the week we'd been on the island, Judy and I had committed a few minor faux pas, due to our ignorance of Asian values. For example, we'd scolded our son in public for touching strangers, assuming they'd object to a kid invading their space with potentially grubby hands. We didn't know the degree to which children are accepted there. Pulling our boy away from them sent an unfriendly message.

So, I popped the nut into my mouth. At first, it was tough and chewy like soft wood. I wondered how soon I could politely get rid of it. Then, my face suddenly felt warm. This warmth ran down the backs of my arms and a sensation of well-being spread over my body.

“Whoa!” I said with surprise. “This is something completely different.” I laughed in realizing I sounded like the guy from Monty Python. “They don't sell these in the US, do they?”

“Nope,” Kai said. “Illegal there. It's a mild narcotic.”

“Oh, now you tell me!” I smiled at my companions. The rush had already dissipated. I wasn't particularly excited about the drug and refrained from taking another. However, I thanked Ah-Li as earnestly as possible, given the language barrier. That little nut had taken my mind off the cold and refocused my attention on the exotic surroundings.

Our adventures around Taiwan tended to follow that template: Judy and I carried our worries into novel situations, then the country surprised and delighted us, making those issues evaporate. The time we spent in Alishan National Park was the highlight.

Alishan resembles America's Great Smoky Mountains, but with a distinctly Asian flavor. Wispy clouds called dragon's breath hang between steep, densely-wooded peaks. Narrow trails wind among the exposed roots and gnarled trunks of massive old trees. Seeing the sun rise is an obligatory part of everyone's trip there, so we ventured forth one morning before 5 am to find a suitable vantage point. We were the first to arrive, thus our spot was extremely quiet and peaceful. As the sky brightened, birds chirped overhead.

Another family drove up and joined us. Then, several vans appeared, from which issued a crowd of fifty or more tourists. Their guide leaped onto a retaining wall and started shouting excitedly at them in Japanese with a bullhorn! So much for peace and quiet. I didn't know what he was saying, but it sounded as if he were narrating the approach of the sun like a sports announcer at a football game. Astonished, I stopped focusing my camera on the skyline and snapped photos of the people around me.

On our last day, we drove back down from the mountains at a leisurely pace, stopping frequently at overlooks. At one point, we found a suspension footbridge crossing a dramatic gorge, where I had the strange feeling I’d been there before. I realized that I'd dreamed about the place, more than once! Very eerie. On the other side of the bridge was a small Taoist shrine, piled high with offerings of fruit and redolent with the smell of incense. A rocky path continued past it, which I followed to a dense bamboo grove. I couldn't shake the sense of having wandered into a magical place. Without friends waiting back at the car, I'd have lingered indefinitely.

Before going to Taiwan, I knew very little about Asia. I certainly never expected to go there. The first link in that remarkable chain of events was a doctor's appointment back in San Diego. Judy was writing a check at the counter when Ming's little boy rolled onto her foot. Conversation between mothers ensued. We became friends with Ming and Kai, who lived near us. Later, when they moved back to Ming's hometown in Taiwan, they urged us to visit—and wouldn't take no for an answer.

After our Taiwan trip, I began studying Chinese, believing the experience had lifted me too far out of my previous insular groove to ever fit comfortably back into it. I've made four trips across the Pacific since, acquiring friends and even relatives there. Visiting Taiwan became a defining event in my life—and it all started when a child rolled across the floor of a doctor's waiting room.

Stephen Gallup has a master's degree in English from the University of Virginia. He is the author of the memoir What About the Boy? and blogs at http://www.fatherspledge.com.

Darfur Is Carnage Worth Watching

2011-12-05T09:34:00.002-06:00

Darfur is a movie about journalists responding to brutal atrocities in Sudan. Some reporters do their job then get the hell out, believing this to be their role in the struggle against oppression. Others think the pen is mightier than the sword but an insufficient moral response to such depravities. With trembling hands, they drop their cameras to take up the right tools for the job.

Journalists played by Billy Zane, Kristanna Loken and Edward Furlong are visiting western Sudan with an African Union troop escort. They're a pitiful few eyes and guns in a lawless land of serial rape, child enslavement and tribal slaughter. Witnessing the Janjaweed militia engaged in the dirtiest of human deeds, they realize in horror that they can neither retreat without the blood of innocents on their hands nor engage without surely spilling their own.

Readers who wish to avoid the burden of knowing just how low people can go should also avoid this film. Unfortunately, such blissful ignorance usually renders one incapable of combating the injustices one cannot bear to face. Readers who choose to know what goes on in the darkest corners and ponder what we should do about it will appreciate this film.

Darfur is a place that separates folks into those who do what they can get away with, those who do what social convention requires and those who follow their moral compass wherever it leads. Yet, atrocities are hardly unknown in genteel locales, so viewers benefit from moral-compass-recalibrating. Consider recent events:

In 2002, Penn State grad assistant Mike McQuery saw coach Jerry Sandusky raping a boy around ten-years-old. While the kid stood naked with his hands against the locker-room wall trying to take it like a man, the so-called-adult witness was too traumatized to interfere or call police. That's if we accept his lame story, rather than the more-likely explanation that he feared losing his job.

McQuery currently faces no legal penalties. Why should he? For a generation, boys have been told an unassuming submissive man is better than an aggressive initiative man, who can easily be confused with guys who use their strength to oppress rather than serve. Why should McQuery obey nature's laws to protect the next generation, when his generation's laws scream against it? Had he slammed Sandusky's head on the tile, hollering for other men to help make a citizen's arrest, he might be the one with big trouble in a kinder, gentler ethically-confused nation.

In 2005, Canadian Katrina Effert strangled her newborn and tossed the body into a neighbor's yard. This year, the Edmonton appeal court gave her sixteen days in jail for disrespecting the neighbor's garden and zero days for disrespecting her baby.

The judge expressed sympathy with the "onerous demands" of childbirth. Why not? For a generation, girls have been told personal fulfillment outweighs any primal obligation to offspring. Shouldn't we commend this girl for carrying the torch of personal liberty a little farther? Perhaps soon, the law will allow us to rid ourselves of the "onerous demands" of spoiled teens and smelly grandparents as well. Vive la liberté!

Still, there are obstacles on the path to absolute freedom. After seeing the depths of human depravity in a concentration camp, Victor Frankl suggested that the Statue of Liberty should be supplemented by a Statue of Moral Responsibility, lest freedom degenerate into a meaningless existence. Getting everything we want isn't utopia, if we see monsters when we look in the mirror. Some consider lawless Sudan a libertarian paradise. Some celebrate the liberty to do as they wish with vulnerable children or babies that nature calls us to protect. Not me. Nature doesn't bend her laws to the will or courts of humans. All people submit to the laws of Nature in time. Sooner is better.

Wandering Mystic Meditation From Mendocino

2011-12-02T12:05:00.003-06:00

It was beautiful: the feeling that followed leaving the press of the city. Watched the lights dwindle to specks in the rearview mirror as we drove over the Golden Gate Bridge, the wide endless expanse of the Pacific to our left and the swirling waters of the San Francisco Bay on our right. It was the beginning of freedom, the first sweet taste of a liberty that is almost impossible to find within the confines of suburbia. It was the start of an escape.

As we made our way up the 101 into Mendocino County, the landscape slowly morphed into a scene awash with color. Reds, yellows and browns, all had the underlay of green that marks northern California. It was November 15th. The air was just beginning to take on the chill of an upcoming winter. Some say the seasons of California aren't really seasons at all. That it's a spoiled state whose natives can't really appreciate the beauty which manifests itself in the changing of the leaves or the sprinkle of snow lacking in its landscape. Yet, there are so many different forms of beauty.

As we left four-lane freeway for winding single-lane Hwy 128 and delved into the green wonderland of Mendocino's redwood forests, the silence that surrounded our car worked wonders. We spoke in awed whispers as we drove under the overarching canopy, fearing anything louder would disturb the peace we'd discovered. Eventually, even whispers died, as the silence became all encompassing. The sight of the redwoods (Sequoia Sempervirons) standing like wise sentinels on both sides of the road demanded it. If you've never been in a first generation redwood forest, it's hard to describe the peace that exudes from it. You want to drown in it and let it sweep you away in its rhythm. It's a primal one, long forgotten by many, but capable of rekindling itself within your soul, given the chance.

We relinquished the forest to our memories and were beset upon by the next leg of our journey. Emerging from the forest, the highway traced seaside cliffs with the ocean below foaming white as waves crashed over the rocks. Bob Dylan's “Red River Shore” began playing on the radio. “Well, I been to the East and I been to the West/ and I been out where the black winds roar/ somehow though I never did get that far/ with the girl from the Red River shore.”

The 128 became the 1, a solitary roadway that extends the length of the California coast from Washington to the Mexican border. The pleasure afforded by this route gives new meaning to the word majestic. The Pacific Ocean, your silent companion whose presence is impossible to ignore, reflects the blue of the cloudless sky and seems to pulse with its own heartbeat. This is your world, limitless sky and endless sea, plus the sun dipping over the horizon with its vibrant final salute to the day.

Fort Bragg appears in our windshield, a small town nestled between the redwoods and the coast, a place seemingly untouched by the bigger world, where cash is the only currency and credit cards are simply bookmarks.

There's one main street that runs through the center of town for about half a mile. Little shops, cafés, bars and coffee joints line Main Street on both sides, promising hidden treasures, friendly strangers and warm atmospheres. We'd been here a few times in the past, so before heading to our place of residence for the night we stop at Headlands, a small coffee house in the center of town.

We open the door and are immediately greeted by the sound of an acoustic guitar, its haunting melody drifting through the café, interlaced with the deep baritone of the performer. He's sitting on a stool in the back, almost hidden by the tables filled with patrons drinking their coffee or eating a pastry. As others shuffle up to the bar on car-cramped legs, I hang back listening to the music. It's a pure melody, driven by heartbreaking lyrics. While I watch the artist, a tear descends the man's cheek to disappear into his beard.

He finishes the song and looks out at his audience, none of whom have even noticed the guy is pouring his heart into the music. The light from the dimly lit shop plays over his face as his eyes search the crowd. Slowly, he drags himself off the stool, puts his guitar back in the case at his feet, locks it and shuffles out the door into the night without a word. This was something special, so deeply human that all you could do was acknowledge the connection silently. I drank my coffee and wondered about the girl from the Red River shore.

After a restful night's sleep, we headed back South to the Mendocino Coast Botanical Gardens, located about five minutes outside town. The garden specializes in rhododendrons and heathers, but has a wide variety of lovely plants that thrive in the northern California climate.

The garden extends from the highway clear to the ocean, with numerous paths and trails wandering the entirety. It's important to nurture a sense of ease when exploring here, as the scents of the rhododendrons mixed with the moist salt air and the sounds of the numerous sea birds overhead can only be fully appreciated with unhurried patience. If you traverse all the way to the shore, you'll be greeted with a postcard scene, as the garden grows right up to the cliffs bordering the sea. Standing on the brink, with the breeze flowing past you, the sea lions playing in the coves below you and the garden at your back, it's hard not to become entranced by it all, to become one with the One.

We returned to Fort Bragg for dinner before undertaking our four-hour drive home. Chose a pizzeria and pub called Piaci's, just off Main Street across from City Hall. It was a cozy hole in the wall confined to one small corner of a building with an L-shaped bar as the focal point. Tables and stools were pushed against the walls facing windows overlooking the old train station that was the main source of transport in and out of Fort Bragg between 1901 and 1925. After a Roma pizza and a few IPA brews, we departed. Yet, not before noticing the musician from Headlands sitting across the street, huddled in a doorway, strumming his guitar and singing to himself with a glass of whiskey on the sidewalk at his feet.

Patrick Wells is a 2012 graduate of Santa Clara University in California. He is preparing to head off for Brazil to teach English, work on his travel writing and wander the vastness of the world in search of the "next thing."

Road Babe Dispatch From Oregon

2011-11-30T11:04:00.011-06:00

We arrived in Portland before sunset, just in time to enjoy a few glasses of wine with my step-brother before the light disappeared from the sky. It was Voigner, a delicious white (which is a rare find because I never drink white). We parboiled then baked purple and gold and red potatoes in garlic and olive oil. We prepared fresh asparagus and a salad while Chuck grilled flank steak. We felt royal. After dinner, Eddie and Chuck broke out guitars to play me some Neil Young and Dylan tunes.

Another bottle was fetched and the good times continued. I think Eddie was in shock - not from the earsplitting hangover he nursed from Seattle, but because he and Chuck clicked so well. Music buff? Check. Nature lover? Check. Spiritual? Check. Photographer? Check. Sweet mint-condition old Porsche in the garage but drives a VW bus instead? Check. They were smitten. As far as I was concerned, Thursday existed but didn't. It happened but felt like it hadn't.

One of the many things I share with my step-brother is a love for volunteer work. The following morning, we headed out to work with an organization called Loaves and Fishes that delivers food to elderly or handicapped folks. Next, we went to Reed College (alma mater of the brilliant yet misogynistic Gary Snyder who was one of the greatest poetic influences on my writing and spirituality) for another volunteering experience with a mentor program. It was a nature walk with 1^st graders. Chuck mentors a beautiful Korean girl named Ouan with an enormous smile. All the children were delighted to have my dog Shakespeare along for the hike.

Next, we headed to Washington Park to see the rose gardens, which were blooming in every color and fragrance imaginable. Some are cultivated for their color, while others for their shape or size and still others for their aroma. As William Shakespeare said, “Of all the flowers, the rose is by far the most righteously awesome” - or something like that. The sun peppered my face with freckles as we hiked up to Pattock Mansion for a view of Mount Hood and Mount Saint Helens.

After that, we walked through the Arboretum examining conifers from around the world. The monkey puzzle was most interesting to me with its sharp pointed leaves to keep monkeys off the branches. Down time was in order, so Chuck redirected us to my personal nerdy heaven: Powell’s City of Books – a full block and 4 stories high of nothing but books where we spent the next few hours. Got so excited I had to change pants. We wrapped it all up at the Oak Bottom Pub, a burger joint with the killer micro-brew Dick’s IPA. A sign on the wall read, “Once things reach the bottom, they start looking up.” Since I'd contemplated killing Eddie only days before, I found it quite appropriate.

Mittie Babette Roger is from Louisiana but lives in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. She received an M.F.A. in Creative Writing from Naropa University and authored the book It's Better to Visit the Shaman Without Questions to Ask. She travels the world volunteering to help disadvantaged children and promoting Blue Iguana Tequila to empower serious drinkers.

Twisted Vagabondage Tale From France

2011-11-28T09:35:00.005-06:00

The French like to have children. They just don't like to get married. My insistence that my husband put a ring on my finger before he knocked me up was seen by our French friends and his French relatives as a cultural peculiarity that only bespoke my American naiveté. Truth be told, I like the quaint artifact that is a marriage certificate. It makes me feel safe and secure, plus diamonds are a girl's best friend anyhow, n'est pas? Nevertheless, a couple years ago, we had the honor of traveling to Metz France to attend the nuptials of a French amigo. Granted, he already had two children with his amour, but better late than never in tying the proverbial knot.

Metz is the capital of the Lorraine region – you know, where quiche comes from – which nestles up against the Germany and Luxembourg borders. It has a pretty center with cobblestone streets and a slew of pleasant restaurants. Yet, we didn't stay in the city center but somewhere in greater Metz, along the highway amidst Target-ish and Home Depot-esque generic goods stores, plus a shopping mall with a food court touting pizza and fried-dough eats.

Viva Les États-Unis, whose imperialistic fingertips have invaded the farthest crevasses of just about everywhere in the world, although not always without the world's consent. The French, like everyone else, adore plastic shit, which is pretty much how you'd describe where we stayed. A good deal of our hotel room was wrought out of molded plastic. Instead of finding tile in the bathroom, for example, stepping into the john was like stepping into a plastic cup.

The hotel boasted no concierge. You checked in by sliding your credit card through a computer that was bolted to the wall outside the hotel, which then spit out a plastic bit you used as your key. The hotel was called Premiere Classe, and they advertise themselves on their website as a “French cheap hotel chain,” which they might wanna consult an American advertising agency about, as I'm not quite sure “cheap hotel” is the phrase they wanna use. Of course, the only thing that was truly "first class" about my hotel stay was the royal backache I got from sleeping on one of their molded foam beds.

However, I digress. We were talking about Metz and French weddings. The ceremony itself took place in the cathedral in downtown Metz, although the bride and groom had long ago defiled the sacred conjugal covenant with a hell of a lot of premarital sex and two out-of-wedlock babies. Don't look at me. Those aren't my beliefs or my terminology.

After the wedding, we all scampered over to the reception, which was being held in the banquet room of a grand hotel in the countryside. We dined on Lorraine cuisine, then got drunk on vin rouge with a few other debauched Americans with whom we were seated. Gee, I wonder why. At some point, we realized it was about three in the morning. We had sobered up enough to drive. The problem was our car was on empty. As an American, I'm accustomed to convenience. Well, this was France, mon frère. Convenience is a thing of the fast-food, consumer culture I hail from. France is about long meals, much wine, and scarce gas stations, especially in the countryside.

I began to prepare myself for the reality that we'd have to spend the night in our car, wishing I still had enough booze in my system to not freeze off my kishkas. Let's face it: northeastern France in October isn't exactly balmy. Navigating the dark, back-country roads in our newly sober state, all the time watching the gas gauge drop below empty, I became seriously freaked. That was when we saw it: an open petrol station in the middle of the back-arse Lorraine countryside. We filled the tank and were back on the road, en route to Premiere Classe. Okay, so there was one good thing about our hotel room: it had a first-class heater.

Lara Sterling authors Twisted Vagabondage Tales for travelers who like it rough. She is prettier than Vagabonding author Rolf Potts (though Rolf is very pretty) and could kick his ass (though only if he'd like that). She has written for Playboy and Larry Flynt Publications but now hosts an online radio show at writersradioresource.com and blogs at yourplotthickens.blogspot.com.

Primal Wilderness Rambling From Algonquin

2011-11-25T09:25:00.005-06:00

“Live with wolves and you learn to howl.” ~ Proverb

For decades, visitors to Algonquin Park in the heart of Ontario have gathered to hear talks from naturalists at the outdoor theatre. Often the subject is a specific animal or plant found in the park, or the history of the place. On certain nights in August, the subject turns to the wolves of Algonquin. These wolves were long thought to be a smaller variant of northern timber wolves but in recent years have been identified as eastern red wolves, long gone from much of the East. The Algonquin wolves move around the park as a protected species, doing their part to end ancient human disdain of a magnificent animal.

After these talks, the tradition in Algonquin has long been to go out on what's called a Wolf Howl. I've had the pleasure of joining these excursions and hearing the wolves. When my family lived West of the park, there were occasions I'd wake up late in the night, hearing a pack howling together, all with distinct voices. Sometimes, they'd be far off in the distance. Other nights, you'd swear they were on the property. Sometimes the howls called out to other members of the pack. Other nights, it was to tell alien packs to keep clear of their territory. Occasionally, it was simply because the wolves felt talkative. In every case, the howl of a wolf is an achingly beautiful thing to hear.

The park naturalists started the program back in the Sixties, posting a notice at some of the campgrounds about what they'd be doing, expecting a handful of people to show up. Instead, they got a crowd, and the program took off from there. In the years since, the Wolf Howl has proved to be a popular part of Algonquin life in August. The night before, naturalists go out on the roads in what's called the corridor, stopping at regular intervals where they think wolves might be close, and simply howling or playing recordings of wolves howling. If there are wolves in the area, they respond. Since they stay in the same locale for several days, odds are they'll be close by the following one as well.

The next night brings the public. At the theatre, a naturalist talks about the species and its importance. Then visitors head out in cars (all very orderly and done to precision) for the spot where the Wolf Howl takes place. You can often see over a thousand people on these nights. Everyone leaves their cars and waits for silence, while park staff at both ends stop traffic from coming through. When all is ready, the naturalists start to howl.

Moments later, the reply comes, if the pack is still around. They might be far off in the distance. They might be very close. They may be on both sides of the road. Still, they’ll respond, their vocalization filling the night. It's a magical moment, hearing nature up close like that. If you're ever in Algonquin Park, it's something you must do.

I had my own Algonquin wolf encounter. Late one day on a hiking trail, I sat on a cliff for a rest, looking at a lake down below. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement. I looked up and there he was. The wolf came out of the woods, further down the cliff, and paused there at the edge. I was looking at him and he looked back at me. There was enough space between us that neither of us felt threatened by the other. It was as though he also came to take in the view. I like to think that was one of his favourite spots as well. After a few moments, he trotted back behind the tree line.

It's a rare privilege to look into the eyes of the wild, to share that kind of experience with a wolf. They are magnificent, bright, social - nothing like the stories would have you believe. Those who've been lucky enough to have an encounter with one, whether a momentary glance during a hike or the sound of a howl late in the night, know just how memorable that privilege is.

William Kendall is a writer, photographer and rock climber from the Ottawa Valley. When he's not working on his world domination scheme (no golfers allowed), he can be found writing the forthcoming Heaven & Hell, plus his personal blog Speak Of The Devil.

How To Be A Smart Traveler

2011-11-22T13:07:00.003-06:00

New travelers often see the world in terms of countries on a map or stamps in a passport. This is somewhat misleading. Seasoned world-trekkers know that natural boundries such as mountains played an older and deeper role in shaping cultural differences. Water defined humanity most of all. Today's global cultures evolved from ancient civilizations built on three great freshwater sources: The Nile, The Indus and The Papaloapan.

Big rivers allowed bigger settlements. Enhanced productivity gave humans sufficient resources to move beyond the primal survival question: How do the ones with the muscles provide food and protection to the ones with the breasts who give food and protection to the children? Spirituality was the result. People could pursue higher questions: Who are we? Why are we here? Where are we going?

The three rivers of civilization produced three streams of existential reflection. Enlightened travelers understand this. Such awareness helps them in relating to and learning from the people they meet on their journeys. Culture is like an iceberg. Food, art, clothes and music are just the visable tip that clues in the savvy trekker there is a huge reserve of meaning below the surface. Don't be a clueless traveler, obsessed with the tip but oblivious to the bulk of the mass.

Here are some resources that can help any traveler get a basic literary grip on the big three philosophical cradles of humanity. From the West, read The Torah, The Gospels Plus Acts and The Koran. From the East, read The Bhagavad Gita, Siddhartha and The Art of War. From the Americas, read The Popol Vuh, The Conquest Of New Spain and (wait for the shameless plug, wait for it...) my upcoming book Fresh Wind & Strange Fire. It won't be as good as The Torah or The Koran but will have more pictures. Keep in mind that this is more or less a kindergarden spiritual education. It probably won't impress babes at parties. However, it will make you more substantive and globally-informed than almost any reporter on CNN.

A few years ago, there was a popular travel book by a major publishing company containing a laughably-ignorant blunder. The author journeyed to The Haida Gwaii Archipelago. Wandering a cemetary, he offered politically-correct musings on tombstone inscriptions. A white Anglican man's eulogy read "Gone on to heaven." The author ranted long and hard about how arrogant this was. He then contrasted such with the spiritual humility of an indigenous man whose marker simply read "I have fought the good fight."

The writer was unaware that this is a quote from Paul who wrote half of the Christian scriptures. Paul's passionate words in anticipation of his own execution go on like this, "I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. Now there is in store for me the crown of righteousness." Hardly an example of meek religious understatement. Even Jon Bon Jovi knew enough of this quote to write a song without looking dumb.

I realize that spiritual illiteracy won't hurt an author's rep with the media. More likely, knowing anything about the Bible would make one a suspect of polygamy or snake-handling. (No matter how many women reject me, I refuse to handle my snake.) Nevertheless, let me boldly contend that travelers should make some effort to know before they go. Friends don't let friends travel stupid.

Wandering Mystic Meditation From Charlottetown

2011-11-18T11:30:00.003-06:00

As a Canadian, I must confess that when we think of taking a trip, we usually plan on going anywhere but our own country. We travel to the United States, Europe, Mexico, Aruba: someplace we deem to be hot, exotic, or fun. So, with this mindset, imagine my consternation as an eighteen-year-old when my parents told me we weren't only staying in Canada for our mandatory family vacation, but we were driving from our home just outside Toronto to Charlottetown Prince Edward Island. This meant two weeks of sitting in the car with my parents and two younger siblings, looking at things I considered boring. I almost declared mutiny right then and there.

At the time, all I knew about P.E.I. was that it was an island, Anne of Green Gables author Lucy Maud Montgomery lived there, and they grew potatoes. Booooring. Now, looking back on that trip, I'm so glad we went. I was totally wrong in my entire way of thinking and my attitude. P.E.I. is one of the most magical places I've ever experienced. It feels removed from all the hustle and bustle of modern life. The beautiful beaches with sweeping red dunes are breathtaking. I remember spending time there with my siblings climbing over sand and watching waves. It was one of the few times we weren't fighting and arguing amongst ourselves. It was as if the very atmosphere of the island had infected us with the magic.

Everyone in Charlottetown seemed to genuinely love living there. People would bend over backwards to be kind to even the most obnoxious tourist. They all seemed to take the utmost pride in everything they did. I'd never tasted fish so fresh in mainland Ontario. I must have tried every kind possible, prepared in every way imaginable, and it was all perfect. Every bite was moist and flaky. I've not had anything remotely as good since.

The respect for history on the island is more than we have at home. While we plough over our farms to make room for even more houses and build tacky glass boxes onto beautiful century-old museums, they fight to conserve and protect every aspect of where they come from. From the height of their buildings preserving the view to their banning of billboards as an eyesore. From the loving protection of Green Gables to the yearly theatre festival bringing the arts to all.

Prince Edward Island is a gorgeous place that I definitely want to go back to with my own children. I know they may go kicking and screaming, just as I did. (Let's face it: they'll have come by that honestly.) But once there, I know they'll also fall under its spell. That tiny little province taught me to slow down and enjoy the view. It taught me to appreciate the little things. Plus, I'm still craving a good meal of maple glazed haddock. I can't seem to find a single place in my neck of the woods that gets this dish just right.

Alisse Lee Goldenberg lives in Toronto with her husband Brian, their triplets Joseph, Phillip and Hailey, plus their rambunctious Goldendoodle Sebastian. She's a lifelong student of fantasy, folklore and fine arts. Her new novel is called The Strings of the Violin. Learn more at www.alisseleegoldenberg.com.

Primal Wilderness Rambling From Hell's Canyon

2011-11-15T11:38:00.006-06:00

Needing a break from the writing scene, we take a trip on a jet boat down Hell's Canyon beginning in Lewiston Idaho. There are many ports where one can start this journey, but since we are going with friends from Lewiston, we choose there. The Lewis-Clark Valley is actually Lewiston Idaho and Clarkston Washington separated by the Snake River. The drive East toward Lewiston is beautiful as the highway meanders through canyons and volcanic hills along the riverway. Around every curve is another breath-taking view of the varying landscape. If you’ve not ventured into the area, I suggest you take the trip. (Last two sentences do not apply to photo.)

The Lewis-Clark Valley is surrounded by 3,000 foot hills. I can’t say they’re mountains, since I’ve been to the Rockies and the Cascades. Yet, this valley is just beautiful in its own way. Normally, in July and August, Lewiston is about 110 degrees, but this summer the mid 90s greet us - much better than the sweltering heat. Our jet boat arrives on the docks at 8:30 am and we board with our friends, water bottles and snacks in hand along with our cameras for snapping wild life photos.

Hang on to your hats! The roar of the jet boat engine makes conversation nearly impossible as we zip upriver. The massive volcanic rock turns our ship into a miniature toy boat on the water. The scenery is unforgettable and it makes me think of busy folks back East who have never experienced the West. They have no idea of the serenity it holds, nor the beauty I see scanning the hillsides for big horn sheep.

Our guide slows the boat down and steers closer to shore, so we can get a better look at the big horn sheep drinking along the water's edge. The guide tells us these animals normally don’t scare and they’re so used to hearing and seeing jet boats on the river that they do as they please. The muscular, powerful animals stand proud with their heads held high, their huge horns at a perfect angle for those taking pictures. They truly are a sight to behold, if you’ve never seen one of these sheep up close and personal. The pictures just don’t do them justice, but I do my best so you can see too.

We are lucky to spy other wild life as we continue farther into Hell's Canyon. Our guide tells stories of the old West and how life along the Snake River was for early settlers. Sheer solid rock cradles the river at the bottom of the canyon, holding in the heat of the day. There are old mine shafts into the sides. Some entrances can be seen while others are back off the river among the rocks.

On the return trip to the dock, our guide stops at Buffalo Eddy, which is the deepest part of Hell's Canyon, to show us Native American petroglyphs. This is just one more amazing sight that I can keep close to my heart and remember I was there. A trip down the Snake River has so much to offer. Do yourself a favor and take advantage of a jet boat tour. You'll see things that you won't soon forget. My memories vividly return while looking through these pictures to share with you.

Tonya Kinzer is the author of the steamy Boss's Pet series. She writes erotic romance with the reader in mind, hoping they can step into a world that might be different from theirs. If so, perhaps it can help the reader get the courage to open dialogue with their partner, so they can receive what they really want.

Publisher Lyn Fuchs adds this endorsement: Before encountering Tonya's books, I used to be too shy to tell my partner that I wanted to include a whip, a donkey, or her sister in a tender moment. Now, I'm fully able to express my emotional needs, just like that reptilian hermaphrodite who wrote those Mars/Venus books. Thanks Tonya for sharing so much of yourself with me, both on and beneath the covers - of your books I mean. All readers are welcome to send us travel tales for publication by following our submission guidelines.

Road Babe Dispatch From Seattle

2011-11-11T09:44:00.002-06:00

After 3 weeks on the road and a week without bathing, there was nothing left to do but head for Seattle. Not that we were complaining. Seattle had called to us down the long winding road, and we were ready to answer. Got a hotel room in the suburb of Everett, because it was cheaper. Took the shower we'd been dying for then drove into the heart of the city.

After getting lost in Chinatown, we lucked into Pioneer Square and found some parking. Wandered into the first open bar door we encountered: J&M’s Card House. This is an old wooden bar where draft beers and ghosts of old salts abound. One beer became four as we flipped through the paper for that night's events.

Much to Eddie's flannel-wearing chagrin, Seattle isn’t what it used to be in the glory days of grunge (his words). We canceled plans to seek out live tunes and walked 15 blocks to a hole-in-the-wall sushi joint serving late. (That's what I call sobering up.) Might have been by chance, but if I had to guess, I'd say divine intervention played its role. It was quite possibly the most delicious sushi I've ever eaten. We washed down our salmon sashimi, yellow fin tuna and rolls with sake then Japanese Sapporo beer.

By the time we left and started back to J&M's, Eddie turned to me and said, “I need tequila. I don't want it. I need it.” The wild look in his eyes indicated he was serious and I'd be driving. We walked into the bar, but the scene had changed drastically. It was late. What was a laid-back, chill-spot had become a frat-packed, rap-vibe, meat-market. I sipped mineral water while Eddie downed tequila after tequila.

Though I didn't know the way back, I was the sober one. Driving in circles thru an unfamiliar city, I pulled into a gas station to ask a cabbie for directions, but we still got lost. After another half hour of wandering, Eddie got frustrated with the map and tore it up before passing out. I pounded his chest with my fist trying to wake him up. Finally, I pulled into another gas station to ask more directions. To my surprise, it was the same cabbie. “Are you kidding?” he asked.

“No. It's just that Eddie drove us here and now he's …”

“Nevermind,” he said. “Follow me.”

He led me in the right direction far enough to save us. I debated leaving Eddie in the car overnight but didn't have the heart. I kicked him till he woke instead.

The morning was nothing short of painful, if only because of the hour we got in the night before. We checked out around 11 with two goals: find Ivor's to down as much of their famous chowder as possible and get the hell out of Seattle. Our misssions accomplished, we headed South for Portland. Eddie slept the whole way.

Mittie Babette Roger is from Louisiana but lives in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. She received an M.F.A. in Creative Writing from Naropa University and authored the book It's Better to Visit the Shaman Without Questions to Ask. She travels the world volunteering to help disadvantaged children and promoting Blue Iguana Tequila to empower serious drinkers.

The Best Travel Story Ever

2011-11-08T13:42:00.006-06:00

The greatest travel tale ever told is also one of the oldest. It has inspired the faith of humanity and the music of Bob Marley. You can find it in the Torah book of Exodus or the Dreamworks animated musical The Prince of Egypt. I'm talking about the journeys of Moses. Consider three life-grounding principles that have emanated from this world-changing narrative.

1) Life has an overseer. After losing his position as an adopted son in Egypt's royal family to flee a murder charge, Moses hooked-up with some brown sugar from a poor nomadic tribe. His resume went from prince to shepherd. While tending the herd, he saw a burning bush and heard a voice saying he was standing on holy ground. Moses then got a message even better than my book Sacred Ground & Holy Water: there is One who is above all. This idea became a foundation of Islam.

2) Life includes justice. The vision of Moses entailed a commision to return to Egypt, where he would lead his clan out of brutal slavery into a better life. In other words, the One is not only there but fair. Somebody upstairs actually gives a damn about all the injustices perpetrated in this world by those who seemingly have the power to get away with it. Good to know for writers who wanna look at the world as hard as Hemingway did without duplicating his glug, glug, click, bang finale. The midnight getaway led by Moses is celebrated in Judaism's sacred Passover.

3) Life includes compassion. The One is not only there and fair but cares. This exodus led by Moses was a gift that kept on giving. Centuries later, a rabbi named Joshua made roughly the following Passover speech: "This year, we have two sacrificial lambs and one of them is me. Surprise! Management not only cares about freeing us from other people's oppression, but our own enslaving bad character." This rabbi, who shared Bob Marley's faith in both Exodus and Red Red Wine, became so globally popular that he's mostly remembered by his Greek name Jesus.

So, whether you partake in the bread and wine happy meal called Communion, or the super-sized version known as Passover, or prefer to just get down and holla "There's no God but Allah," you should appreciate those performing the other rituals. They're not only practicing their faith but the basic principles of yours. Enlightenment can come from a burning bush, a lotus blossum, a bodhi tree, or a bottle of fermented cactus.

As for "Islamic" jihadists, antisemitic "Christians" and people who hold funerals when their children marry gentiles, they're really just racist jerks. It has nothing to do with any kind of spirituality. Let's all get out there and make Moses proud. Any guy who trades the Egyptian pyramids for a fine black woman's pectoral cones is (in the ancient words of the Doobie Brothers) just alright with me.

Road Babe Dispatch From Washington

2011-11-03T09:36:00.002-06:00

I woke to the tapping of rain on the tent. Eddie had been up since 6:30, scribbling in his journal while I slept. The night before, we'd camped by a creek in Mineral Springs Washington. After setting up, I'd made hummus wraps and mac-n-cheese. Delirious from travel, we'd laughed like lovers or maniacs or both.

When I emerged from the tent, Eddie told me the rain had subsided. It was hard to believe, considering the swollen state of the creek. Shakespeare, my adorable but not so bright dog, barked at water-swirling rocks to protect us from any monsters below the surface.

We packed up and made our way through large conifers. These woods seemed familiar, like those of West Montana and the Idaho panhandle: large green spaces filled with the sound of moving water. We stopped in Yakima for supplies but forgot wood and ice. Passing signs for fresh cherries and asparagus on a winding mountain road, we spotted a storefront in the mist: Calvin's beer and sporting goods. “It just rained here,” Eddie said.

“Where's a reindeer?” I asked, passing him the herb pipe.

“Just go get the goods already.”

Inside the musty store, I found an empty counter backed with rods, reels, hooks and plastic baits in different sizes and colors. Behind that, there were picks, axes, shovels, guns and ammo. There was nobody supervising the guns. I figured they must have ice when they have beer, right?

This lumberjack type rounded the corner, a red flannel belly held up by suspenders, a knotted brown ponytail, a wide double chin and inbred crossed eyes. When he looked at me, one eye rolled to the outside corner.

“How much for a bundle?”

“Five bucks and I'll throw in some extra,” he said. “There's a good campin' spot four miles South on a gravel road on the right …”

“That's okay, we're …”

“ … or two miles North on a dirt road going left at the fork …”

“No really, we're …”

“… or one mile North on a gravel road on the left and down the river. Rain is up around here. Been washin’ out some of the best spots. If I got paid for information, I'd be a rich man.”

While he chopped the wood, I headed out to the car. “I was about to come get you,” Eddie said. “What took so long?”

We ended up in an old growth forest by Iron Creek, a primordial land sunken in mist. I swear I saw brontosaurus snacking on treetops around every corner. As soon as we set up camp, it started to pour. So, what did we do? Put on raincoats and investigate! Along the way, we discovered a raging river, an amphitheater filled with six-inch slugs, a slippery bridge and footprints from prehistoric man. We were completely isolated, having gone back to The Land Before Time.

At this point, it was really drenching, so we ran back to camp and huddled inside the tent with wine, salami, and asiago cheese puffs. Shakespeare was beyond pouting, not allowed to enter the tent but stuck under the vestibule, pushing his disgruntled face against the mesh. (Check out his sullen attitude in the pic.)

When the rain slowed, we made a small fire. A furry spider, so big his hairs glistened in the firelight, perched on the arm of my folding chair. We watched the stars come out above us as Shakespeare crept into the tent and fell asleep.

Mittie Babette Roger is from Louisiana but lives in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. She received an M.F.A. in Creative Writing from Naropa University and authored the book It's Better to Visit the Shaman Without Questions to Ask. She travels the world volunteering to help disadvantaged children and promoting Blue Iguana Tequila to empower serious drinkers.

Authoring The Literary Future

2011-10-31T11:23:00.006-06:00

Mr. Lydecker is a rich aristocratic writer in 1940s New York. An enchanting woman named Laura, who works for the Wallace Flow-Rite Pen Company, approaches his restaurant table to ask for a product endorsement. Lydecker is appalled. He protests that he's a respectable author who uses goose quills not new-fangled technology.

This is a scene from the film Laura. The Oscar-winning movie, based on Vera Caspary's crime novel, shows a time when writers could afford to be snobs and cigarettes made people look sophisticated. Things change. One can guess what stick-in-the-mud Lydecker would have thought of Amazon, Kindle, and the like. We authors tend to be nostalgic, if not somewhat elitist.

When Gutenberg's revolutionary gadget initiated mass publication, many book lovers had concerns about publishing for the masses. Faster, wider distribution meant less quality-control. Maverick William Tyndale, who whipped out a popular edition of sacred scripture, was executed by traditional publishing gatekeepers. (That's right New York literary cartel: you're the equivalent of the old-school Vatican and I'm claiming the solar system doesn't revolve around you!) Yet, the presses rolled on. Today, noone reading a Bible, Gita, or Koran on the bus gets the death penalty, even if its a cheap paperback full of misprints rather than an elegant leather scroll.

A publishing wave is now hitting the beach (and much shitty writing is hitting the E-reader fan). Surfing this wave is difficult for many authors, but reversing the tide is an impossible, unhelpful daydream. We writers must embrace our destiny. Let us fight to preserve ancient ways that are truly sacred but not struggle so hard for "what was" that we miss a chance to make "what is" the best it can be. Artists who live in the past also die there. Those who move forward will author the future.

What's Travel Lit Really About?

2011-10-27T10:46:00.002-05:00

Once upon a time, sons of European nobles set off on road trips to hack, skewer, and drive people of other faiths from "holy lands." We call those travels crusades. Many "holy warriors" embarked with the same gleaming eyes and clueless grins now seen on kids of American elites joining the Peace Corp for somewhat vague do-goodery. We call these travels "noble causes." Commoners, like me, usually travel for unspiritual reasons like finding a job, scoring a babe, or escaping the law.

Back to my point. I'm almost sure I had one. Oh yes, the road to hell, Asia, Africa, and Latin America is paved with good intentions. Yet, during rainy season, this clearly isn't enough. Still, folks often travel for the journey and what it means to them, rather than the destination and what they plan on doing for or to someone else. Today, we say people are on a crusade when it seems their zeal for a quest stems from its enhanced personal significance.

The destination does matter, of course. I try hard not to be a been there, done that, stayed there, ate that, travel author. You know those surfer dudes and traveler bimbos who write about places they barely visited much less understood. Who needs more of that? At least, racist colonial writers spent enough time observing the darkies to make hateful condescending remarks one can laugh or cry at, but can anyone explain why Rolf Potts' famous article on chasing Leonardo DiCaprio around Thailand is travel lit not celebrity gossip?

Consider the film The Eagle of the Ninth. Celtic lands and ancient culture are not surveyed in detail. Yet, bleak windy ridges and damp mossy ravines almost seem to justify harsh lawless decision-making that could never be explained to olive-oil-annointed senators back in a Roman garden. Physical terrain partly defines moral terrain.

Likewise, The Eagle's bloody pilgrimage for a gilded Roman icon is unjustifiable to a ridiculus extreme. Nevertheless, this is a pilgrim most guys (especially fatherless ones) can relate to. The quest isn't really about re-erecting a fallen standard of Rome. It's about re-erecting the limp pole of a wounded young man. Me thinks the man doth protest too much. He claims to be defending his father's honor, but looks more like he's desperately asserting his own.

That's why most guys can enjoy this silly BROmance and overlook much of the nonsense. We truly need to find the holy grail of manhood - to hell with the details. If we can't find ourselves at home in the metrosexual present, we'll trek to the end of the earth in a fictionalized past. Travel is partly about the destination, even more about the journey, but mostly about the migration and transformation of the soul.

Road Babe Dispatch From Lake Ponderay

2011-10-24T10:24:00.003-05:00

I woke to knocking on the bedroom door. Covered my face with a pillow while my travel bud Eddie talked to Schuck (the jerk from the last Road Babe Dispatch). Time to pack the Ford for a couple days on the lake. We were asked if we could hurry. Seven a.m. light sharpened my hung-over, dark-ringed gaze. “Here we go again,” I said.

We tried to rally friends for the trip, but they were soundly sleeping. Schuck banged on their bedroom doors as we played with Shakespeare and their two chocolate Labradors. Schuck paced in circles around the patio. He crossed his arms, huffed, then plopped in a lawn chair. A bee landed on his leg and inserted its stinger. As Karma would have it, Schuck was deathly allergic and carried no epinephrine.

Matt and his fiancé Charis were both EMTs. They administered some shots. These left him staggering, but demanding we continue. We dashed to the woods, looking again for my lost passport. The search party turned up mosquito bites and an antique lantern.

Outside the marina quick-stop, Schuck broke out in hives. More shots were administered while he sat on the tailgate. His throat was tightening. Despite pleas to take him to a hospital, he refused. Instead, he passed out for a few minutes in the sun.

We stocked up on beer and loaded a virgin $200,000 boat with camping gear before launching it. The swanky white vessel belonged to a customer from Schuck's old job. I didn't consider that much of an explanation, but rolled with it. Cottonwood pollen floated on the water.

In his hurry to relax, the hospital was not an option, even though Matt was running low on shots in his kit. We spent the day sunbathing, reading and drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon. Every few hours, Shuck consumed more Benadryl, washed it down with beer, passed out, and erupted in more hives. At six, it was time to dock at the island, set up camp, then haul ass across Lake Ponderay for dinner. Needless to say, I hit the wine hard.

Back on Cottage Island (which is owned, yes owned, by some aristocratic types), we slept on a green bluff overlooking a flat stone beach. In the morning, we found Schuck and Sara on the boat, which was surrounded by bees. Matt was out of epinephrine shots.

Since Schuck was in charge, we hurried to and through breakfast. I ate huckleberry pancakes. Schuck looked bad, his arms, legs, stomach and back glistening with red welts, but ingested more Benadryl with booze. “Now hurry,” he said, “back to the boat.”

We fled to the vessel, to the island, through breaking down camp, while loading the yacht, to the middle of the lake, so we could do absolutely nothing for six hours. Now, don't get me wrong, I like to relax. I'm pretty damn good at it (unless someone in my party is about to die). Everyone sunburned except Sara and me. We split a bottle of Washington red (good sun-block). Schuck kept taking meds every few hours and passing out in the sun. We stepped back and forth over his curled-up body on the deck. Occasionally, he awoke and chugged a Rainer or an Olympia.

Back on shore, we cleaned the certified yacht, shined the leather and wood grain, then polished the windows to perfection. We said goodbyes and went to a Mexican place, where Schuck drank fishbowl margaritas and ordered dinner with two desserts. “Hey, bring those out at the same time.”

New hives began forming on his forearms and lips. Close to the mouth is close to the throat, so Sara finally demanded he see a doctor. The medics at the hospital reprimanded Schuck for not coming sooner. He didn't hesitate to say, "I was busy."

Mittie Babette Roger is from Louisiana but lives in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. She received an M.F.A. in Creative Writing from Naropa University and authored the book It's Better to Visit the Shaman Without Questions to Ask. She travels the world volunteering to help disadvantaged children and promoting Blue Iguana Tequila to empower serious drinkers.