Vote for your favorite article/photos (you must log in first!)

Please login to vote.
Tuesday, 01 March 2016

Rome After Dark

Written by
It was midnight at the Teatro dell’Opera. Mother and I had endured a production of Tristan und Isolde so lengthy and grueling that even the most diehard Wagnerians were praying for the doomed couple to expire. When the hour-long death scene finally terminated, we staggered out of the auditorium in a lugubrious stupor. “Tristan,” moaned Mother, mimicking the heroine’s last gasps. “Tristan.” “Isolde,” I wailed. “Isolde!” Our fellow spectators—lavishly outfitted Romans all—exited in a similarly stricken state. I’d never known a crowd of Italians to be so silent and introspective. “Why don’t they just die already,” said Mother. “Who? These poor Romans? They’re as innocent as we.” “Not them. Tristan and Isolde. Why do Germans have to drag everything out?” “I thought you’d like it. You’re half German, after all.” “Not that kind of German. It reminded me of something Hitler would put on to impress Mussolini.” Tristan und Isolde…
Friday, 01 January 2016

An Easy Hike, Honduras

Written by
I am going to die. The thought sears my brain as I dangle from the hole in the mountain trail I’ve just fallen through. Nothing but a vast expanse of air separates me from certain death. My heart quickens as time slows. Terror twists my body and my grip loosens on the root I’m grasping as my hands grow moist. My life doesn’t flash before my eyes. Nothing does. Everything is a blur. The blurred faces of the other hikers. The blurred smirk of the head guide I call Tarzan. The blurred leaves of trees overhead. Even as the hands of Tarzan and another guide pull me to safety, I can feel the weight of gravity still pulling me down, down, down. I slip a little and their fingers bite harder into my flesh. Finally my feet hit solid, and hopefully unbreakable, earth. My body sways and the forest slowly…
Sunday, 01 November 2015

Goats & Milk: Ukraine

Written by
Before we went to get the milk, my finance Katya and her mother, Elena, decided that it was best for me to wait outside as they entered the small, village grocery shop outside of Dnipropetrovsk in eastern Ukraine. We were in search of edible meat and cheese. While I waited, I noticed a goat chained to a fence. I decided that I had to take its picture. As I began snapping, an elderly man with a long, white beard came waddling up, angrily waving his finger at me, shouting something in Russian. “Nyet, Russkiy,” I said, pleading my case, but the man continued shouting at me. Moments later, Katya came running out of the shop, coming to my defense, while Elena finished up the grocery purchase. “Is this your foreigner?” the man asked Katya in Russian. “Da,” Katya admitted nervously. “Did he do something wrong?” “Get him the hell out…
Monday, 31 August 2015

The Mount Popa Gauntlet

Written by
There were hundreds of monkeys, all climbing, playing, and guarding the steps that led to the top of Mt. Popa. I had been surprised not to have seen monkeys anywhere in Myanmar. And now I knew why: they were all at Mount Popa, atop which sits one of the most sacred temples in Myanmar. Bare feet, a long and narrow staircase, and gangs of aggressive monkeys. I thought back to my travel nurse – “You have 24 hours” she had said again and again. 24 hours from contact, even a scratch, before rabies became incurable. It was high-season for baby monkeys, and I’m pretty certain they were part of a larger Mount Popa matrix of maliciousness. Like street peddlers who send their children to distract you while they snatch your wallet, the six-inch toddler monkeys were sent in all their fearlessness to the front. Afraid to step on them or…
There is a society of women that gathers weekly outside a rather unsavory, yet highly favored fish and chips shop in the busiest district of Port Elizabeth, South Africa. The purpose of these meetings is to stand in line to purchase the abundant pre-used cooking oil that is regularly made available by the proprietor of this fish and chips shop to interested consumers. This proprietor, a jovial Indian gentleman, operates this sale of his used oil on a first-come-first-served basis, so you will understand the commotion as the women queue and watch while their counterparts at the front of the line buy the oil in bulk. At first glance this oil resembles something that should be placed in a vehicle engine; however these ladies are undeterred by the oil’s appearance as they appreciate its affordability. Reusing cooking oil is a common practise in most parts of Port Elizabeth; or The…
Saturday, 01 February 2014

Not All Vacations Are Created Equal

Written by
What you expect of a Mexican vacation: great food, lazy days at the beach, haggling over jewelry and clothes, a full head of braids, and lounging by the pool. At least that is what I expected, and that expectation was the itinerary of my first trip to Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. But as I, and my family, would learn, you really cannot have the same vacation twice. When we first got there everything went as planned, we haggled, bodysurfed, and rode horses. But on day two things started to take a turn for the worse. Day 2: What Happened: I had noticed a burning pain on my upper back/shoulders, which I attributed to an ordinary sunburn (nothing novel about that for me, I ALWAYS burn on vacations). Mexico has the power to make you believe no time has passed and while it is charring your skin, you still think you’ve only…
When I saw the bag on the seat opposite me moving on its own accord, I did a double take. When I looked again, it was perfectly still. I rubbed my face and presumed that it was sleep deprivation, making me delusional. I was at the bus station in Savannakhet (Laos) sitting on the dilapidated coach, bound to Hue (Vietnam) and just relieved that I had two seats to stretch out my ungainly, almost two-meter frame, to sleep away the next seven hours of travel time. A bag moving on its own accord wasn’t going to occupy my thoughts and prevent me from getting the rest I needed. I chose this bus because after a few weeks in Thailand and Laos, spent traveling in taxis or on air-conditioned tourist buses with fellow backpackers; speaking English, acting English and doing nothing more parochial than drinking the local beer, I craved something…
Sunday, 30 June 2013

Cork for Capital of Ireland

Written by
“You can’t order Guinness in Cork!” My second faux pas, and we’d been there for less than an hour. On arrival, my partner Isacco and I bundled ourselves into a taxi, having loaded up our bags and asked to be taken to the Glen Ross Guest House. “Oh, you won’t be wanting to go there,” the taxi driver chortled. “Why on earth not?” I asked, visions of flea-ridden mattress, rancid stains and the aftermath of drunken debauchery racing through my mind. “It’s over there,” he pointed smugly. Certainly in need of a pint, we wandered into The Cork Arms after establishing ourselves in our thankfully clean, respectable lodgings. After rectifying my mistake by ordering Cork’s finest, a pint of Murphy’s, Lawrence the landlord began to twinkle. I nodded and gestured earnestly; failing to confess I was having real trouble understanding a word he was saying since he was swallowing vowels…
Wednesday, 01 May 2013

Indiana Jones and the Teahouse

Written by
In the absence of anything else we were done. Time to leave. I turned and made the universal cheque, bill, l’addition, conto sign; I wrote on my hand in thin air with an imaginary pen in the direction of the young girl standing attentively nearby. Immediately she scurried away and I returned to savour the view for what remained of my time in the exquisite Chinese teahouse. Our day to that point had taken us on a local taxi ride from our hotel in downtown Xi’an central China to the Lintong District of the city. We were deposited close to, but not exactly at, the entrance of the world Heritage site containing 8,000 life-sized terracotta warriors built to protect the first emperor of China. The close to drop off point was by design. A barely disguised local conspiracy to funnel the thousands of tourists heading to the famous site through…
Thursday, 28 February 2013

Have map, will find way …

Written by
“I can do this,” I tell myself firmly as I squint at the Basel street map. Husband Tom is usually with me on my travels, the map in his hand, while I trail several steps behind, like the Duke of Edinburgh in the wake of her majesty – or in my case, his majesty. But this time I’m traveling tout seul. I gaze around anxiously, searching out a street name; then turn my map upside down. “Got it.” Leaving the railway station, I follow Elizabethenstrasse into the heart of the city. I shiver and pull my coat closer to me. Basel is bracing itself for winter. The summer sun has thrown a final kiss of warming rays. Autumn has nipped in and he is setting the city’s foliage alight. Gold, russet and burnt-orange is spreading across town like wildfire. Manuela, long-time Swiss friend, texts me: Stuck @ work. Go 2…

Search Content by Map

Search

All Rights Reserved ©Copyright 2006-2017 inTravel Magazine®
Published by Christina's Arena, Inc.