The 'er' Files

Historic Donaldsonville, Louisiana

noreply@blogger.com (Kelly) — Thu, 03 Jul 2008 13:00:00 +0000

As we head into a big holiday weekend here in the U.S., here's a new spin on a familiar public awareness campaign:

Speaking Frozen Daiquiri

noreply@blogger.com (Kelly) — Wed, 02 Jul 2008 14:00:00 +0000

My recent Louisiana daiquiri drive-thru experience has daiquiris on my mind.

They (daiquiris) make a strange subject -- perhaps -- for a blog entry, but it just so happens that I came home from my road trip through The South and got the bug to clean my office.

This bug doesn't come along very often, so when it makes an appearance, I've learned to heed it.

On this cleaning spree I decided to go through my book shelves. They are full and this is a problem as all the books I'm continuing to acquire are stacked in piles on the floor.

One of the books I pulled from my shelves during my cleaning is Islands in the Stream by Ernest Hemingway.

I bought and read the book after traveling to Havana, for it is partially set in the city.

I also bought the book because I'd been told the main character spends a lot of time drinking daiquiris at El Floridita, the Havana bar where daiquiris are said to have originated and where Ernest Hemingway is said to have spent a lot of time.

Like many tourists in Havana, I spent an evening while I was there drinking daiquiris at El Floridita in homage to Hemingway.

It's been a few years now since I read the book. I remember a main character that struggled with being a good artist and a good dad. And - as I'd been told - I remember a main character that passed ample time drinking daiquiris.

Turns out, I underlined Hemingway's every mentioned of daiquiris while I was reading the book.

For example, I underlined this:

He was drinking another frozen daiquiri with no sugar in it and as he lifted it, heavy and the glass frost-rimmed, he looked at the clear part below the frapped top and it reminded him of the sea. The frapped part of the drink was like the wake of a ship and the clear part was the way the water looked when the bow cut it when you were in shallow water over marl bottom. That was almost the exact color.

And, among many other words, this:

All I know how to speak now is frozen daiquiri. Tu hablas frozen daiquiri tu?

Photos:

Big Easy Daiquiris in New Orleans.
Drinking an original daiquiri at El Floridita in Havana.

Louisiana Wrap-Up

noreply@blogger.com (Kelly) — Tue, 01 Jul 2008 01:00:00 +0000

My Louisiana road trip all too quickly came to an end.

Even though I started the trip with a number of misgivings, I realized rather quickly that all my worries had been for naught.

Every person I encountered was open and friendly and every place I stopped was welcoming and interesting.

In fact, I was sad to see the trip come to an end and I'm already plotting a return to New Orleans.

It's impossible to recount every last detail of a trip, whether through words or photographs, but in this blog post I'm going to give it a shot. Here goes:

Number of turkey encounters:

One. His name was Gus.

Number of alligator encounters:

One. His name was Charlie.

Number of hornet encounters:

Unfortunately, one.

Number of ghost encounters:

Fortunately, one.

My first two nights in Louisiana, we stayed at the Hotel Monteleone in New Orleans, which is rumored to be haunted by 13 different ghosts.

On a tour of the hotel's upper floors, we passed through an event space used for business lunches and wedding dinners. The room was empty. Believe me. We walked through the whole space, poking our heads into the corners and around the blinds to check out the city view from all the windows.

We'd just left the room, just left that empty room, when a loud crash of dishes sounded from directly behind.

We beat it out of there.

Number of times I was called "ma'am":

I stopped counting and eventually came to accept the word's presence and the fact that it was being used to address me.

I do, however, feel sorry for the first young man who called me ma'am. "Ma'am?!" I jumped. "Did you just call me ma'am?"

"Yes ma'am," he repeated, his cheeks flushing. He was a clean-cut cutie, a restaurant manager with a recent college degree.

"I'm not old enough to be called ma'am," I instructed him in what I thought was a playful tone.

"I'm just trying to do as my mama said," he stammered. "She'd be real unhappy if I wasn't polite."

I backed off. He hadn't meant the word as an insult, and as I saw him fluster and blush I realized that I had just insulted him by insinuating that his choice of words had offended me.

Which leads me to...

Number of women I met who shared the same first name:

Let's see. There was Miss Kitty, Miss Laurie, Miss Cynthia, Miss Donna. That's four. Surely I'm forgetting a few ...

Number of Huge Ass Beers consumed:

None.

Number of mint juleps consumed:

One. It was my first, and I must say, probably my last. I think I'm more of a mojito girl.

Number of times we pulled through a daiquiri drive-thru:

Once.

As we left the big city behind we started seeing "Daiquiri Drive-Thru" signs on store fronts.

Turns out, it's perfectly legal to swing by the drive-thru and pick up some daiquiris to go. The filled-to-the-brim cups come sealed closed with packing tape. So long as the top remains unpunctured (this includes the use of a straw) then it's perfectly legal to drive about town with a daiquiri.

Number of times we encountered a police sobriety check point:

Once.

We spotted the flashing cop lights before we reached the check point and even though we'd done nothing wrong by going through a daiquiri drive through, we freaked out, pulled into a Wal-Mart parking lot and promptly dropped the daiquiris in the trash.

I was disappointed to see the daiquiri go and yet it somehow seems very fitting that my one (and probably only) daiquiri drive-thru experience ended in a Wal-Mart parking lot.

Number of bread pudding recipes tried:

Six.

The one that gets my vote for the top spot was the "White Chocolate Bread Pudding" served at The Grapevine in Donaldsonville.

Number of fried foods eaten:

Too many to count. But I did discover a previously unknown love for beignets, which are lumps of fried dough covered in heaping spoonfuls of powdered sugar served up with cafe au lait for breakfast.

And last but not least...

Number of new words learned:

One. And it's a good one ... coon-ass.

Jams and Jigs in Breaux Bridge, Louisiana

noreply@blogger.com (Kelly) — Sun, 29 Jun 2008 03:00:00 +0000

Music. Music. And then more music. That's what the past 24 hours of my Louisiana road trip were all about.

We pulled into the town of Breaux Bridge yesterday evening, dumped our stuff at a local B & B, and then headed right back out for a night of fun.

We rolled into Mulate's, where a Cajun band was in full swing. The dance floor was in full swing, too. It didn't really seem to matter who you danced with, just so long as you danced.

There were couples dancing to be sure, but there were also moms twirling about with their babies on the floor in a sort of lullaby trance, sisters waltzing in pairs and dads teaching their wee ones basic steps.

The next morning, we got up bright and early for breakfast. Our goal was to arrive on the steps of Cafe des Amis at 7:30 am. When we arrived, we found that others had beat us there and a band was already inside warming up on stage.

Perhaps because the previous night had been spent taking in local music, I hadn't realized that our breakfast would also be spent taking in local music. I also didn't realize that I was in for the wildest breakfast outing ever.

The Saturday morning "Zydeco Breakfast" is a weekly event that local people obviously plan on attending. A $4 cover charge gets you in the door for dancing. If you don't mind waiting, you can try to get a table. But by and large, the majority of the people attending are there to dance.

And as if we hadn't already consumed enough coffee or tunes, we walked one block over to the local Breaux Bridge coffee shop, Coffee Break, where a creole jam session was just starting to pick up speed.

Swamp Tour, McGee's Landing, Louisiana

noreply@blogger.com (Kelly) — Fri, 27 Jun 2008 23:28:00 +0000

We loaded up on a air boat for an afternoon tour of the Atchafalaya Basin.

The basin looks like a really big lake. It's a spill over of river water as the Mississippi makes its way to the Gulf.

But looks can be deceiving. Even though it looks like a lake from the shore, or from the highway that passes directly over it, the basin is actually a swamp.

Cypress trees reach up and out of the water. Spanish moss hangs from their branches and sways in the wind, giving the trees an eerie sort of decaying air.

Alligators lurk. Sizable birds perch above. Crawfish populate the murky depths.

We boarded the air boats at McGee's Landing, making sure to eat lunch in the restaurant before heading out for our afternoon adventure.

And we would have stayed there overnight as well had the floating cabins not been completely and totally booked!

Me and You and a Man named Boo, Donaldsonville, Louisiana

noreply@blogger.com (Kelly) — Fri, 27 Jun 2008 00:01:00 +0000

Even though I'd love to spend more time in New Orleans, the city is not the reason I came to Louisiana.

Instead, I came to Louisiana to go on a road trip through Cajun country. The journey started early this morning with a stop at Starbucks to ensure we were properly hopped up on caffeine before we hit the road. We had about two hours of asphalt ahead of us before we'd pull into the town of Donaldsonville.

At first glance, Donaldsonville doesn't look like much. The streets are lined with rickety shotgun houses. The old Main Street drag seems a little down on its luck.

But stick around, scratch the surface, and suddenly, Donaldsonville turns into a sort of small town cultural mecca.

While many of the area homes looked as if they could do with a little (okay, a lot) of refurbishing, a massive catholic church loomed on the outskirts of downtown.

The Ascension of Our Lord Catholic Church looks like a building that should be in a big city. It seemed completely out of place in this scrappy-looking town. But that's kinda the point. It's symbolic of its people's faith. A member, a man who was introduced to us as Mr. Boo, gave us a tour of the cathedral.

We also stopped by Rossie's Frame Shop to check out the work of a local artist, Alvin Batiste. Turned out that Alvin was there, as he is every day because the frame shop is actually his studio.

He left his painting behind to talk with us, take us around and tell us about his work. He pointed out his favorite pieces and then played a little ditty for us on his guitar.

We also hit up The River Road African American Museum. The museum is small but mighty ... probably because its founder, Kathe Hambrick, is mighty herself.

A former corporate gal, she left the suit world behind to start a museum that would showcase the contributions of African Americans in Louisiana's Mississippi River valley and teach children about the hardships of slavery and the realities of the Underground Railroad.

It's evident the museum and its mission is her passion. She was there when we came in, as she is most day since she lacks a full staff, and showed us about her collections.

Our meager Starbucks breakfast had long worn off and we were ready for lunch before we wrapped up our Donaldsonville tour and headed on our way.

We got a table at the Grapevine Cafe and just as we started contemplating the menu, dark clouds rolled into town.

When the owner and chef herself made an appearance at our side, we gladly gave up our plan of a quick bite to eat and decided to let her select our meal. She stuffed us full and entertained us with tales as an afternoon rain fell and fell and fell outside.

Chillin with Che in the Big Easy

noreply@blogger.com (Kelly) — Thu, 26 Jun 2008 04:07:00 +0000

So I made it to "Nola." That's New Orleans, Louisiana.

Luckily I'm not here alone. My good buddy Che is -- of course -- here keeping me company.

I was so excited to have spotted my Che so early on in my Louisiana trip that I almost didn't notice the verbiage on the sign.

I certainly hope the store owners aren't implying that Che is a "Killer."

I'm pretty sure it was the "cigars" they were after, but when it comes to Che ...

Well, one can never be too sure.

What I can be sure about, however, is that after only one day, Louisiana has smashed all my preconceptions to little bits.

I am completely intrigued with the French Quarter and wish wish wish that I had days to explore the city, as opposed to just today, this one day, which was over and done with in a flash.

In fact, after walking just one block from my hotel, I found that I was chiding myself.

Why, why was it that I so long resisted a trip to New Orleans?

Prove Me Wrong, Louisiana

noreply@blogger.com (Kelly) — Tue, 24 Jun 2008 19:00:00 +0000

I'm off. Again.

June is turning into one big travel fest for me. I've been to New York and back, San Diego and back and today I head out for Louisiana.

I've never pictured myself going to Louisiana. Even prior to Katrina, New Orleans never beckoned me. The whole concept of Mardi Gras just didn't pull me in. Beads for boobs isn't my style. And the jazz? Well, sure. I'd go listen for a night, but I'm not an aficionado.

Images of a swampy bayou didn't call me either. As a Minnesotan, I've seen my fair share of mosquitoes. I don't exactly feel the need to travel in order to find more. And crawdads? Well, I'm kinda a picky eater. Digging through their petite little shells for a petite little morsel of meat ... again ... not my style.

And if I'm going to be completely honest, I have to admit that the North-South divide does lurk in my mind.

As I said, I'm a Minnesota girl. Born and raised. I'm a liberal, white, Minnesota girl (not exactly 'granola' but close) with an Asian husband, and even though the Civil War has long since passed, "The South" retains the ability to anger and frighten me.

So why am I going?

Because the opportunity came along.

Because I realize the irony involved in the fact that I would willing travel to Burma, but not to Louisiana.

Because I pride myself on having an open mind and refusing to travel in "The South" is not open-minded.

So stay tuned. Let's see if Louisiana can prove this Yankee chick wrong.

Monks, Bells and Chanting

noreply@blogger.com (Kelly) — Mon, 23 Jun 2008 15:40:00 +0000

The past week of my life was filled with monks, bells and chanting. It was also filled with family and travel.

We flew off to San Diego to attend a funeral for my husband's grandmother. It was an expected death (she was 93) and yet difficult as it was the passing of life nonetheless.

Hubby's grandmother, like hubby, was born in Vietnam. She arrived in the United States at the age of 60 and never learned much English. Her Buddhist faith was important to her and so her funeral was a traditional Buddhist funeral.

This entailed two days of services in which numerous groups of monks came and conducted ceremonies. As I mentioned, there was chanting. Seven hours (at least) worth of chanting (no exaggeration).

As all was conducted in Vietnamese, I was - at times - confused, bored, fascinated and haunted. And in the end I was deeply moved.

The Geography of Bliss

noreply@blogger.com (Kelly) — Mon, 16 Jun 2008 14:28:00 +0000

I just finished reading a book called The Geography of Bliss: One Grump's Search for the Happiest Places in the World.

The author, Eric Weiner, gets this idea to travel to counties where the people are notoriously happy (or in one case notoriously sad). His goal is to determine whether or not the people living in these "happy countries" know something about the pursuit of happiness that the rest of us do not.

His quest takes him to Iceland, Switzerland, Thailand, Bhutan and more. In each place, the author (being a long-time NPR correspondent) gets hooked up with some sort of social expert. Perhaps he talks with a doctor, a professor, or a government official. And always, he wants to know: Why are the people here happy?

He also does a lot of just hanging out and talking to local people, getting their views on happiness as well.

While all this might sound stuffy and somewhat clinical, it's actually a very funny read. Weiner is witty, sarcastic and really quite self deprecating.

Does he ever unlock the happiness secret? Well, you'll just have to read the book and find out.

But the book did get me thinking about my very own geography of bliss. Where I have traveled, and once there, found myself crazy happy?

Here is my list, in no particular order:

1. Inle Lake, Myanmar (Burma)

2. Mui Ne, Vietnam

3. La Paloma, Uruguay

4. Machu Picchu, Peru

5. Buenos Aires, Argentina

6. Ang Thong National Park, Thailand

7. Valle de Bravo, Mexico

8. Pisco Elqui, Chile

9. Iguazu Falls, Argentina-Brazil

10. Rome, Italy

On Angelina Jolie and Virignia Woolf

noreply@blogger.com (Kelly) — Fri, 13 Jun 2008 13:30:00 +0000

I'm a sucker for Angelina Jolie.

I just can't help it. She fascinates me.

It's got nothing to do with Brad Pitt. I liked her long before he came along.

It's her international thing that draws me in. The adoptions. The philanthropy. The UN speeches. The pop-ups in far-away foreign lands.

Don't we all, on some level, wish we could jet about the globe doing good while enjoying the luxury of a private plane and looking all-out stunning?

Or maybe that's just me.

At any rate, she is my celebrity crush. I easily tune out the torrid Brittany news, but give me a magazine with A.J. on the cover and I'm all over it. So of course I bought the July 2008 Vanity Fair as soon as it hit the stands and greedily devoured the photos and accompanying article.

It wasn't until I had turned the last page that I flipped back to the cover and noticed the tiny print in the lower right corner. It was a quote by Virginia Woolf that I had never seen before, but with which I immediately identified.

It read:

As a woman I have no country. My country is the whole world.

Che Spotted in JFK

noreply@blogger.com (Kelly) — Wed, 11 Jun 2008 13:30:00 +0000

A trip is not a trip unless there is a Che-spotting.

That's my rule anyway.

On this most recent trip to New York to visit friends, I was so caught up in having quality bonding time with my long-time buddies that I nearly forgot all about my ongoing Che-spotting mission.

But no fear! This time, Che came to me.

As I rose to board my plane home in a busy JFK, a college-aged man pushed into line before me carrying "the" whopping 800-page Che Guevara biography.

I recognized the cover right away as the book sat on my bookshelf for many years. I bought it, determined to read the whole thing cover to cover, but the sheer size of the volume just overwhelmed. I never got more than 20 pages in and eventually I sold it to a used book store.

I would never have pegged the book's holder for a Che fanatic. Then again, most people wouldn't peg me as Che obsessed either.

I hope this ambitious reader makes it further through the book than I did!

Hot in the City

noreply@blogger.com (Kelly) — Mon, 09 Jun 2008 20:56:00 +0000

It's sooooooo hot here in New York! We've been dodging the heat (or trying to) for the past few days and today, as the temperature soared into the high 90s, Michelle and I ventured into Manhattan.

Were we crazy?

Maybe. The heat definitely felt oppressive as we walked the streets surrounded by towering concrete, but we had to come into the city; I needed to get back to JFK so that I could fly home.

Yet we are resourceful girls. Our plan to beat the heat was to while away some time in a nail salon getting manicures and then to waste away at Cafe Frida drinking Sangria.

Minne Soda

noreply@blogger.com (Kelly) — Sun, 08 Jun 2008 20:30:00 +0000

Hey Kelly.

Yeah?

What's your favorite kind of soda?

Fanta. What's yours?

Minne Soda.

And so goes the joke.

Over and over again.

It's pretty clever, really. Especially when you learn that the play on words is attributed to a four year-old.

The joke would never fly with a four year-old in Minnesota, a place where "soda" is faithfully called "pop." But I had to hand it to this East Coast kid. His Minne Soda joke was smart.

The four year-old in question is the son of my dear friend Michelle, who I've been staying with for a few days in her suburban New York home. For weeks she had been telling her son that I was coming to visit all the way from Minnesota. Unacquainted with U.S. geography, he heard something entirely different.

On Travel Friends and Travel

noreply@blogger.com (Kelly) — Fri, 06 Jun 2008 17:06:00 +0000

So I've made it to New York.

Not the city. The state. I'm here for five or so days, somewhere in suburbia.

It used to be that I traveled to the city once a year (sometimes twice) to hang with my good friends, travel buds, gals I picked up on the road who called Brooklyn and Manhattan home.

Now though, both are married, both are moms and both have left the urban congestion behind for the equally-maddening suburban kind.

It's a strange and glorious thing to visit travel buds on their home turf. It's perhaps even more of a strange and glorious thing to go into their now-established homes and eat meals with their husbands and kids.

Here are these women, my friends that I met while we were all off doing wild, adventurous things, and now they are (and I am too I suppose) settled and busy being adults, as opposed to busy becoming adults, which was what we were doing at the time of our meetings.

I was busy becoming an adult when I met Alison in Argentina.

And then Alison and I met Michelle in Peru.

And then Michelle and I traveled together through Guatemala.

And so it was that a series of Latin American jaunts brought these women, women I truly consider two of my soul mates, into my life.

What is it about people that you meet on the road? Since becoming a traveler, I've always marveled at how quickly bonds are formed on the move.

On this trip, I happened to ask Michelle what she thought it was that brought random travelers together.

"Vulnerability," she said. "It makes you hang on to people you don't know."

Lucky for me, I've been able to hang onto these friends longer than the trips on which I met them. It's been 10 (gulp) years now since I met them both.

Photos:

2008 - Celebrating our 10 year-reunion with calorie-packed, gourmet cookies in suburban New York.

1998 - Triumphant and tired after hiking four days to reach Machu Picchu. We really could have used those cookies way back then.

oneGirloneRide

noreply@blogger.com (Kelly) — Tue, 03 Jun 2008 18:40:00 +0000

I could tell, from my very first phone conversation with Kerry Madgett, that the article I was assigned to write about her and her daughter, E'leese, was going to be fun.

Kerry talked a mile a minute. She had to in order to keep up with the big ideas that were rolling around in her daughter's head.

Her daughter - E'leese - a 12 year-old recently graduated from 6th grade, is on a mission. She is planning to ride her Arabian horse in a loop through the state of Minnesota, raising money along the way, so that she can buy a 3,000-acre ranch and turn it into a vacation resort in rural Minnesota for soldiers and their families to use for free.

She is calling her quest oneGirloneRide and is blogging about her trip along the way.

While most parents might laugh off an idea such as this, E'leese's mom decided to support her daughter 200 percent, which meant quitting her job to become the PR manager for the endeavor, employing a lawyer to help incorporate the plan into a legal nonprofit, and accompany her daughter (who is only 12 after all) throughout the summer.

They are an amazing duo. Or trio if you count the horse. Or foursome if you count the dog, who is also going along.

Their journey starts on June 7, but it won't end until August 31.

If you'd like to learn more about their ride, or learn how to contribute funds, you can always check out my article on the subject:

On the Trail to Helping Veterans.

Safety Happiness Cloth Shop

noreply@blogger.com (Kelly) — Fri, 30 May 2008 12:22:00 +0000

So I've been doing some spring cleaning. This has entailed cleaning out the closet--mine and hubby's.

I ran across this suit coat bag from a tailor shop in Hoi An, Vietnam.

Funny. I don't ever remember paying any attention to the name of the shop. But how could I have missed this?

So Says Hemingway

noreply@blogger.com (Kelly) — Wed, 28 May 2008 19:10:00 +0000

A while back, a friend of mine traveled to the Florida Keys. She visited Hemingway's home and sent me this postcard.

It has graced the cork board above my desk for the past few months. Every once in a while, I take it down and look at it.

It makes me laugh. The Hemingway quote on the front is quite strange:

Writing and travel broaden your ass, if not your mind.

However, it is the description on the back of the card that I find equally - if not more - bizarre. It reads:

Ernest Hemingway's weight varied through the years, but his love for cats never wavered.

Even though I wonder about the tourism board employee who came up with this quip, I'm also able to admit that Papa Hemingway made a good point with this quote.

It's been a long, cold winter followed by a drab and chilly spring in Minnesota, and I've filled these days with writing, travel and travel writing.

Now that the sun is starting to peek out here at home, I've started breaking away from my computer and taking my dogs (for whom my love has never wavered) for long walks.

And while I'm not yet willing to publicly proclaim on my blog that all this travel writing has broadened my backside, I am willing to admit that my body is feeling the aftereffects of my newly extended neighborhood roamings.

It's Greek To Me

noreply@blogger.com (Kelly) — Wed, 28 May 2008 00:27:00 +0000

I've been blessed with lots of "niece time" this spring. I've gotten to spend lots of time with all the little girls in my life.

On one of these visits, which included a trip to a playground, I found this plastic coin half buried in the sand under the swings.

I just had to keep it and post in on my blog. It's stamped to look like an ancient Greek coin, but then it also has the word "China" stamped on it as well; presumably it was made there. And yet I found it here in the U.S.A.

I Made the Huffington Post!

noreply@blogger.com (Kelly) — Thu, 22 May 2008 19:09:00 +0000

An essay I wrote made it to The Huffington Post!

I wrote the essay and submitted it for publication through a women's networking group that I am a part of called Ladies Who Launch.

Even though I submitted the work about a month ago, I had no idea whether it would be chosen or not. I was told to "wait and see."

But now, I'm so excited to see my work on such a well-read and well-regarded site!

The essay is called My Travel, My God.

Here is an except. But of course, I think you should all go and read the whole thing!

There is a common misperception about travel junkies. It is often said that we travel to "find" ourselves. We do not. Or at least, I do not. I do, however, go looking for something when I travel. I go looking for God.

This revelation will shock some people in my life. I'm not a particularly religious girl. I tend to purse my lips tight when the subject comes up. I don't quote the Bible, and I don't attend regular church. Instead, for me, travel is church. Let me explain.

The Secret Travel Lives of Others

noreply@blogger.com (Kelly) — Wed, 21 May 2008 19:13:00 +0000

Cyclone. Earthquake. Cancer. Alzheimer's.

All of these words have entered my ears and left my lips in the past two weeks, and each has left a mark. I haven't felt much like blogging.

While the natural disasters in Asia seem to run on a constantly spinning newsreel online, on TV and on NPR, it is my own personal local concerns that have consumed my recent thoughts.

For example, there is a man I know. His name is Art.

He is an older man with a crop of white hair, a man from around the neighborhood,and although he doesn't know it, he has helped me a great deal.

Four years ago I moved from the city to the suburbs and it was a hard transition for me; I loved my old neighborhood so. I had called that house in the city my home for over eight years and I was fairly convinced that my new home, my suburban home, would offer me little character, connection or charm.

But Art became my character, my connection and my charm. He hangs out at a nearby coffee shop. He arrives every afternoon at 4:30, reads a book, stays for an hour then goes.

But he'll gladly give up his book to talk to me. Regulars tend to recognize each other, whether they are of the coffee tab, pull tab or bar tab sort. After we made our initial acquaintance, Art always remembered to ask me about my writing.

He spots my byline about town and wants to know when I'm going to publish a book. He's so diligent in his questions about my writing career that sometimes I think he's my biggest fan.

After meeting him at the coffee shop, I started seeing him everywhere -- the grocery store, the Chinese place -- and he helped me feel that maybe the suburbs weren't all formulamatic, that maybe this new neck of the woods could be my home.

I knew that Art had struggled with cancer. Yet I also knew he'd beaten it. But now it's back and Art told me the other day, "I've run out of miracles."

"You don't know that," I countered.

"Yes, I do. I've had more than my fair share," he replied.

"So impress me," I prodded. "Tell me about your miracles."

"Well, back when I lived in Lybia," he started and proceeded to spin a tale from decades past. Then he moved on to stories of the Dominican Republic, stories that weren't all palm trees and umbrella cocktails.

I'd had no idea that Art had such a wildly traveled past and it made me start to wonder about the others around me. Who else in that coffee shop had had a miraculous travel experience and was just sitting on it, keeping it quiet?

And then, a dear family friend passed away. She was a woman who'd always been in my life, a woman who'd driven me to junior high choir practice and pulled me water skiing behind her speed boat.

She was a woman who barely sat still, but who in the past handful of years had been bogged down by a myriad of health problems, including Alzheimer's. This was particular tragic as she was just in her sixties. She died the other night at age 66.

But back before Jan learned about her Alzheimer's, she was an avid traveler, a loyal and ardent lover of the human race. She was a woman who took so many trips that her children followed her footsteps and became travelers, too. In fact, her son helped coach my hubby and me through the planning stages of our own global roam.

And yet, throughout these past few years, she was forced to give up that passion in exchange for care centers and care takers, who -- I'm quite certain -- were clueless to her travel past.

All this has convinced me, a traveler who has the wanderlust bad, that us travelers need to be more vocal and diligent about sharing our travel tales before we forget them and before we take them to the grave.

The person on the receiving end might be more receptive than you expected and you just might spark a whole new breed of wanderlust.

If you've made it this far in this travel musing and want an outlet for releasing your hibernating travel tale, check out this page on my newly launched travel site, a site which I have designed with the goal of sparking wanderlust in a new generation.

Photos:
Cemetery angle in Havana, Cuba
Dragonflies in Burma
Candles burning in Montreal's Notre Dame

Saving Myanmar

noreply@blogger.com (Kelly) — Sat, 10 May 2008 14:47:00 +0000

In an earlier post this week, I mused about a possible global push back against the military junta of Myanmar once everyone began to see how messed in the heads these guys truly are.

A week now has passed since the cyclone hit and still the generals are toying around with visas, relief and voting polls.

I've been watching the news reports out of one eye all week long, dutifully clicking on a Burma headline each time I see it's been updated. I've turned into somewhat of a media junkie when it comes to Myanmar, but I just can't help myself. I am astonished.

This morning I spent some time with my coffee and my Internet, reading deeper into the crisis.

I came across a BBC article in which British politicians were wondering about the moral obligation that we as human beings have to the people of Burma.

At this point, have the generals proved themselves to be so crazy and inept that we have a moral obligation to invade the country on humanitarian grounds in order to deliver aide?

A journalist for the Asia Times thinks so. This morning, Asia Times published an article written by Shawn W Crispin titled The Case for Invading Myanmar.

In the article, Crispin claims that a US invasion of Myanmar makes sense. An invasion, lead by the US and backed by the rest of the world, would go a long way toward restoring America's rattled reputation, he says.

Toppling the junta would clear the way for Burma's already democratically-elected president, Aung San Suu Kyi, to finally leave house-arrest and take her rightful spot as the country's leader -- a move sure to be supported by the majority of Myanmar's people as they are the ones who voted for her.

Is the idea of invading Myanmar far-fetched and silly?

I'm not so sure. What I am sure about, however, is that if the United States actually did step into this crisis and invade Burma, I'd be much more likely to support it than I would some of its other foreign policies.

Going Greyhound to Mexico

noreply@blogger.com (Kelly) — Fri, 09 May 2008 14:17:00 +0000

Today, GoNomad posted a story I wrote about taking the Greyhound to Mexico.

Yes, that's right. I crossed the border on a bus.

Our end point was a pretty little town called Ensenada that is the heart of Mexico's wine country. It's just two hours south of San Diego on the Baja's Pacific coast.

While there, we toured a bodega, sipped some vino, downed a margarita, nibbled hot churros, and stumbled into a room where Al Capone was rumored to have played a hand of poker or two.

If you'd like to read all about it, go here:

Visiting Ensenada: A Bus Trip to Mexico's Wine Country

Also posted this week is an essay I wrote and published a few years back in the local paper. The link has been archived and hidden behind passwords, which means nobody is ever able to find it. So instead, I found it a new and approachable home.

Wanderlust and Lipstick is a web site that encourages women to get out there and travel. The site's author, Beth Whitman, actually posted two of my older travel tales.

First, What we Leave Behind, is about an encounter I had with a man on the streets of Havana.

The other, On Guard Against Giardia, is about getting sick in Guatemala.

Cyclone Sadness & Madness

noreply@blogger.com (Kelly) — Wed, 07 May 2008 17:24:00 +0000

Just like everyone else, I have been stunned, angered and saddened by the cyclone fall out that is happening in Myanmar.

Myanmar has maintained a front spot in my mind since I traveled there two years ago.

Hubby and I only spent five days in the country - a time frame that was both too short and too long.

Too short because there is so much to see in the country. Because transportation is difficult, we didn't get to half the places we had hoped to see. We never made it to Mandalay, for example. We didn't reach the ruins of Bagan. Nor did we visit the now devastated region.

At the same time, the days we did spend in Burma filled us with questions and unease. We witnessed disturbing ecological destruction as well as poverty, inequity and forced labor, like these local people pictured above who had been forced to build a highway by hand.

Of all the places I have ever traveled in my life, Myanmar is honestly the one place I have no desire to ever step foot in ever again. I am so glad I experienced it, but I am so glad I'm no longer there.

Watching the cyclone fall out, I am of course horrified that the military junta is dragging its heels on letting foreign aide in. It's a clear indicator of just how messed in the heads these guys really are.

I can't help but wonder whether or not this massive blunder on their part isn't going to spell the end of their reign. Maybe they are delaying aide because they are trying to punish their own. Maybe they are doing it because they are power paranoid. Their motivation doesn't really matter. The end conclusion is the same: The leaders are insane.

Last fall, the world watched as the military rulers smashed a local revolution. In the end, the world stood by and let it happen.

But maybe, maybe this will be a tipping point that will convince all governments and average Joes everywhere that Burma's leaders need to be toppled. Maybe this will spark a global effort to oust the junta.

Bizarre Foods with Kelly

noreply@blogger.com (Kelly) — Sat, 03 May 2008 18:11:00 +0000

TiVo is a wonderful thing. Now that I have it, I can't imagine my life without it.

Sitting down to watch TV at a scheduled time?

Waiting through commercials?

Both are a thing of the past now that TiVo has entered my life. It lets me record shows that run at strange hours and check them out at my leisure.

One of the shows I've come to love as a result of my TiVo is a Travel Channel offering: Bizarre Foods.

The show blipped across my radar for a couple of reasons:

1) Just like me, Andrew Zimmern - the host of Bizarre Foods - calls Minneapolis-St. Paul home. He's got radio bits and TV bits and magazine bits all over the Twin Cities. I knew about him long before he started showing up in strange places and eating strange things on the Travel Channel.

2) By chance, I discovered that his show is actually produced by a company that is headquartered just down the street from my house. It's a Minnesota crew that cuts and edits his stuff into the show it eventually becomes.

3) Last fall, an email showed up in my inbox from a woman I never met. She was a staffer with Andrew Zimmern's Bizarre Foods show and she was researching weird things he could eat in Chile.

After a bit of goolging, she came across my past blog entries about Chile. She sent me a message to see if I had any bizarre food suggestions for the country.

I told her that when in Chile, Andrew Zimmern had to eat a hot dog loaded with mayonnaise and avocado. I remembered that these hot dogs were everywhere and that both Quang and I were repulsed by them.

Actually, I'm repulsed by hot dogs any old way they are served, but Quang isn't. He loves them. Yet just one look at a Chilean hot dog, hidden under one whole inch of mayonnaise and another whole inch of guacamole, stopped him cold. No hot dogs for him.

But guess who did eat one?! That's right! Andrew Zimmern!

Finally, finally, the Chile show aired. It ran in the beginning of April and I just got around to watching it the other day. And he ate it! He ate it! He ate a mayonnaise-guacamole hot dog in Santiago, Chile!