Out of my window, in the close distance, the hill-top town of Civita di Bagnoregio floats on a soft sea of mist, as if cast off from the valley below. Umbria the green heart of Italy lies to the north and Rome and the Lazio to the south. This town of Civita, in front of me, is something of an enigma as it sails away from its past and into its uncertain future. It is called The Dying City as it is gradually shedding parts of itself into the valley “Beware of these mists!” my neighbor, a Lubriano villager, warns me as an aside. These mists do clear usually by noon and reveal an astonishing sight: A valley more steeped in mystery than the ancient hill-top town of Civita di Bagnoregio itself. Civita is a town that the odd tourist will stop by to see on their way from Rome…

Lying underneath a starry sky on an island in the middle of Lake Titicaca while wearing a traditional Cholita outfit is not something I ever thought I would experience. On the small island of Isla de la Luna however, a controversy like a blonde Finnish girl in an indigenous Aymara dress is only the beginning of the strange contrasts. The island of Isla de la Luna on Lake Titicaca relies mostly on fishing as the main source of income for the locals. The island has an exciting history and hosts an ancient Tiwanaku temple, dating from the old Andean culture that lived from around 300BC to 1000BC. Isla de la Luna has also had a run in with the Incas, who decided to make the Tiwanaku temple theirs by adding their own design elements. Due to this rich nature and history, the 25 families that live on the island have…

“We are now entering into the beautiful city of Cadiz [Cadith],” announced the soft-voice of our tour guide on the bus from Madrid to Cadiz; his “z” sounded like a “th.” I peered out the window at my new home. Entering a new country becomes an experience that changes one forever: new sights, new smells, and new sounds. In my time traveling, I learned that to appreciate a culture was to immerse myself completely in it. My trip to Spain proved to be one of these life-changing experiences—landing in Madrid, I had no idea what to expect. The sky looked the same; the sun had followed us from New York and sat in almost the same spot. Our group of thirty Villanova students sleepily piled onto a mega-bus and headed towards our hotel, which would be our home for the next couple of days. Three days later, still jetlagged and…

In 2009 I spent six months studying in Istanbul as part of my degree course. There were many reasons as to why I chose Istanbul over the other cities available, one of which being the chance to experience what many view as the most infamous football derby in the world. Ignoring the obvious safety concerns, I’d read enough on the Istanbul derby to want to go. The existence of Besiktas does indeed complicate matters from time-to-time, but the real antagonism lies in The Kitalar Arasi Derbi (Intercontinental Derby) between Galatasaray and Fernerbache. Galatasaray verses Fernerbache is in many ways the perfect storm. A cocktail of geographical, political and financial contrasts making it one of the few derbies that is—at least to the fans of the two sides—truly more than just a game. Like all world renowned football derbies, the Istanbul derby had a political edge. Whilst Galatasaray is located in the…

Istanbul is a big market.  Yes, they sell everything: from roasted chestnuts to whirling dervishes. They sell with heart and sticky obtrusiveness: if you stop even for a second, you’ll get stuck for a half of a lifetime. "Why did I come to Istanbul? A thousand times I regretted it. Time has passed, and there is no escape,"- says an old Turkish song. The longer you stay in Istanbul, the clearer you see author’s point. This city sucks out time, money, and energy, but it seems you don’t have the strength to push away another cherished glass. How many of these stories: one came for a week - stayed for a month, another came for a month –stayed for 10 years. Well, at least there are many of us, the stuck ones. Not to mention 12 million locals. Plus roughly 2 million tourists a year, but to be honest, these seem…

When I decided to apply for the Peace Corps, I thought it would be best to enter the process with no expectations. With a degree in English and Sociology, an interest in humanity and no true direction upon graduation, I thought it was past time that I experience life in a different culture. Within months of my interview, I knew that I would be headed to Cape Verde, the tiny archipelago off the coast of Senegal, to teach English. What I didn’t realize was how much I would learn over the following two years. What follows is a glimpse of my experience, and a few realizations that defied my previous understanding of life while living through the lens of a different world. ***We like to think that we are all unique individuals, but there are many universal certainties in the human experience. We are all born of someone, have lived…

After living in Mexico City for a year, I can say it is noisy, smelly, crowded, polluted, exciting, exotic, endless and breath-taking. The ancient Aztec capital Tenochtitlan, now turned modern metropolis, has everything a visitor might be looking for, whether they are the intrepid traveler looking for adventures, the seasoned city-stroller searching for something new, or the rookie roamer taking his first steps into a new world of traveling. Mexico City has architecture that shows the stages of history from the Pre-Hispanic period through the Colonial days and until today. It has a history resembling a swashbuckling tale of adventure with its gold-hungry conquistadors, evil inquisitors, brave indigenous and idealistic revolutionaries. There are massive marketplaces selling everything from animals and insects, both dead and alive; fruits and vegetables of every color, size and taste; and all the knick knacks you could ever hope to buy for your friends placed on…

We were fortunate, especially with the current economic and housing crisis, to have sold our small apartment in New Hampshire for a bit of a profit. Since we had recently retired after over thirty years as educators, we now had the time, the incentive and the self-determination to follow our long-loved passion of slow traveling. In other words: we are senior citizens who will spend our junior year abroad. For the first time in our 45 years of marriage we were homeless, jobless, and after giving our 2003 Honda Hybrid to our daughter, also carless. What were we to do? Follow our passion!

As an Australian who now lives in the ordered life of Singapore, my working life takes me to many places in Asia, some of which I have the opportunity to stay for a while. Among my favorites is Mumbai, India. The magic of Mumbai always gets my heart racing – it’s almost mindboggling how this city of nearly 20 million people (a shade under the population of my entire home country) manages to function. Despite the chaos that prevails at almost every single turn, the city not only functions but throbs with a vibrancy and potency that is unique to Asia.

An international career change I think it was the moment I heard the announcement aboard Royal Brunei Airlines flight BI0098 telling us that our plane was about to be blessed before take off that I began to concern myself with some of the potential issues arising from moving to a Muslim country for a minimum of a 2 year contract. I had agonised over the conservative (some say strict) dress and social code of conduct, the ‘dry’ conditions rarely seen outside the Middle East, and the fact that every single person I spoke to seemed convinced that Brunei was located somewhere off the coast of Dubai, rather than its true location perched on the northern coast of Borneo.

I would not call myself a business traveler, nor would I claim to live abroad; implying distance from some hypothetical home base. Instead, my home, my work, and my life belong to a kind of transient village. As an acrobat with one of Cirque du Soleil’s touring productions, I have performed for audiences in thirty cities across the globe. It has meant adapting to different cultures and climates, foods, fashions, languages, and different rhythms of life.

The first time I met John he yelled in my face. It was the night I began volunteering at St. Catherine’s, and I was nervous. I stood outside the convent soup kitchen, unsure, but the waiting homeless men seemed to know what to do, and one of them rang the doorbell for me.

I had to get out of Cuenca. The six days of entrance exams (prospective students at my language school had to take an oral/written placement test prior to course registration) that I had just endured left me exhausted. I couldn’t bear to look at another language book or study guide – I needed a break. In my desperate search for a sound mind, I set out that Saturday morning in early January with two goals set before me: leave behind the frustrating Christmas vacation duties at Centros de Estudios Interamericanos (CEDEI) and make my first trip to the Cañar province. The Cañar province was a tiny, mountainous region just north of Cuenca. It held Ecuador’s most notable set of ruins, Ingapirca, and I was more than ready to make the trip.

Tuscany, with its distinctive food and wine, gregarious people, ancient landscape and history forged by fact and fable, is a compelling attraction. And while package tours largely eliminate apprehension, they don’t necessarily ensure intimate connection with the culture. After a time, a bus window can become the frame in which the still life of the land is viewed with diminishing passion, and a day here or there soon dissolves into a week of misted memories. Inherent in routine is the danger of detachment.

As the skies over Canada inevitably turn a light shade of gray, and the windowpanes are slowly conquered by an opaque frost, the urge to join the flocks of birds and head south for a few months becomes apparent. Having experienced over thirty Canadian winters prompted me to question, why do we live in such frigid temperatures when there are perfectly decent, warmer countries that exist a few hours away? This led to a year’s worth of research on international investment properties and the discovery of Costa Rica.

Having been a student for two years at the University of Edinburgh I thought that I had pretty much seen all that University life had to offer me. I took up an offer made by the international office to spend one year studying at the University of Illinois in Urbana Champagne. I was not daunted at all by the prospect. Having travelled to the United States several times on vacation and having lived abroad in three different countries I considered myself to be well travelled and versatile, and to a certain extent I was. I wouldn’t loose my nerve on the twenty minute connecting flight that shook and rattled its way to my new home, nor did I loose my enthusiasm when I realised that I would be housed off campus in an enormous housing complex surrounded only by cornfields.

By most people’s standards, I had made it. I had a good job - glamorous even to some - great benefits and off-the-chart raises every year. By no means was I rich, but I paid all my bills and made it work. I had my own apartment in New York City, my life all planned out according to subway line, volunteer work, and a vibrant social life. I was living in the largest and arguably the most exciting city in the world, but something was still missing.

When I first met my new sister, she was afraid to touch me because of my skin. She had never seen a white person before. Her name was Rautia and she was six years old. When we were introduced, Rautia cowered behind her mother’s legs, only stealing quick glimpses of me from behind her mother’s turquoise dress. I said ‘Hello’ in Oshivambo like I had practiced, but it only frightened her more

I come from America, land of the free and home of the super-sized. We super-size, oversize, and jumbo-size everything from fast-food meals to roadways. One of the first tasks I faced living in Wales as an expatriate was learning to drive on roads the width of American bike paths.

As I stepped off the airplane and walked into the small, busy airport in San Jose, Costa Rica, the feeling of panic that I had thus far been able to ignore, hit me like a cheap blow to my gut. Every thought I had, every fearful and worrisome notion that filled my head could be summarized in one all consuming question. What the hell was I doing there?