travel – Page 10 – Sandy Barker

A Day of Contrasts

April 24, 2008April 24, 2008sandybarker

From Napa Valley to Klamath, on the northern California coast.

Day two of our trip was a day of stark contrasts.

We had dined the night before at Terra in St Helena. Terra appears in the Michelin guide (one star), and combines European and Asian food styles and tastes. The fusion works, and although we didn’t try it, the dessert ‘Angel Farts’ intrigued us. Instead, we completed our meal with a cherry compote and ice cream parfait, which was, ‘Parfait!’

We knew on waking that our host at the B+B had promised a ‘gourmet breakfast’, but I wondered if the culinary delights of St Helena could possibly continue at such a high standard.

We were not disappointed.

We joined another couple for a truly gourmet breakfast, both courses announced with the liberal flourishes of our flamboyant host, Carlos. “Baked pink grapefruit with fresh raspberry coulis and spun honey.” Who would have thought to bake a grapefruit? Apparently, Carlos, and it was both unusual and delicious.

“Wholewheat Belgian waffles, with melted French butter, and organic Maple syrup from Vermont, served with organic chicken and apple sausages.”

Waffles! I thought I would die of excitement, and they were amazing. The kind of waffle that retains its crispy exterior, while pools of butter and syrup meld in the little pockets. Ben remarked later that I had shown great restraint, and he knew that if we were not seated opposite strangers, I would have clapped in delight at the overwhelming deliciousness. I clapped on the inside.

Dinner was a distant memory as we finally moved from the table and finished packing. It was another beautiful day in the Napa Valley and we had quite a drive ahead of us up to the north coast of California, to Klamath. Our breakfast companions had informed us that Klamath is not on the coast (a surprise to us), and that Crater Lake was only about an hour from there (a happy surprise to us). We knew that if we made good time then we could get to Crater Lake before nightfall, a good addition to our itinerary.

Bellies full as we drove off, we decided not to have lunch that day, but to snack in the car and have a ‘proper’ dinner. As we drove north through wine country, enjoying the sun and the landscape, we started an audio book Ben had brought. Bill Bryson’s A Walk in the Woods is his travel biography about walking the Appalachian Trail in the east. Although we were in the west, the changing topography (fewer fields, more forests), and the changing weather (grey clouds and drizzle), allowed us to be transported and enjoy the hilarity of Bryson’s huge endeavour.

We made great time. We arrived at the Requa Inn, just out of Klamath, around 4pm, meaning we could make it out to Crater Lake. The sky in Klamath was clearer than other parts of our journey, a milky blue, and the air was cold. From the start of our day, the temperature had dropped 25° F.

The Requa Inn was opened over 100 years ago, and the eclectic mix of furnishings and knickknacks bore testament to the whole century. A collection of cricket paraphernalia caught my eye, as did their haphazard – yet extensive – library. I did not like, however, the creepy photograph of a long dead woman that hung just across from our bedroom door. I was compelled to look at it every time I went in or out of the room, even though she freaked me out. “It’s just an old photo. You’re only freaked out because you can’t see her face,” said the sceptic. Yes, exactly. It is not normal to have a black splodge where your face should be.

Our host informed us as we checked in, that Crater Lake was a 6 hour return drive from there, and that the roads would be closed anyway, because of snow. “Oh,” we both said, disappointed we wouldn’t see the brilliant blue of the lake’s water, contrasted with its snowy rim. Who had told us that it was close? Oh, yes. Carlos, our B+B host.

BUT, we could drive up the hill to go whale watching! We picked the innkeeper’s brain a bit longer, determining that we could drive south (back from whence we came) and drive into the Redwood forest, and that dinner was even further south (nothing open in Klamath on a Thursday night).

We dropped our bags to our room, and drove the short drive to the lookout over the Klamath River inlet. Like the other gem we’d be told at breakfast, the line about Klamath not being on the coast was rubbish. We were in Klamath, and we were standing on the coast. It was spectacular. I pulled my jacket around me, and we sat on a picnic table and scanned the water for whale spouts. None emerged, but the salt air and the view were enough.

We reluctantly drove away, promising each other to return in the morning. We were going to see big trees now. We had stopped earlier in the day, just pulling off the road, at our first real glimpse of Redwood trees. The sun was still out then, and we walked through a small stand down to a pebbly riverbank.

This little glimpse into the world of giants whet our appetite for more, so when we took the turn off into Redwood National Park late in the afternoon, we were blown away.

We saw a car parked ahead, and pulled off the road. Another young couple was there taking fun photos of themselves with a giant hollowed out tree. We joined in on the fun, trading cameras and getting ‘couple/tree’ shots for each other.

The air was cool, damp and smelled of centuries of nature. The other couple left and we explored further. The base of one felled giant stood taller than Ben and we estimated it at over 1000 years old.

Back in the car, we made our way to “Big Tree”, the imaginatively named largest tree in North America. We parked, and walked the path, and narrowed ‘Big Tree’ down to two big trees. We took photos with both, marvelling at their height and girth. It was getting chilly and dark, and we wanted to drive to the beach before dinner. A dirt track took us to the stark and grey-sanded coast. The skies had turned grey and the wind was biting, but the untamed beach, awash with driftwood, was beautiful.

We defrosted in the car as we drove back to the highway, and headed further south to Orick for dinner.

We had been given the two big tips for dining in Orick. There was a Mexican restaurant (closed), and a biker diner (open). The diner was a beacon in the darkness, for we were starving, and had already decided that never again would we ‘car snack’ instead of stopping for lunch.

The diner was warm and smelled like home cooking. It was the first true diner experience I could remember having, and our waitress was sweet and personable, through her obvious exhaustion. We ordered diner food: a French Dip and onion rings for Ben and a hamburger and fries for me – oh and a salad, so we could feel somewhat virtuous. The French Dip – for my Aussie and British readers – is a roast beef sandwich, which is dipped into a beef broth. Salty, hot and beefy. And a departure for Ben, who is (mostly) a white meat only boy.

We devoured our food nearly before it hit the table, and it was delicious. I mentioned to Ben that we had gone from whole wheat Belgian waffles with organic Vermont Maple syrup to burgers, fries and onion rings, in one day. Another contrast to enjoy.

The only question that remained after dinner was, did we have room for pie? Hell, yes! We took it go, mixed berry for me, and apple for Ben. Bill Bryson, earlier that day, had uttered a line that I now shared with our waitress: “Can you please cut me the biggest piece of pie you can without losing your job?” “I always do,” she winked conspiratorially. And when she handed us our pie to go, they were fat wedges, fillings oozing out the sides. I couldn’t wait to get back to the Inn.

We were the only guests that night, so had the large living room to ourselves. We helped ourselves to a bottle of Moonstone Red (leaving a note for our hosts that we would fix them up in the morning), and sat by the fire. Ben read aloud from an anthology of Walt Whitman poetry, which casually sat on the coffee table. We drank wine, and ate THE BEST PIE I HAVE EVER HAD, and grew sleepy by the fire.

A good day, and as different an ending as we could have imagined in the beginning.

Tomorrow we would be hiking further into the woods, and then driving into Oregon – a first for us both. We collapsed, exhausted, and I dreamed of giant berry pie trees.

Road Trip

April 23, 2008April 24, 2008sandybarker

“I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel’s sake. The great affair is to move.” Robert Louis Stevenson

This quote is taped to my desk at work – at eye level. I see it every day, and every day I think to myself, ‘How true.” Or mostly true, for me. Robert and I differ in the ‘not to go anywhere’ part, because I often travel to specifically go somewhere, but like R.L.S., I also travel just to move. Moving, going, leaving, arriving, this global kinetic energy that I partake of and contribute to, is part of my internal rhythm.

And this type of energy is heightened in a particular kind of travel: The Road Trip.

R.L.S. died in 1894, so it is safe to say that he never went on a road trip. Not really. Not the kind we take today, in cars, and on actual roads. He never knew the pleasure hitting the open road, with plans and expectations crammed in the mind, like the maps and brochures are crammed into the glove box.

But, as I climbed into a hire car in San Francisco earlier this week, I knew he would have approved. After all, ‘…the great affair is to move’, and the first leg of my trip with Ben, was the same trip Stevenson shared with his new bride in 1880: a journey north to the Napa Valley.

San Francisco is nothing like I imagined, basing my extensive expectations on remembered episodes of Full House and Party of Five, but it did not disappoint. In fact, our 44 hour stint there, our taster of a great city to which we will someday return, was so full that it is a whole post of its own. Soon. I promise.

This journey starts in SanFran, and ends in Seattle. It encompasses the Napa Valley, the northern Californian coast, Oregon’s coast, Portland, Oregon’s capital, and everywhere in between.

To the Napa Valley

Crossing the Golden Gate Bridge is cool. It is huge and iconic and brightly burnt orange, and crossing it for the first time means, “I have been to San Francisco.” Even though Ben and I had been traversing the streets of the city for two days, this was the moment when it sank in that I was actually there – and we were leaving.

The drive to Napa Valley is just over an hour. This is not a long drive, unless you are dying to pee and arrive in Yountville. Yountville is one of many small towns dotted along Highway 29, and is just north of Napa. It is beautiful and pristine and apparently people who visit have no bathroom needs (there are no public toilets). After an excruciating reconnaissance of the town, which oddly was shut at 10:30 in the morning, I hobbled to a roadside porta potty. Back in the car, my mood lifted (Ben is a master of patiently bearing the desperate cries and angry rants that accompany this state of being), and we drove on to Chandon Estate.

Chandon sparkling white is a staple for me and my friends when we attend the horseracing carnivals in Sydney, so I was looking forward to visiting the Napa estate. The grounds and building were beautifully situated, and there was a reverent hush in the air. We were directed to a tasting bar, and Ben ordered a flight of wines – three half flutes, each wine distinctive and delicious (offered sips were gratefully accepted).

I ordered a sparkling rose, just released, and drank slowly as I drank in my surroundings. It was a perfect California day: cloudless blue skies and 26°. We drove on.

I had done my homework and knew I wanted to go to Rubicon Estate, not far to the north. I could not remember why my reading had triggered this desire, until we pulled into the grand gates of Rubicon, valeted the car and walked up the steps onto a red carpet. “Ah, yes,” I said, “now I remember,” a large sign jogging my memory. The estate is owned by Francis Ford Coppola, and it is majestic.

A $25 fee would buy us a three-day passport, which included 5 tastings, tours and, well, just being there. An orientation tour fed us the history of Rubicon, which was once owned by a Russian visionary called Niebaum. Niebaum envisioned the tasting rooms and cellar door culture that is now ubiquitous in wine regions worldwide. He produced exceptional wines, which were served exclusively at the White House and on exclusive trans-Atlantic cruises. In purchasing the winery and making vast, restorative improvements, Coppola has paid homage to its history and has restored its wine-making prestige.

We tasted a flight of five wines, including a Sauvignon Blanc and a Syrah, and culminating in the 2004 Rubicon. The first three wines are only available at the cellar door, and Ben bought a bottle of the Syrah – it is outstanding. We would love to have bought a bottle of the Rubicon, but at $125, it is a little out of our price range.

We enjoyed the ambiance and the banter with the older gentleman pouring our wine, and bid farewell to Rubicon, glad we had made the pilgrimage there.

We back tracked to Yountville; we knew there were many choices for lunch, having done our ‘reckie’ hours earlier. We ate at Bistro Jeanty, a French style Bistro on the main street. The food was prompt, and tasty, although I burned my mouth on the excruciatingly hot French onion soup. It made me a little grumpy, because how do you taste wine when your taste buds have been seared off?

I downed healing water as we drove on to Mumm. Mmm, Mumm. We were greeted by a warm woman, who put the officious staff at Chandon to shame. We seated ourselves on the patio overlooking the vineyard, and I presented a 2 for 1 coupon I downloaded from the net (wine tasting in Napa can be pricey).

Our hostess brought us two flutes of yumm, I mean, Mumm. “Hey,” she said, conspiratorially, “would you like to try our signature pour? While we’re not busy.” She brought us a taste of DVX, nearly full flutes and we sipped that along with our Blanc de Noir. Both delicious, but sipping and sitting in the sun was going to my head. Ben took his tiddly girl back to the car, and we drove on to St. Helena, where we would stay that night in a B+B. We arrived at 4, after a day of sun, sips and sighs of pleasure. Ahhh, Napa.

St Helena to the land of the giants.

When I Grow Up

April 4, 2008sandybarker

My oldest relative is my Great Aunt Joan. She is in her seventies and there are rumours (which I totally believe) that she was once a spy and worked for MI-6 (like James Bond). She lives with Foy and they are two very sweet, dear old English ladies. In fact, my family even refers to them as the ‘DODs’ (Dear Old Dears). It is an ironic, but endearing title that they wear with pride, while they safari in Africa and trek through the Australian Outback.

You see, the DODs are the original adventure chicks, and when I grow up I want to be just like them.

The last time I visited them in their tiny village outside of Oxford (where they casually refer to their neighbours as that Cusack girl who is married to that lovely actor – Sinead Cucask and Jeremy Irons – and yes I am shamelessly name-dropping, but I am totally into that six-degrees thing and think of all those connections!), Foy asked us to come up to the study.

My sister and I made our way up to the second floor, where the cubby-style study resides. Foy booted up her computer and then began playing the video from their latest trip – a safari in Africa. Joan watched from behind us, as the scene on screen cut to nine lionesses devouring a zebra, at night.

“Um, Foy? Did you film this?”

“Yes, dear.”

“How close were you? I mean, how much have you zoomed in?”

“Oh, we were close. What do you think, Joan? We were probably about 20 feet away?”

“Oh, yes, about that.”

My sister and I looked at each other, gob smacked. I had long admired the adventurous spirit of these two women, but this elevated their status to ‘goddess-like’. It was then that I knew I would always travel. I will endeavour to be an adventure chick long into my 80s – and why not? It is in my blood!

Next post: Cool stuff I have done to start earning my ‘adventure chick’ stripes.

Mexican Jumping Beans

April 1, 2008sandybarker

I am not a huge Willie Nelson fan, but I do subscribe to his sentiment, because like Willie I can’t wait to get on the road again. It is time. I have ants in my pants, itchy feet and can’t sit still. Were I six and were my mother here, she would wonder aloud if I had swallowed Mexican jumping beans.

This happens to me when I am close to travelling again. It is eleven more sleeps, which means I am in final preparation mode.

The past couple of months have been about the planning. Ben and I have been online and on the phone, swapping ideas, websites and our latest toy, customised Google maps. We read up and revise, and discuss and decide. It is a fun process, and one that lends itself to building anticipation.

We will both fly into Los Angeles where I have friends, and where we will stay for a couple of nights (a short stay, but we will be back). We then fly to San Francisco, where neither of us has been, and where both of us are excited to go for the first time. I bought us a tiny guidebook, but really, we are governed by the ‘laws of first-timers’. We are staying near Fisherman’s Wharf, where we will eat sourdough bread and seafood; we will ride a tram up an impossibly steep street; we will see the Golden Gate Bridge and visit Alcatraz.

Importantly, Ben and I have promised each other that while we are following these obvious tourist tracks, we will be travellers. We will find wonder and fresh perspectives in our touristy endeavours. It will be our mantra: ‘travellers, travellers, travellers’.

From San Francisco, we hit the road. We pick up a hire car and will continue north to Seattle where Ben is due for work, taking five days to get there. We have some varied stops planned, the first of which is The Napa Valley. Oh, Napa – the scenery, the wine, the Chintz!

In seeking out a Bed and Breakfast close enough to several wineries, but somewhat off the main strip, we viewed more shots of Chintzy bedrooms that I ever care to again. Some rooms are even named after the Chintz: The Pink Rose Blossom Room, The Room with Two Many Pillows (Ben: “Where do we sleep?”), and The “Oh my, Grandma’s Sewing Box Threw Up’ Room. Resigned to the fact that Chintz is a given no matter what, we decided on the place with a spa tub and gourmet waffles.

After being spoiled in The Napa Valley, we will rough it in a Northern Californian coastal town, replete with Redwood Forest. Yes, we go from wine tasting to woodland trekking, a challenge for even the most experienced packer. From there, ever north into Oregon, a state I will get to add to my ‘I’ve been there’ list.

I have friends from Oregon. They all extol Oregon’s beauty as its greatest virtue. To honour that, we will drive the coast for as long as possible, and then head inland up to Portland. At this stage all I know about Portland is that I should shop there, as Oregon has no state sales tax (and Washington State has one of the highest in the U.S.). I will be as true to my wallet as time allows, for we are due in Seattle the next day.

Ben has work there Monday to Thursday and then we will be able to explore further a field for a couple of days. For me, four days alone in a favourite city is a gift, and then of course, we can head out to the wonderful array of Seattle’s restaurants in the evenings.

We fly out of Seattle on a Saturday, giving us that night in LA, where I have been promised we will Par-Tay. My LA friends are in the know, which is important when in a city of that size. LA visitors without a ‘local guide’ can suffer from ‘Disney-itis’. This is a condition whereby they think they have been to LA, because they stayed in Anaheim and went to Disneyland. Disneyland is not LA. LA is a vast and energetic city with much to see and do that does not include a giant mouse and mass merchandising.

So, eleven more sleeps. At this stage I write lists: To do, To buy, To pack, To take on the plane. I am a list-maker in everyday life, but when in travel mode, they are even more crucial. They keep me sane, grounded. And for a girl who swallowed a handful of Mexican jumping beans and can’t sit still, some kind of tether is necessary to keep my feet on the ground – for the next eleven days anyway.

“On the road again, I just can’t wait to get on the road again…”

Traveller or Tourist?

March 21, 2008sandybarker

Years ago in another lifetime, I was a tour manager in Europe. I was responsible for running coach tours – 21 to 35 days for a well-known touring company popular with 18-35 year olds. My responsibilities ranged from accompanying a client to the hospital in Venice, to nursing broken hearts and hang-overs, and everything imaginable in between. One of my favourite parts of the trip took place on day one of the tour. We would leave London early morning, and drive to Paris by late afternoon. On the drive from London to Dover, where we would catch the ferry to Calais, I would give my ‘First Day Talk’.

The First Day Talk was a marathon of public speaking. It could take up to two hours, which may seem long, but when you are about to spend 24/7 with 50 strangers for the better part of a month, there are a few ground rules to lay. I covered toilets (not as available in Europe as in other parts of the world), and sleeping arrangements (I was not employed to hook people up), and departure times (I would – and had – left people behind). I also covered money, language, weather, clothing, behaviour, drinking, and food, but the grand finale of the talk was the ‘traveller versus tourist challenge’.

“A traveller,” I would begin, “is someone who tries new food and new experiences, who embraces differences from home, who is flexible and willing to ‘give it a go’. A traveller is interested in getting to know a place, and is keen to attempt the language. A traveller will appreciate that things in Europe are far more expensive than in Australia, New Zealand and the U.S. A traveller will want to get out there and do and see and participate in as much as possible, because a traveller knows they may never get the chance again. In short, a traveller will be an asset to this tour.

“A tourist, on the other hand, is someone who will notice all of these differences, and rather than embracing them, the tourist will complain and whine about them. Be a traveller, not a tourist.”

To this there would be heads nodding in response. I would even hear clients, when in unpleasant, awkward, or expensive moments on tour, say to another, ‘Remember, we’re travellers not tourists.’ Mostly it worked. Most of my clients were good fun and good people. There were a few tourists on the trips – but the others would usually bring them around – by cajoling, ribbing, or even with a few sharp words. Once I established that we were all in this together, the clients tended to develop a camaraderie much like a workplace. You all get on with it, even if you don’t like everybody else. When someone steps out of line, or needs support, the others rally.

A decade later, I still consider myself a traveller, not a tourist. I can think of two really obvious exceptions.

In Peru in 2006, I contracted Salmonella. It is in the tap water – even in a 3-star hotel – and through force of habit I rinsed my only tooth brush under the tap. I was then faced with the dilemma of rinsing it again under the hot water tap, or rinsing it in bottled water. I opted for bottled water, when what I should have done was throw it away. Within 12 hours I was sitting on the toilet, throwing up into the bathtub. I had to crawl on hands and knees between the bathroom and the bed. I could not keep down any food, and was on FULL STRENGTH, serious, do-not-mess-with-me-anti-biotics.

When I sobbed to the tour’s guide that I just wanted to go home, I was not in traveller mode. I was not embracing the differences between home and Peru. I was bloody pissed off. I was pissed at the water, and the hotel, who could not figure out how to get through to my mother in Australia. I was pissed off that I would miss trekking the Inca Trail. I was pissed off that for three months I had been getting up in the dark mornings, and running hills and steps in training for trekking the Inca Trail. And on top of all this ‘pissiness’, I was feeling sooooo sorry for myself. When I finally got my mum on the phone, I sobbed down the line in broken English, ‘I just want to come h-h-home. I h-h-hate Peru.”

I stayed. I got better. I finished the trip, and despite feeling like a cheat when I got to Machu Picchu – because I had arrived on a bus, not on foot – I was glad that I had not flown back to Sydney. When I was well, I got to feed llamas, and ride through the mountains on a motor cycle. I stood amongst ancient ruins, soaked in natural hot springs, and watched the sunrise over the Amazon Rainforest. I got to be a traveller again.

My other recent experience being a tourist was in Maui and it was, I cringe to say, voluntary.

Ben and I were staying at the Renaissance Wailea Resort, and it was beautiful, particularly the sunsets viewed from the balcony. We had been there nearly a week, and had spent most of our time experiencing as much of the island as possible. We had trekked across lava, and snorkled with the turtles ( I LOVE the turtles). We had driven the Road to Hana, which is only 60 miles, but took us 10 hours each way; we stopped frequently so we could hike, and swim in waterfalls, and get amongst it. Our best meal on that two-day trip was a smoked fish taco from a road-side stall. We were in Hawaii and we were squeezing every joy out of it, including the luxurious touches afforded us at the resort.

On our final full day there, we decided that we would take it easy. We would indulge in something a little ‘touristy’: we would lay by the pool and drink cocktails. We gathered books, hats, and sunscreen, and strolled down to the pool. We grabbed towels and set up our little part of paradise. The sun was hot, the skies were blue and the breeze was gentle. I went for a swim. Ben went for a swim. We dried off, lying on our sun loungers, and then went back and had a swim together. We sipped on ice water and perused the cocktail menu. Ben read, and I took photographs.

We had been there about 45 minutes when Ben turned to me and said, “This is boring. We should at least go to the beach.” ‘Thank god,’ I said, agreeing; it was boring, and definitely not something I could spend a week doing. We packed up our little part of paradise and opted for the beach – about 100 metres away – but even that got old after an hour. “Shall we make a move, Honey?” We spent the rest of the day driving to and from Haleakala Crater, which was incredible and other worldly – a grand mini adventure.

We tried. We tried to do the touristy resort thing, but it just doesn’t suit us. This is not to say that we can’t be still, that we can’t enjoy being in one spot and doing nothing. We can, but it depends on the spot, and it depends on the ‘nothing’.

Reading on a bench overlooking an incredible lakeside sunset in Wanaka, New Zealand – yep, we can do that.

Sharing a hammock for two – yep, that’s us too.

Sitting by a generic resort pool, amongst row after row of sun loungers, and avoiding ‘kid soup’ (the resort pool), not so much.

When I returned from Hawaii, I met up with a friend’s mother who I see on occasion. She, too, had just been to Maui. “Oh, did you see the lava fields?” “No.” “Did you go out on a boat, go snorkling? Swimming?” “No.” “Did you see the volcano? Watch a sunset? Swim in the ocean?” “No, no, no.” She had not left the resort, but she claimed to LOVE Maui. Tourist. Definitely.

p.s. I am not just a snob about coffee.

Giving Back

March 16, 2008March 16, 2008sandybarker

Images of wide-smiled African, Asian and South American children in need, pepper our media so much so that we become immune to them. Even those of us who sponsor a child, or community through charities such as Oxfam Community Aid Abroad, Save the Children and World Vision, can become numb to why we do this. The money comes from our account every month, and once in a while we browse the newsletters sent to us, but it is hard to sustain the level of empathy that made us sign up in the first place.

Well, there is a way to reconnect with that empathy. It is a form of tourism that has been around for a while, but is now experiencing a surge of interest. It is known as ‘Voluntourism’, where travellers can pay an organisation – a charity or tour company – to participate in hands-on charity work. You travel to a developing nation and have the privilege of building a home, or assisting in an agricultural project, or even teaching the local children.

Some people even turn this type of travel into a new life. In 2002 Australian Jane Gavell travelled through Central and South America, including Peru, and then spent eight months in Cusco learning Spanish. In 2003, she started Peru’s Challenge with her partner Selvy, a native Peruvian. Peru’s Challenge runs community-based projects which directly benefit children of Peru. In addition, Jane and her small staff host other like-minded travellers who want to give their time to Peruvian children, and pay to do so, as the charity is completely self-funded.

http://www.peruschallenge.com/

Intrepid Travel has just released promotional material for their M.A.D. (Make a Difference) trips, which span four continents, and range from two to six weeks in duration. The trips are not costly. The accommodation and food are simple. The time is divided between seeing some of the host country and assisting the local communities.

http://www.intrepidtravel.com/challenges

In these and other such trips, you would pay money and then spend a significant chunk of your holiday time helping others.

So, why would someone choose to do this?

I have pondered this question this past week, ever since I received Intrepid’s newsletter, and knew instantly that I want to take one of these trips – either to Africa or South-east Asia. And the answer for me is simple: it is the children.

Now, perhaps strains of ‘I believe the children are our future, teach them well…’ are floating through your mind. And yes, I realise that saying I want to help the children is a little, well, wanky? Naff? Miss America Wanna-be? (I hope those references cover all my readership) But the fact is, when I have travelled to other countries – and particularly developing nations – it is the children who fascinate me, and often reveal something about the place, about the culture.

The country where my encounters with children resonated the most, is Peru.

I was on a organised tour and was struck down with Salmonella. I missed the Inca Trail, and I was devastated, but that is a whole other blog post. Days later, when I could remain upright for a few hours at a time, my guide – and friend – Geraldine, put me on the back of a motor cycle, and rode me across the countryside so we could catch up with the rest of our group at Machu Picchu.

We stopped to take some photos of the magnificent valley, and right there at the side of the road in the middle of ‘nowhere’ were two women, a blanket laid with wares, and a small boy.

The boy, who was 2 or 3, picked up one of the mobiles from the blanket and presented it to me. I did not want to buy it for many reasons, but mostly because we were traveling light and I would have had to carry it. I said hello and greeted him warmly, kneeling down to take a look at what he presented. He smiled at me, a tiny salesman, until I said “No” and shook my head. Then the smile disappeared. He looked at me hard, suddenly a serious little man, then turned away and tottered back to his mother. I wondered how many times a day he did this. He had Winnie the Pooh on his hat, but I doubted that he had many playthings waiting at home.

Another child I encountered with this same ‘old’ look in her eyes, was the daughter of a 15-year old girl on the Floating Islands of Lake Titicaca. She, too, handed me something from her mother’s blanket of hand-crafted goods. When I gently said, “No, Sweetie” and picked up something else that had caught my eye, she hit me with it. I was not deterred, and wanted to get that smile. I cajoled her, making faces at her; her mother tickled her to help me in my quest. Nothing. The same stoic little three-year-old face. I bought something and moved along, but I was intrigued by this little person, with her permanent frown, and I watched as she moved independently around the island.

I had encountered quite a few of these old souls, so it was refreshing and heartening to meet the children at our home-stay on Amantani Island, also on Lake Titicaca.

The people of Amantani speak Quechua, which is an Indian dialect, and some speak a little Spanish. I was on the home-stay with a fellow traveller from Canada and our guide, Geraldine. Geraldine knew no Quechua and Sylvia, our home-stay ‘mama’ knew about as much Spanish as I did (not a whole lot). Our communication over the time we were there consisted of gesturing, pointing, some primitive sign language, and lots of smiles.

Sylvia lived with her parents, her grandparents, her sister and brother-in-law, and her two children, Brian and Jessie. Yes, those were the names of the baby and toddler on this small island in the middle of a giant lake, where no one speaks English and only a smattering of Spanish is known. Brian and Jessie. I asked Geraldine about it, and she said that the home-stays are part of the sustainable tourism program on the island, and that a lot of the small children have ‘western’ names, because the women hear them and like the sounds of them.

Jessie was a delightful two-year-old, who welcomed our gifts of pencils and paper. She laughed constantly, and loved playing peekaboo. She wanted to be tickled, even though she pretended to ‘run away’, which she did in fits of giggles. Brian, about 15 months, had that serious little face I had seen many times before, but when his mother picked him up, his face lit up and a smile erupted.

The home was rustic, with no electricity, no running water, and all the cooking was done in the small ‘kitchen’. This room was separate from the rest of the house, had a low ceiling and a hot fire, and the interior walls were covered in soot. We spent a lot of time in there the evening of our stay, as the temperature outside – and in our room – was very cold. We ate potato stew served over rice with bread on the side. It was delicious, and carried a smoky flavour from the fire on which it was cooked.

Our room had three beds, each covered in layers of blankets, all made on the island. I thought that the four blankets on my bed was a little, um, generous, but later that night when I burrowed underneath them and got toasty warm despite the cold air, I was grateful for the foresight. At dawn, Sylvia brought a large bowl of steaming water for us to use to wash ourselves. I was mindful that she and her mother had been up before dawn to boil the water for us.

As well as the gifts for the children, we were asked to bring gifts of sugar, rice and flour for the family. I would have brought much more, but the families are paid a small stipend for the accommodation through their local government. To bring anymore would be inappropriate, almost an insult, and there was nothing ‘poor’ about these people. The children were happy and clearly loved, the family members were close, and the farms and houses well maintained.

The ‘home-stay’ program is run on a rotating roster governed by one of the island elders. He distributes the home-stays and the fees collected from our tour company – and others – who visit regularly.

We could inject money into the local economy by purchasing the local crafts. And I did. I bought beautiful hand-woven, hand-knitted alpaca scarves, socks, hats and finger puppets. The Christmas of 2006 my family and friends received many Peruvian gifts.

I would have happily stayed on Amantani Island for many more days. I would have tended to the children, or fed the animals, or peeled potatoes for stew. It was a community with harmony at its core, and I wanted to stay longer than our overnight home-stay. The island, that community, those children tapped into something that is vital to a happy life: humility. I have so much, and because of that, it is incumbent upon me to give back. Somehow.

There were tears when we said good-bye to Sylvia. She was a lovely young woman, who went out of her way to spoil us. We hadn’t needed words to communicate that we were happy to be there, and had so enjoyed meeting her young family. Her husband, who was working on another island, must be so proud of them.

I often think of Brian and Jessie, and then of the children who were not so happy, and were doing it much tougher than these two. There are far too many children in the world doing it tough, and children should never have to worry about where their next meal is coming from, or where they will sleep tonight.

This brings me full circle. I do not plan to be a parent, but I am an awesome Aunty. As a school teacher, I am fortunate to be in a position to educate and contribute to the development of children, but at times I just want to do more, give more.

I will head to Africa or to South-east Asia, hopefully this year, and I will give back, because I am fortunate, and because I can.

Tags: ‘Voluntourism’, Peru, Lake Titicaca, children, Intrepid Travel, Peru’s Challenge

Losing watches

February 22, 2008February 22, 2008sandybarker

At a recent interview – for the job I am in currently – I was asked to describe my organisational skills. I replied, “Freakish.” And they are. I am a list-maker. I have reminders – electronic and on post-its and on calendars – for all sorts of things. I do not forget birthdays, appointments, work responsibilities or social arrangements. My job requires that I adhere to a strict timetable, and I am responsible for decision-making and organization that immediately affects 180 students and 6 other staff members.

I am a planner in most aspects of my life – except when I am in ‘travel mode’.

When I travel I revel in the freedom it affords me. I shake off the shackles of timetables, commitments and calendars. I take off my watch and happily forget what day it is. On occasion, there are planes or trains to catch at specific times, but mostly I can indulge a side of myself that is rarely seen in my day-to-day and working life. In recent travels I am happy to plan a day or two ahead, and leave the rest to unfold as it comes. And I am often happy for others – in many cases Ben – to make big decisions about what, where and how. I give over to the lack of obligation, and it feels terrific. I haven’t always traveled like this, but in the past few years I have been fortunate with travel companions who allow this side of me to emerge.

My greatest experience of this feeling happened in late September 2006. I stood on the dock of a small marina in the south of Santorini, Greece, and I searched the fleet of sailing vessels for the one with the red G.A.P. flag.

Standing next to me was a tall, dark-haired stranger who seemed to share my nervousness about being in the right
place. “Are you on the sailing trip up to Mykonos?” I asked. “Yes, god I am so glad I am in the right place.” “Me too.” “I’m Ben,” he said with hand extended, “Sandy,” I replied as we shook hands and smiled at each other. We made our way down to the marina and found our yacht. We were greeted exuberantly by our skipper, Patrick, and introduced to the other 5 people we would share the next 9 days with. All were strangers to me, yet within hours I sat with them at dinner, laughing,
enjoying terrific local seafood and knowing that I was amongst friends.

Earlier that day, when I said goodbye to old friends and left to take up my trip with strangers, I had fretted. I worried that I wouldn’t be able to find the right bus to get to the right marina to meet up with the right yacht. I had all the same worries about the people on the yacht that a child has about their fellow students on the first day of school. “What if they don’t like me?”was foremost in my mind.

I needn’t have worried. I am still in contact with these fellow travellers 18 months later, and Ben from the yacht is the same Ben who shares my passion for life’s experiences, and peppers my posts about subsequent travels.

We all shared something on that boat that I have never experienced before; an intense feeling of freedom. We slept when we were tired, and we ate when we were hungry. For people from diverse professions all driven by deadlines and timetables, this was liberating.

I lost my watch and did not find it again until packing on the last day. I did not miss it. I forgot what day it was, and
not because the days all melded into one, but because each day seem twice as long as the frantic days of home. Each
day was filled with languid hours, each moment was lived in present tense, which is the key to this kind of bliss – not obsessing about the past, not fretting about the future.

Even the itinerary was ‘loose’. Patrick was the perfect skipper for this kind of trip. He knew the Cyclades islands so
well, that he sailed according to the whims of the weather and the sea. No matter the island on which we landed, he
knew the best places to eat, the best places to see, and how to squeeze every minute from the day without feeling rushed.

Sailing between islands came with its own unique joys. Being on the water with no other place to be at that exact moment, is exhilarating. Swimming off the boat, diving into the bottomless dark blue sea, is exhilarating.
Watching dolphins cresting waves beside the yacht is exhilarating. Breathing salt air, basking in sunlight,
feeling the spray of the ocean on your face, holding on tight to ride the swell and looking ahead as the next island emerges from a hazy horizon – all bliss.

There are so many terrific stories to tell from this trip, and I will some day, but more than unbelievable meals and
extraordinary sights, this trip unlocked something in me. I have described it to Ben as a loosening of knots. I discovered that life is less about timetables and meetings and the pressure of deadlines. Much more important are the moments when we are completely present.

I consider this particular trip a gift. 8 nights and 9 days in the middle of the Adriatic to remind me to be present, to stop obsessing about unimportant things. Whenever I get too caught up in the rigmarole, I think back and remember to breathe.

Oh yes, I will still be obsessively on time for flights, but when I get to the other end and my real journey begins, I
happily and purposefully lose my watch.

Tags: Travelmode, Greece, yacht

Loathe of Flying Part Two

February 20, 2008sandybarker

On every long haul flight I invariably end up wondering WHEN scientists are going to sort out this teleporting thing. If you watch episodes of the original Star Trek, you will see Spock and Kirk and the gang talking into their mobile phones, and Uhura chatting away on her Bluetooth earpiece. The crew even shock alien bad guys with Taser guns. If so much of the technology imagined by Gene Roddenberry in the 60s has actually eventuated, when, oh when, will teleporting become a feasible alternative to flying long haul?

I saw Jumper yesterday, the film with Hayden Christensen. I watched enviously as he teleported from one part of the world to the next without jetlag, and without having to sleep sitting up while breathing stale air filled with germs.

Oh, how I hate the long haul flight. I travel frequently enough that flying anything other than coach is not a financial option, and I have only been upgraded once in the past 20 years, so coach it is. Every time. As this is the status quo, I have developed some coping mechanisms, some strategies to make it more bearable down the less pointy end of the plane. Feel free to borrow as many of these as you like.

I always request an aisle seat. I want to know that I can get up whenever I want – or at least whenever the seatbelt sign is not on. I want to be able to escape a leaner, a snorer, or a chatter to the airspace of the aisle. I request these seats when I book. I double and triple check that I have an aisle seat. And one of the advantages of checking in so early is that I can guarantee this aisle seat. It is so important to me that the on the rare occasion I haven’t had an aisle seat (twice), I spend much of the flight in a state of anxious claustrophobia. Am not afraid of flying; am afraid of being crushed into a small space without chance of escape. Fellow claustrophobics will understand.

Once on the plane – and I wait until about 2/3 of the passengers have embarked, as the rush is over, but there is still room in the overhead lockers for my biggest bag – I like to ‘nest’. I put my newly purchased array of magazines, my water bottle and lollies in the seat pocket. I take off my shoes and put on socks, and I ensure my moisturiser, lip balm, and eye drops are close at hand under the seat in front of me. I stash my big bag above my head, and all this takes less than a minute. Other essentials stashed within reach include a notebook and pen in case I am inspired, and my eye mask and ear plugs for sleep time.

The nesting is an important part of my flight, because it is me creating my own little world where I will have everything I need within reach. Sandy-land in the sky. Yes, I am aware that this sounds a little O-C and probably annoying for anyone sitting next to me. Tough!

While waiting for other passengers to embark, I indulge in another small pleasure: reading about the flight menu and the in-flight entertainment. Neither will meet the standard we enjoy in everyday life, but both take up time, and it is nice to look at the menu and think, “Oooh, we get supper, breakfast and lunch. That’s got to take up a couple of hours right there.” And the entertainment? I purposefully flick to the back of the in-flight magazine and make mental notes. Mostly I think along the lines of, “seen it”, “heard it was rubbish”, and “saw it and it was rubbish”, but every so often, I turn to that page and internally exclaim, “Haven’t seen it, heard it was brilliant!” It is a small moment, but a good one. Of course, many planes have those fancy-schmancy ‘back-of-the-seat-choose-your-own-adventure” entertainment systems which negates much of this. However, although I generally fly Qantas and other such ‘first-rate’ airlines, I have poor luck in getting on one of these planes. 4 of my last 5 international flights have been on planes only slightly younger than the flight attendants.

After checking out the meal service and entertainment comes the greatest pleasure of all when flying coach long haul. It doesn’t happen very often, but when it does, you cannot help but feel smug and unbelievably elated. It is the moment when you realise that the seat next to yours will remain empty for the next 14 hours and 27 minutes. You can spread out. And the only other person to share that moment with, is the one sitting on the other side of the empty seat. A smile and a nod will do it. No need for lengthy diatribes – you both just know. YES!

So, I have expounded on the pleasures of flying coach long haul, and we haven’t even left the ground yet. This is because once we leave the ground, any possibility of further small pleasures evaporates. Once flying, it is all about the countdown to landing. Why do you think they have those obnoxious screens with the little plane on a map, moving along at a rate that would make a snail smirk? Because they (the all-knowing ‘THEY’ with their infinite wisdom) know that even though we let ourselves get distracted by the movies playing on a screen we can only see if we sit on our hand luggage and crick our neck to the left, flying long haul is mostly about ‘Are we there yet?” So, in between movies and food service, we stare at that stupid map and will the little plane to go faster.

About an hour into the flight, they start to heat up the food in the galleys, and no matter what it is, by that time, in that situation, the wafting aroma excites the palate. The food when it arrives tends to disappoint, but we sit there with our itsy-bitsy plastic crockery arranging everything as though it is our last meal. We take our time to butter the bread roll, to cut the cheese into small portions to evenly distribute it amongst the three crackers. We look up the aisle excitedly as the drink cart makes its way to us, knowing we can order wine, because it is free on long haul flights. We may even just save the mini-chocolate bar for later. We eat like rows of praying mantis with our little plastic forks and knives, and we are grateful for this sub-standard fare because it takes up time.

I should say at this point that I have a trick. I always order a ‘special meal’ – and I will happily chop and change between ‘low fat’, ‘lactose intolerant’, ‘low glycemic’ and ‘gluten free’ options. I am not fussed about the meal, but if I order a special meal, it comes out before the main service – often well before. I may have to wait for that tiny plane to cross the international date line, but I don’t have to wait for that food cart to come all the way down the aisle to my row. So, I lied a little before. There is one small pleasure to be had once in the air. It sounds like this, “Miss Barker, I have your meal for you.”

The other stuff is just there to suffer through – and sleep through if you can:

Children who kick the back of your seat or chuck tantrums. Once in a while I feel like chucking a tantrum on a plane too – maybe thats why I dislike these children so much – because I am jealous.
The snorer, who keeps everyone awake but himself.
The phantom farter, who seems to think the air-conditioning just sucks the smell out into the atmosphere.
The dodgy entertainment system that stops working 3 minutes before the end of a film you have invested 2 hours and 45 minutes in.
The state of the bathrooms after 12 hours of flying.
The loud talker. If I can hear her from row 32 when she is in row 19, could someone please tell her it is likely she can lower her voice and the person next to her will still be able to hear what she is saying?
Disappearing flight attendants. “Excuse me, could I please have a cup of tea?” outside of normal drink service will guarantee you will never see that flight attendant – or any of her colleagues – again.
The uncomfortable irony of being desperate for the bathroom and more thirsty than you can ever remember – and the seatbelt sign stays on for eternity. Never has one little neon red light meant so much.

I did promise to write about airports, as I have been to more airports than destinations, but not tonight. Tonight I am going to eat a delicious dinner on real crockery, then stretch out on my couch and watch whatever I darned well please.

Tags: Travel, flying, airplanes

Loathe of Flying Pt 1

February 16, 2008sandybarker

I LOVE to travel, but the cruel irony is that I hate to fly.

I appreciate that there are people who are desperately afraid of flying. That is not me. I suffer only from loathe of flying. I do not fear the plane falling out of the sky. In fact, often times I am so blasé about flying that I am asleep by the time we take off and I wake after we are in the air.

Mostly the loathing is because of what happens on the ground. I hate airports. I understand that few people actually like the airport experience, but I have had such bad luck at airports that I am often anxious when I get there.

I once arrived at the airport for a month-long trip to the USA where it was winter. I had boots, jumpers (sweaters), coats and ski gear in my carefully packed suitcases. My idiot travel agent had assured me that my airline allowed 2 bags at up to 32kg per bag, so I had one big heavy suitcase, and a small suitcase, its ‘mini me’. My large suitcase was seriously overweight. I argued that my travel agent had assured me I could carry up to 32kg per bag – and all I had was a paltry 27kg. I even called my travel agent, who was so stupid, she swore black and blue that she was correct and that the perfectly coiffed woman standing opposite me was the idiot. I told my agent I would be paying the excess baggage and then billing her. She was outraged at my suggestion – she was outraged, but she wasn’t the one facing an excess baggage charge every leg of a 6-leg journey.

We argued a bit more, and less than 3 minutes later, I had slammed my mobile phone shut (it was the best I could do to display my disgust) and was repacking my carefully-packed bags on the floor of the airport. In the middle of my summer, I lightened my load by putting on a jumper, boots and a long winter coat. When I was done, the small bag weighed almost as much as the big one – a feat in defiance of physics – and I was checked in. Idiot-travel-agent-woman.

In Calgary, I locked my friend’s baby in the car – while it was running, at the 3-minute kerbside drop-off point. Baby in the car, luggage in the car, keys in the ignition, and my girlfriend and I standing there, early morning, temperature well below zero. She started laughing in response to our predicament, albeit hysterically, and I stood there dumb-struck for about 30 seconds.

Thank fortune we had the car boot open, and that I could crawl inside, push through to the backseat, and contort my body enough to flick the lock with the edge of my finger nail. Thank fortune because her husband had lost the spare set of keys the day before. Baby Canyon was none the wiser and thought it was hilarious that Aunty Sandy was doing such a funny thing. I made my flight, but it took me until well into it to start breathing normally again.

And for some reason, no matter where in the world I am, I am selected 9 times out of 10 for ‘random security checks’. Random! As in, ‘You look like a good sort, so I will randomly select you‘? In Denver airport I wished I hadn’t worn my stripy toe socks inside my boots. The security staff did not find them as festive as I did, so I was randomly selected for further searches.

At Heathrow, when batteries were the greatest potential danger, and not liquids, the security officer asked, “Excuse me Madam, is there anything battery-operated in your luggage?” I immediately thought to my personal massager, and to save us both the embarrassment, I replied a simple, “No”.

I do not mind the latest security measures. I would much rather be safe, than to complain about them, and in truth I have flown quite a lot in the past few years, so I have my routine down pat. Shoes off, coat/jacket off, plastic bag of toiletries out, laptop out, bags flat, through the sensor, all back on and in again.

There have been a few glitches, like when I was in Peru. I had packed my hand luggage that morning for the trekking I would be doing at the other end of the flight. And without a thought to the plane travel, I included my Swiss Army knife – the one I’d had for a decade, with my name engraved on it.

When the security officer stopped me and asked about the knife, I indignantly denied it, as I had forgotten how stupid I had been. I cannot imagine the look on my face as I realised he was right and that I was about to lose a prized possession.

While in Hawaii, Ben’s bag was searched by hand after the scan because it was jam-packed, and he realised he had left his pocketknife in the bag. He whispered this me, and I had visions of us being carted away by U.S. security for further questioning. But no, Ben was simply chastised for a 150ml bottle of sunscreen, which was confiscated. “I told him not to pack that,” I said, and Ben looked suitably contrite. Phew.

As my luck at airports leans more towards ‘bad’ than ‘good’, I tend to arrive exceptionally early for my international flights. If all goes well, I have a comfortable window of time in which I can shop duty free, or have a leisurely cup of tea, or even browse bookshops. When it all goes pear-shaped, I have wiggle-room and will stress less (well, a little less anyway).

At Heathrow in 2006, they changed the gate for my flight to Athens at the last minute and my ‘comfortable window’ dissolved into harried running from one end of the airport to the other with 50 of my fellow passengers. When we got to the new departure gate, we were herded onto buses and shuttled to the other side of the airport (a 15-minute drive), and ended up at a gate that was suspiciously located where the original departure gate was.

But sometimes, my ‘boy scout’ approach to flying backfires on me. The last time I flew out of Australia, I arrived 3 hours before my flight. I was the only person at check in, the only person at security and had to interrupt two customs officers chatting so they could okay my departure from Australia. I was all the way through with a wait of 2 hours and 50 minutes until my flight – and I had already changed money. I browsed, I shopped, I had lunch, and I still had another 2 hours to wait.

But superstition and experience just wouldn’t allow me to be one of those people who leaves it all to the last second, and squeezes into their seat moments before the door is sealed, the plane is crossed-checked and we are cleared for departure. That kind of stress would only make flying even more hellish.

Next time: The joys of long-haul flights, and best and worst airports.

Glitter, gambling, glamour. It can only be Vegas.

February 13, 2008February 18, 2008sandybarker

Las Vegas. An oasis of guilty pleasures in the middle of the desert. Glitter, gambling and glamour. Right? Well, sort of.

Last year the call went out. My mother wished for nothing more than to return to her homeland, and wanted my sister and I to join her for an American Christmas – in Las Vegas. This is where mum’s sister and her family have lived for the better part of three decades. For Aunt Joanne and Uncle Tom, and their children, and their children’s children, Las Vegas is home; it is where they live, work, go to school, buy groceries, do chores and play.

I hadn’t been there since before I was of legal drinking age (I was 19), so I was looking forward to reconnecting with my family, as well as discovering what all the fuss about Vegas was about. I was not disappointed on either front.

I was delighted to meet (again) my beautiful Aunt Joanne, who has the wisest and kindest eyes I have ever had look upon me, and my Uncle Tom, whose wit is drier than the desert he lives in. I laughed a lot with my cousin, Mary, and loved meeting her daughter, who I had nursed on my lap, now a young woman with a sharp wit of her own. What an ease there was between us, even when time and distance had separated us for 20 years.

My sister flew in from London, Ben flew in from Minnesota, Cousin Cathy flew in from Phoenix, and my mother was overjoyed to have us all there to celebrate Christmas together.

But, I couldn’t shake the question running through my head at a rate of knots: “What is Christmas in Vegas going to be like?” I mean it was LAS VEGAS and I was there to celebrate one of the holiest events on the Christian calendar – not that this is why Christmas is my favourite holiday – but that is beside the point. I was just fascinated by the irony!

I would soon discover that Las Vegas is a city of contrasts, where the beauty of the landscape far outweighs that of the ‘beautiful people’, and much of the fun happens well off The Strip. And Christmas in Vegas? Well, that was all about contrasts too.

We watched White Christmas; we fired handguns. We drove around looking at Christmas lights, and saw a topless review. We spent part of Christmas Day people-watching along The Strip, and the rest hanging out at ‘home’ and consuming an enormous Christmas feast with the family. Oh yes, we squeezed every ounce of goodness out of this particular holiday.

We did fire handguns – Ben, Vic and I. A few days before Christmas we walked through the doors of a gun shop and shooting range on the outskirts of the city. We were greeted exuberantly by a man called John, a gentle bear with no backside to speak of, so his jeans hung dangerously low.

Now, my sister and I had never shot a hand gun before – we were gun virgins – whereas Ben has handled firearms (responsibly) since he was a boy on hunting trips with grandpa and at target practice with dad. The process that day was pretty straightforward. We filled in photocopied forms with basic information, and between the three of us, we produced exactly 0 pieces of identification. Ben opted for the high end stuff; he shot a 50 calibre Desert Eagle and an MP5, which is an automatic. Vic and I were given a .22 and a Glock (.38), respectively.

The shooting range was just a small room with cinderblock walls, partitions and a simple pulley system for flying the targets to the other end of the room. When we walked in, the semi-automatic shotgun one man was firing tore through the sound-proofing of our ear protection. The ‘boom’, ‘boom’, ‘boom’ was felt right through our bodies too. My sister started shaking and spent most of our session in the safety of the gun shop. I stuck it out in the range to watch Ben fire high powered weapons, his back muscles straining against his T-shirt (sigh). Then it was my turn.

I was guided to the end partition, and John helped me load the clip into my gun. It was like it is in the movies. Gun in one hand, clip held in the palm of the other hand, and the two coming together with that ‘ratchet’ sound. Marvelous. I thought back to 15 minutes earlier when I had received my not-so-extensive instruction: right foot back, right arm nearly straight, left arm bent, lean into the gun, left hand cupping right, squeezing palms together to keep the gun steady and gently squeezing the trigger. “Pop”. Not quite the ‘boom’ of the semi-auto shot gun, or the short bursts from the MP5, but a satisfying feeling. I squinted down the room to my target. “Did I hit it?” I wondered. I squeezed the trigger a second time.

Now I voiced my thought aloud, “Did I hit it?” John informed me that I was firing high and just clipping the top of the target. “You need to follow through, just like as in tennis. Although with firing a gun, the ‘follow through’ means that you must keep the gun level and steady, even after you have fired it. This will keep the bullet on target.” Good to know. I tried it again and this time hit somewhere in the midsection of my target. I turned to John with glee on my face. “I did it!” I exclaimed. It was so gratifying.

I continued through the rest of the clip, aiming as best as I could for each shot. This particular gun will fire off round after round quickly, but I was purposefully aiming. At the end of the clip, I felt ‘done’. I still had another clip to go, but I didn’t want to shoot it, so Ben did. Inexplicably, I just didn’t want to shoot anymore. I had achieved what I wanted to achieve: I can now say that I have shot a hand gun. It is a peculiar feeling having that much power in my hands. I came away feeling contented, and with sore biceps.

I had already been out to see Vic and talk her into having a go, but she was teary and adamant that she was not going to. I went back into the range to collect my things, and John said he would talk to her. I thought he had no chance, until a moment later, there was my little sister (all 5’1” of her) geared up and firing a .22 – with a silencer.The silencer was the key. She was good too – a far better aim than me, and she seemed pleased that she had gone through with it.

How odd – and oddly rewarding – an experience. And no I.D. required! Days later I would need photo I.D. to enter Ben’s health club in St Paul as a guest, but I could fire a deadly weapon in the state of Nevada with nothing more than my signature on a photocopied form.

We commemorated the occasion with photographs of us holding automatic weapons, and with our rolled up targets in hand, we bid the boys at the gun shop and shooting range farewell. As we left I noticed the tinsel decorating the shop door. Oh yes, it was Christmas! I was so caught up in the incredibly cool thing I had just done, I had almost forgotten. “Happy Holidays,” I called out as we left.

The contrasts didn’t end there. Ben and I have had really different Christmases throughout our lives. We would be blending our own traditions to have our first together. Now, obviously, Christmas in Australia is hot. My family starts the day with a breakfast of champagne and cold seafood – prawns and crayfish (shrimp and lobster for my North American readers). The champagne was not much of a hard sell, but in our hotel room just off The Strip (The very lovely ‘Renaissance’) we opted for ripe red pears with our champagne, instead of seafood. We sipped the champagne while we opened our presents – mine to Ben a stocking stuffed with lots of smaller gifts (a Barker family thing), and his to me a stunning Sapphire bracelet (I am not sure if this is a family tradition, but it certainly took my breath away). Then we made our way downstairs for a full cooked breakfast, with coffee, which was more Ben’s style.

And the topless review? It was one of my gifts to Ben. Front row, baby! And it was spectacular. Sexy, sassy, a little cheesy, and a lot of fun. The women were every type of gorgeous, from natural fresh-faced beauties to heavily made up bombshells. Did it set feminism back 20 years? No. It celebrated the power of feminine beauty, and was a brilliant night out.
We also saw Cirque du Soleil’s Mystique – tickets were a gift from Joanne and Tom – and as a child of the theatre, it absolutely delighted me. I did not know where to look as the spectacle was all around us and above us. The stage transformed several times, and the journey we were taken on, a gift in the realm of surrealism. It was very easy to get lost in it.

We did gamble a few times, and we wandered The Strip, watching the people – a collection of folks from everywhere you can imagine. We went to M&M World, a merchandise playground for those with an obsession for M&M’s (um, me). My sister and I tried to out ‘cute’ each other with each successive thing we pulled off the shelf. I am such a sucker for that stuff. I found that I absolutely could not live without a Green M&M ruler, and matching keyring. They see us coming for miles, I am sure. They do not give out samples, which is a crime against humanity.

Yes, Las Vegas at Christmas time is a little unusual. The sun is shining and there are no clouds in the sky, yet it is cold, but not cold like it is in Minnesota that time of year. So, perhaps it was the perfect place for Ben and I to spend our first Christmas together – he got his cold weather and I got my blue skies.

And the real reason I love Christmas, is because it is a time when family and loved ones come together. I missed my dad, my step-mum and the rest of my family and loved ones back in Australia, but I am so glad I had my wonderful, bizarre, and love-filled Christmas in Vegas.

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