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Dec 20

World Travelers

World travelers are hidden in our daily lives. The man on the corner selling newspapers has seen the foothills of Saudi Arabia. The woman in the next cubicle has danced in the bars of Israel. Walking down the street in a city, I wish I could simply look into the minds of passerby. What are their stories? Where have they walked? What have they seen? On one occasion, I finally was able to look into the travel stories of one traveler – spending his winters in a corner of a classroom, waiting for the summer months to come.

Brett looks up from his computer and smiles. He turns down his techno music (a standard sound in his study periods) that has been resonating from his computer speakers, and turns to me. His jacket displays the logo of the HHS Wrestling team, with COACH brazenly embellished on the sleeve. He is deeply involved in Haverhill High School, with good reason; it was his high school too. And though he has returned to where he grew up, the trip getting here has taken him across the country, and across the world.

Brett Legault grew up in Haverhill, Massachusetts. He attended Haverhill High, where he played football, wrestled and ran track. After graduating, he attended Plymouth State University- not for teaching, but for his degree in Business. “No, I never planned on being a math teacher, but once I tried teaching, I fell in love with it after the first day,” he tells me. His favorite part of teaching? “I love it when you can see the light go on. It’s amazing when the kids don’t think they can do something, and then figure out they actually can. Usually, it’s just a matter of trying,” he explains with a genuine smile. But it isn’t just in the classroom where he helps Hillies succeed.

But his other passion is far from New England. It is in the tacks upon his wall. I learned of Brett’s life of travel when in high school, after asking him about the map he had next to his chalkboard. It isn’t often that world maps are found in math rooms. But it isn’t often that a math teacher is able to say he’s been to Thailand. Mr. Legault’s travels are represented with colorful tacks stuck in every country and state visited, creating quite a display. This man takes his summers seriously: seeing the world.

After graduating from college, Mr. Legault moved to Las Vegas with a friend. But even in the Entertainment Capital of the World, there wasn’t enough excitement. And in a moment of freedom, of living life without ties, without regret, Brett decided, with a spin of a globe, to become a traveler. “We were just sitting around, shooting the breeze, and I started spinning the globe…and I was looking at all the places I hadn’t been yet. My finger stopped on London…so I went.”

Thus began a life of bartending in London, and traveling on short one to two week trips around the continent. On any given day Legault could be in Thailand, or Ireland. Some weeks, he went to France and others Amsterdam. For four years, Mr. Legault lived as a traveler. After being asked for one specific experience that he held above others, he told of a weekend trip to Ireland. “I met ‘Uncle Bob’ while in a bar one night. He was a retired cop. We met and he basically took me under his wing, showing me all the places that tourists never see. I was even invited to meet his family and friends. In that weekend I learned a lot about Ireland in a citizen’s perspective, rather than a tourist’s.” His face lightened as he thought back on the old man, and then his eyes grew wide as he recalled another memory. On the other side of the world, he was snorkeling the Great Barrier Reef, when he came across a shark. As it swam by, he said, “I realized how much life has to offer, and how many experiences are out there if you just let yourself find them.” Out of all his travels, he tells me that New Zealand most complemented his personality. “It’s just the epitome of nice being nice. They’re just amazing people with strong morals.”

With so many stories kept hidden in the colorful tacks, it’s amazing that the traveler has found his way back home. But he has the memories, and continues to make them. “Iceland is pretty high up on my list of places to go next,” he says with a glint of excitement in his eye. I wouldn’t doubt his intentions either. For this man, another summer means another tack in the map, and another memory filling his mind.

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Author:
Lisa Angelina Filed Under:
blog - Blog

Dec 14

Fire and Water

On a cool summer night, I step away from the sparkling coals of the bonfire and make my way carefully down to the dock. There are double the stars: half in the sky, half in the smooth surface of the water. I dream of stepping out onto the surface with my bare, sap-spotted feet and dancing across the Milky Way. I’m jealous of the Loons who float across the water, weaving in and out of the big dipper and circling the moon, with no noise but their haunting calls out into the cloudless sky.

To me, those birds are the sound of summer nights. Echoing off the boundaries of Long Lake, the trilled cries harmonize with the pops and cracks of the fire, the summer wind drifting through the leaves, and the gentle bump of the canoe on the side of the dock. This is where I spend my summers. Sitting on the rocky coast of a lake in Maine, my grandparents’ house behind me, I need nothing else. It’s a perfect New England get away. Maine is known for being “the way life should be.” Sometimes, I believe it.

My grandparents’ house is located in Harrison, Maine to be exact, and situated on the back of Cape Monday Cove on Long Lake. Few know where it is until I tell them it’s connected to Sebago Lake, which, for some reason, is a popular camping spot for people in my hometown of Haverhill, Mass. It’s exactly a two hour drive - over the river and through the woods. Dirt roads and farmland rule the countryside, but it isn’t all that rural. In the summer, the population of the town triples in size. It’s a vacation spot – the water comes alive with boats, swimmers, jet skis, floats, trampolines, water-skiers, wake boarders, and the ever so popular tubers. I like to listen to them, the low drone of their engines, and the high pitched screams and laughter of those being bounced around on the waves. They usually circle down into the cove, sometimes to sight-see, sometimes to reach calmer water for wake-boarding tricks. It’s relaxing. I usually can be found on the dock, back towards the sun, eyes closed and listening to the sounds of the water. Rarely are we in the house in the summer. If we are it is simply to change, or eat.

The house is situated on the side of the rocky banks. But my grandmother, through years and years of work, has made the landscape into gardens worthy of magazines. Everywhere, there are flowers, bright yellows, oranges, pinks and purples: Black Eyed Susan's, Impatients, Roses, Peonies, Morning Glories, and Zinnia’s. They line the drive as you come into the yard. They’re on either side of the wooden walkways my grandfather has constructed, surrounding the house on all four sides, hugging the cement walls of the cellar and flowing outward ten to fifteen feet.

One year, my brother and I made stepping stones, with our hand prints as the centerpiece. They still sit in the garden next to the driveway, alongside the birdbath and a wooden bench. Pine needles are usually sprawled over the surface. Now, when I try to place my hand in the print, my fingers are twice as long, and my hand too wide. Those little hands are the same ones that gripped the tattered rope of the wooden swing that sits in between two pine trees overlooking the water. There are pictures of my grandmother and I on that swing when I was too young to even walk. One year, the rope broke and I flew off into the rock wall in front of me, scraping my legs on the way down. But with a length of new rope and a couple of nails, everything was back in order.

That swing is only one of many constructions my grandparents have made for me. Across the street, there is a playground hidden in the woods. It has everything: a tree house – suspended between five or six birch tree saplings, a seesaw, picnic table, zip line, and a tire swing. It was amazing in the fall and in the winter. But once the mosquitoes took over, it was almost unbearable. I’d still venture into my playground in the summer to look for toads - tiny little toads that I used to collect like bottle caps. My grandmother would take old soda bottles and make them into little homes for the amphibians. I’d carry them around until I felt bad, and then let them back out into the woods, telling them that I’m sorry but I just wanted to look at them for awhile.

My grandparents love projects. The arrangement of our docks changes drastically every year, as they are trying to make the perfect set up for our boats. My grandparents own their own fleet consisting of two kayaks, a sunfish, a paddle boat, a canoe, a small fishing boat, and a powerboat. I like the kayaks, and the canoe. Awhile ago we had a dingy, which usually only fit one person, but I was small at the time so I could fit with my Dad. And he rowed us around the island at dusk. We watched a Crane take off into the sunset on the far side of the lake, only to come back with a fish in its mouth later on.

The cove behind the island is even quieter than our own. Another time we glided through, I was in the canoe with my mother and grandmother. The sun was setting, and the water bugs were dancing on the darkening surface of the water. I sat in the middle, on the floor of the canoe, dragging one hand in the water, catching the whirlpools my mother’s oar was making in the surface. Loons called out to us, announcing our entrance into their homes. And then a soft music was heard. There, in the back of the cove, a violin was singing a high, slow melody. The lights of the houses behind illuminated the water just enough to silhouette the canoe with the violinist. He was alone, playing for all the cove to hear. And the Loons harmonized, making nature and music come together in an eerily beautiful song that I shall never forget.

The island is only accessible by boat in the summer. In the winter, the ice freezes so thick that they plow a frozen road to this otherwise inaccessible land. Ice fisherman and snowmobiles also take advantage of the temporary tundra the Maine winter brings. My grandparents’ house, what was in the summer an unwanted necessity, is now a comfort. Walking in, the fireplace is burning brightly, and through the sliders, I can see the lights of snowmobiles flying across the flattened surface of the lake. The television is turned on longer, and the beds upstairs have more blankets added to their layers.

The winter has a different feel. It’s more of comfort, less of fun. The snow is piled high against the windows. And sometimes I retreat to the cellar to the computer room to sit and talk. My grandfather is usually down there, working on his US Sub Vets website. Sometimes he tells me stories about living underwater for months at a time. I couldn’t imagine it. I can barely stay inside the house for a day straight. Walking out onto the ice, the wind whips by, and my face freezes. One year, there was no snow, but the ice was three feet thick. It was a skating rink ten miles long. I wished I had learned how to do more than simply skate forward. At night, just as in the summer, the winter has a magic. Gone are the loons, but the ice sings it’s own song. Expanding and contracting, as almost as if it’s breathing, the ice murmurs under the snow. Low, thundering booms are heard even inside the house. I love to watch the reactions of those who don’t understand the noise. Many feel my house is haunted. In all seasons, an eerie sound is present. To me, it is simply a part of my cove.

Some nights, when I walk down to the dock and wish I could dance among the stars, my grandmother will come down and stand next to me

“It’s beautiful out tonight,” she’ll say, gracefully sipping out of her wine glass.

And sometimes I don’t think she understands how much her home, this place, truly means to me. The loons call out, and she tells me to come back up to the fire. I can hear my mother laughing in the background. I smile and follow her back up. In the warmth of the embers, my family is smiling. I smile too. For the moment, I don’t need to dance among the stars. Dancing in the firelight is just fine.

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Lisa Angelina Filed Under:
blog - Blog

Nov 30

Ostuni, Italy

“I’m going upstairs tonight,” I called to them over my shoulder as I shimmied up the L-shaped staircase and pushed on the metal door.

“Do you have a blanket at least?” Kaley called back to me. It was March, and though we were down in one of the most southern parts of Italy, the chill was still there, rising off the ocean and up over the sea of white stone that is Ostuni. We had decided to travel on our spring break, but because my friends were visiting from the University of New Hampshire, I thought it foolish to spend extra on a guided tour and airfare for a trip to Greece. Instead of following my roommates to the Pink Palace, we found our one white one - a summer house of a local Italian woman. She has a shop across from Café Pretoriana, the bar we frequented, and was friends with the owners, who told us about the opportunity. The little store was filled with ceramic art. Plates and dishes, cups and ladles, basins and tables, all painted beautiful blues and oranges, yellows and greens. She was a true artist, and she was proud of it. She grabbed my hand and pulled me around the store, showing me a painted rooster on a vase, and a plate with a pattern so intricate, it was almost impossible it was completed by hand. She spoke to my Italian friend, Shereen, about the property and Shereen relayed it back to us. It was inexpensive because of the off season; the artist thought us crazy to go down there so early.

“Siete pazza!” She said as she threw up her hands, almost knocking over one of her masterpieces. But she was grateful for the use of her little home away from home, and so were we.

After a five hour train ride, we pulled into the Ostuni station in Puglia, Italy. It was dark, but light shone down from the hilltop, the town bathed in a golden light that embellished the white walls of the structures.

Once we reached our door, it opened to a small, almost cave-like dwelling. The inside is much like the outside, with the white walls gracing the hallways and rooms. But the difference, was that this woman had brought her artistic style here as well. The ground floor bedroom was painted with tall reeds and sand dunes with furniture to match. Upstairs, painted vines scaled the walls and bricks were revealed beneath the white for a truly decorative touch. She painted curtains on the walls and rocks upon the floor. And the silhouette of the buildings right outside her home were decorating the inside above the bed upstairs. We had a painted Ostuni skyline to take hold of our dreams.

But it was when we discovered the rooftop that I knew a piece of my heart would remain within this city. As we climbed the last few, almost hidden, steps and pushed open the metal door, it screeched on rusty hinges and revealed a panoramic view out to the ocean. There was more of the woman’s artwork even here – a painted sun right below where the sun sets on the horizon. We ate and drank there. We were suddenly disinterested in the house, and spent hours reading in the warmth of the March sunshine, and gazing out from our perch atop the city. But the most precious find was mine. As the others walked down into the city to buy bread from the local baker, and the ancient olive oil from the farms of the ancient olive trees that line the city, I explored, and found a closet full of summer accessories. And behind the plastic lounge chairs and the drying racks, a hammock unraveled into my arms. Embellished with shells on the fringe, it was the perfect piece to my furniture puzzle on the small little roof. I strung it up and poured myself a glass of wine. La vita e bella. Life is, and was, good.

That night I ventured up the stairs again as my friends settled into their beds. I brought along my blanket and as I pushed that squeaky door, the sky unfolded through the crack into a spread of stars like I have never seen. I listened as abandoned wind chimes rang out among the other rooftops stacked below mine. I imagined all of these houses full in the summer months – with wine glasses clinking upon some and laughter dancing up from other rooftops. I settled into the hammock and the southern Italian wind rocked me back and forth as I gazed up into the inky black sky; not a sound but those bells and the wind.

Sometimes, the most popular places to visit are not the best. Finding that diamond in the rough is simple when traveling; you just need to have the courage to take chances to find it. As I stepped into Ostuni, I had barely researched, but it ended up being one of my most memorable experiences. Though the town was under populated, though it was chilly, I found the solitude inviting and the landscape gorgeous. Dare to take the chances that may lead to mental serenity or adventure. Your most memorable travel experience may be hiding in a diamond in the rough.

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Author:
Lisa Harvey Filed Under:
blog - Blog

Nov 22

May the road rise to meet you…

For some reason, the owner thought it’d be a good idea to paint it Kelly green, and to make it worse they painted a leprechaun on the side. Typical. Tourist. But it was cheap, and it was easy, and it was my savior from planning, and procrastinating, and producing nothing but worry. My backpack was tossed in, with the bags of the Canadians and the Chinese and the Australians and the Swedish, and I sat in my own seat, curled up behind my coat and I looked out the window to the green, the leaves, the sheep, the ocean, listening to the Irish brogue of our driver as he lulled me to sleep.

And that bus, that horrid green, that blends-but-clashes-with-the-landscape green, that contained a small collaboration of nations, rolled over the hills of Ireland and down to the coast and back up again. Over and over. Like the surprisingly blue waves off the shoreline. And I would sit, and lean my head against the window, swaying back and forth with the rocky road, sitting in my adopted, moving home, feeling that this was the safest place in the world, the safest, strangest place I’ve ever been. This bus, where I knew no one. Where I was no one. No one but the lone American girl that had studied in Italy and was from Boston. And the freedom of it – the freedom of being able to be anyone I wanted. To do anything I ever wanted to do, say what I wanted to say. I could. I had no restrictions, no baggage, no history. No one had any expectations. They knew me as I acted that week and nothing more, nothing less.

So it was ok, when some days I was loud and happy, and laughing, and talking, and telling stories about my life, my home, about Italy, about people that I loved, my pets, about what I missed from home, my school, about everything that I have ever known, releasing my mysteriousness, letting them know me, letting them understand. But it was also ok to sit in my own seat, legs pulled up tight to my chest. Sit. Think. Listen. Learn. Quiet.

And I’d feel so happy, so content, so needlessly comfortable, watching the landscapes of Ireland pass lazily outside my window. And my heart would soar and tell me it wanted to live here forever. In between the rocky coast and the rocky countryside. Weaving through the fishing harbors and the peat bogs and the myths and the fairy rings. And when I stepped off that bus and walked onto the plane that last day, the bland, white plane, I sat in my seat and brought my knees to my chest and rested my head against the window. But something, was missing.

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Author:
Lisa Harvey Filed Under:
blog - Blog

Nov 14

Spin the Globe

I swirled the whipped cream into my hot chocolate, making patterns as the spoon twisted in the cup, hitting the sides, plinking with each moment of contact.

“I have no idea,” I sighed, and dropped the spoon to the side of the cup with a clatter. Tuya was sitting across from me, the light of her computer reflecting in her glasses. She squinted at the screen. “I don’t really care. I just want to go.”

We were sitting in Café Pretoriana in Ascoli. Besides the school, it was our only internet access point. The password to the WiFi was Led Zepplin. The hot chocolate was as thick as pudding. They played Italian rap music. The couple that ran it became my best friends. It was a comfort place.

    “What about here?” Tuya spun her laptop towards me and pointed to the digital map. A small speck in the center of the Mediterranean appeared under her finger.
    “What is that?” I asked.
    “It’s called Malta. Must be warm, right?”
    “Better be. I’m pale and need tanlines.”
    “Is it a country?”
    “No idea.”

Before we had looked at that map, Malta was a dog. I had never heard of the country, or its people. But my travels were an educated adventure that opened my eyes to another small, but beautiful portion of the world.

As we walked down the street to Granny’s Inn Hostel, I could not believe the weather. Bluebird skies and eighty degrees in April. Purple, blue and pink flowers were blooming through the wrought iron fences, and a breeze wafted the scent of the ocean air up through the maze of pale colored houses with bright colored trim. As we were buzzed in, I exclaimed at how gorgeous this place was. She gave me a puzzled look.

“Welcome to Malta.” She said as she shrugged. This weather was the norm.

In the next few days, we toured the city, craving the history, the beaches with names like Golden Bay and Paradise Bay. We roamed the craft areas and went dancing in the clubs. Malta was a haven I had never even known existed. And it started with a pinpoint on a map, a little spontaneity, and a chance.
When asked, many people will say they want to travel to big cities, the famous. Rome, Paris, New York, London, Dublin. But when you search beyond those limits, worlds can be opened up. Before purchasing that next flight, spin a globe, stop it with your finger, and reveal worlds you never even knew existed.