Spa Week

Market Mania - November 1, 2010

I'll admit it: I'm a market junkie. Wherever I am in the world, I like to scour the local stalls—whether they're peddling food, artisan crafts or just plain old junk—to get a sense of the culture and snag a deal or two. I've learned that the quality and uniqueness of the finds definitely depends on the location of the market and who it's geared towards. Very touristy set-ups near major monuments will mainly be filled with local-themed (but not always locally-made) knick-knacks (think nesting dolls in Russia or fake military hats and Chairman Mao bags in China), while markets geared towards residents are usually bursting with everyday items like socks, batteries and undershirts. (On the plus side, these necessities are often far less expensive overseas. I'm still making my way through the twenty hair bands I bought for a dollar in Malaysia...)

A disappointing trend emerging over the last few years is the influx of mass-produced or fake-designer items in what used to be more exotic markets. It's depressing to spot wannabe-Guccis in Italy or pick up a colorful scarf in Morocco only to learn it was made in China. But if you seek out the artisan stalls or weekend flea markets, there are still lots of unusual, creative items to be found. Some of my favorites buys include a stylish, mod-looking tote made out of recycled rice sacks that I got in Cambodia and vintage, Communist-era tea tins picked-up from a junk stall in Prague. Whenever I am in Buenos Aires, I seek out a guy with a tiny table in the market near the Recoleta cemetery who makes lovely necklaces and pendants out of old coins from around the world. If you happen to visit him someday, drop him some of the change from your pocket—he's always in the market for American quarters.

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July 1, 2010

There's something very romantic—and more than a touch decadent—about the idea of wearing a made-to-order fragrance. Throughout history, the creation of a signature scent was primarily a luxury enjoyed by royalty and nobility. In more recent times, icons like Grace Kelly and Audrey Hepburn had perfumes concocted for them by some of the world's top "noses." (Prince Rainier III had fragrance house Creed create the Fleurissimo scent for Kelly as a wedding present.) But if you think about it, what could be more personal or more of a reflection of your personality, energy and individual chemistry than how you smell? Whether spicy or sweet, floral or citrus, the scents you like say something about you, so it makes more sense to have a voice in creating that perfume, rather than just picking up some celebrity-endorsed spray from the department store.

Given this, I was particularly excited when on a trip to the Ojai Valley Inn & Spa in Ojai, California, I got the chance to experience the resort's Custom Blending session. Both the town of Ojai and the resort itself are natural fragrance havens: citrus fruits burst from the trees, there are flowers everywhere, and lavender and rosemary bushes grow wild along the sidewalks and bike paths. Much of this natural bounty is incorporated into the spa's body treatments, but the olfactory experience is taken a step further with the blending class, which is overseen by trained aromatherapists. Over the course of 90 minutes, my fellow participants and I were led on a "fragrance journey" that shed some revealing light on our current states of mind.

Once settled into the resort's charming Artist's Cottage Apothecary, we were each given paper, a pencil, a small, empty blue glass bottle, and a bowl of coffee beans (to help clear the nasal passages.) After explaining a little bit about how essential oils are distilled (and asking if any of us had any allergies), the two aromatherapists took turns having us smell over 40 "anonymous" essential oils, one by one; after each one, we had to assign it a number between 1 ("yuck") and 5 ("I want to live in this.") Because we weren't told what each scent was until after we rated it, we didn't have any preconceived ideas about the smells—which led to some interesting results. For one oil, for example, all of us wrinkled our noses and gave it a dismal "1", much to the surprise of our instructors. Turns out it was vanilla, which all of us said we normally liked. "Your body tells you what you need at that moment," the aromatherapists explained. "You could do this journey six months from now and come up with completely different results."

After rating all the scents, we went through another round of re-testing those we had given 3s, 4s and 5s, just to make sure they held up (interestingly enough, several of them changed in ranking.) Thus armed with a list of our top favorites, we began the blending: starting with our 5s, we put one drop of each into the blue glass bottle as our instructors showed us how to do "sweep tests" to check that the scents would go together (they also made sure we had enough "base," "heart" and "top" notes.) "You will know when you are finished," they said, and they were right—for some of us the perfume smelled "done" after four or five oils, while others created potions of 14 scents or more. What we were drawn to was also revealing; leaning towards citrus meant you were looking for joy in your life, while a penchant for herbal smells equaled a desire for clarity and focus. At the end, we each had our very own signature scent, in both concentrated perfume form and as a massage oil. In a cool twist, the spa used our custom oils in our massages later that day—for the ultimate in personalized service.

Check out the Ojai Valley Inn & Spa at www.ojairesort.com.

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June 1, 2010 - Law & Order, Nottingham

On a recent trip to England, I went to check out what's supposedly one of the country's most haunted locations - the Galleries of Justice Museum in the East Midlands city of Nottingham. Located in the historic Lace Market district, once home to the city's famous lace manufacturing industry, this is England's only museum dedicated to crime and punishment. The site itself has a significance spanning hundreds of years: there was some type of prison here as early as the 7th-century, and by the 12th-century, this was the county sheriff's seat. Over the next few centuries the buildings here were used as courtrooms, legal and police offices, and jails—with plenty of hangings and executions taking place on the front steps and courtyard.

Today, visitors come here to learn about the history of crime and punishment through well-crafted exhibits, interactive panels and re-enactments. Our tour started in the courtroom, where actors re-create sections from trials both real (like the one of a Victorian-era woman accused of killing her baby) and legendary (see Robin Hood vs. the Sheriff of Nottingham.) Next, we headed down a steep staircase into the bowels of the building, home to the old jails. Here, you can check out historic punishment devices (including a bridle used on women who were "nagging" their husbands), as well as the former prisoners' quarters, which range from sandstone ditches to dark, damp cells. One of the latter—a plain cell with a high, narrow window—is one of the Museum's supposed haunted areas; employees say you can feel a presence in the space. Nearby, in the old jail laundry and bathing area, workers have also spotted a black shape floating into a back room, as well as an old piece of laundry equipment moving by itself.

Back upstairs, we saw the courtyard with its hanging stations and vintage prisoner graffiti, and toured exhibits that detailed what life was like before, during and after prison for many of the inmates. What was most striking was learning about how, for much of history, the punishments rarely fit the crimes; for stealing a loaf of bread or a length of ribbon, for example, one could have been sentenced to hard labor or even shipped off to do hard time in the penal colony in Australia. Considering many of the accused were kids or elderly folk (including a few older women) just looking for some food, the situations seem even sadder.

So is the place haunted? It's hard to say. While our group didn't see any actual activity, we did feel a heaviness—a sort of cold sadness—throughout the site that took hours to shake off. (Weirdly, I developed a sore throat while at the Museum, but was fine shortly after leaving.) And considering all the people imprisoned here over the years, as well as some of the injustices that were committed, it would be no surprise if a soul or two was sticking around with unfinished business. For more on the Museum, visit www.galleriesofjustice.org.uk.

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May 1, 2010

Check your beauty product labels and, chances are, you'll see bit of Morocco on the list. Rich in ingredients like roses, orange blossoms, nuts and olives, Morocco is also the only place in the world you can find current beauty industry "It" ingredient Argan oil, a restorative, nut-based, all-purpose oil that's high in Vitamin E. Harvested and pressed by Berber women using traditional methods, Argan oil has become a very trendy Moroccan souvenir (particularly with European tourists), and little Argan-based beauty boutiques have now popped-up all over the tangled alleys of Marrakech's old town markets, peddling stylishly-packaged bottles of the "miracle" cure. For locals, though, the secrets of Argan are nothing new, so to learn about the oil—as well as other herbal remedies—I recently hit several of the traditional Berber pharmacies that dot the historic Marrakech souks.

My favorite of the lot was Atlas Herbalist, a centuries-old pharmacy that's been passed down from father to son for generations. Current proprietor Youssef and his son—both trained herbalists—are happy to walk visitors through their vast stock, which overflows from baskets displayed throughout the three-room shop and fills the hundreds of bottles that line the walls. Most popular with locals, Youssef tells me, are the spices—pure ones like saffron, cumin and turmeric, or mixtures used for marinating meats and veggies. Along with Argan oil (heat-pressed to drizzle on food, cold-pressed for cosmetic use), another staple is savon noir (black soap), a gooey, tar-like soap made with olive oil and herbs like eucalyptus or lavender that's used in the traditional hammam steam baths. Herbal health remedies are popular, too, and Atlas stocks a multi-herb treatment tea for diabetes, mint mixtures for circulation, and ground nigella seeds—a cure-all from the Atlas Mountains—for headaches, stomach issues and immune support.

Atlas also carries big blocks of solid herbal incense, crystal-like rocks that work as natural deodorants, and an array of rich natural paint pigment powders, but I was most fascinated by some of the more unusual offerings. Dried stalks of bechnikha, a mountain tree flower, can be used to clean teeth, while powdered coquelicot flower, when wet, becomes a tinted Berber lipstick. (A mixture of saffron and Vaseline is also sold to treat chapped lips.) At one point while showing me around, Youssef dropped his voice and whispered that the pharmacy also offers protection against the "evil eye", and fixes against curses. "What about remedies for love?" I ask. "Oh yes, l'amour," he smiles. "Everything is for love." But, he explained, they don't really carry potions to make someone new fall in love with you—the more common requests are for something to "bring back a wandering husband," or "renew a wife's interest in the bedroom." Those jars, I assumed, were hidden away.

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April 1, 2010

Utopia is commonly defined as "an ideally perfect place, especially in its social, political and moral aspects." I don't think I've been to a city that fits this description (yet), but last month, I hung out in a little corner of Los Cabos, Mexico that came pretty darn close. At about 9:30am on a sunny Saturday, after a morning yoga session on the spa deck of the Marquis Los Cabos hotel, I joined the resort's head chef for a trip to the weekend Organic Market. Now, I've been to green markets before, of course, so I was expecting the usual: fresh produce and flowers, some baked goods, maybe a cheese wheel or two. Instead, this weekly gathering—located on a lovely, tree-ringed greenspace outside the town of San Jose del Cabo—was a feast of all things creative, natural, and homemade, from gourmet eats to jewelry, arts and crafts, and even wellness offerings like massage and capoeira. It was all done with charm and plenty of upscale flair—think town fair on "Gilmore Girls," if sponsored by Whole Foods.

Even at that time of the morning on a Saturday, there was a steady stream of patrons—both locals and visitors—strolling around the stalls, which were manned by a mix of Mexican and expat American merchants. (Close to California, Los Cabos is a popular destination for West Coasters, and many Americans have second homes in the area.) There were lots of artisans showcasing hand-knit scarves and clothing, pottery, glassware and jewelry made with lovely polished stones and crystals. In one corner, a massage therapist had set-up a full massage table—complete with sheets and face-cradle—for rub-downs in the sunshine, while in the center of the field, a few fit individuals went through the fluid movements of a Brazilian capoeira martial arts routine.

But mainly, the stalls showcased food with an emphasis on the organic and natural. Many tables stocked fresh produce from area growers—which are often snapped up by chefs from the local five-star resorts—as well as flowers and herb plants. One of the first tables I stopped at was peddling colorful sea salts as well as homemade goodies like oversized cookies with oatmeal, chocolate chips and protein-rich chia seeds, and paper thin tortillas infused with coriander, chilies and other spices. (I bought two 10-packs of tortillas and some cookies for about $8 US.) Fresh-baked breads—many packed with wholesome ingredients like grains and fruits—were popular items, as were traditional Mexican snacks like burritos ("like Mom made," promised one place), fish tacos, icy granitas, and thick, lightly-fried corn sopes topped with refried beans, crumbled white cheese, lettuce, and spicy salsa. (The stall that sold the latter also hawked six types of homemade salsas, ranging from mild to habanero-hot.) At one table, an American woman and her son were creating displays of gorgeous cupcakes filled with delicacies like fresh blueberries or strawberry jam, and topped with intricate swirls of flavored icing ("They're as organic as cupcakes can be," the son promised.) And everywhere, there were samples: from mini versions of those decadent cupcakes to sauces and spreads you could try with strips of tortilla, there were nibbles to be had at every stall. Note to self: next time, skip breakfast.

For more on the Marquis Los Cabos hotel, visit www.marquisloscabos.com.

- Sandra Ramani

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March 1, 2010 The Seaweed Lady

On beautiful Vancouver Island, most people just refer to Diane Bernard as "The Seaweed Lady." As the founder of the Sea Flora product line, which features organic, freshly-harvested Pacific coast seaweed, Bernard is an expert in all things marina flora. She spends a large part of the year knee-deep in water, harvesting the nutrient-filled plants. On a recent trip out west, I got the chance to pull on a pair of thigh-high waders, trudge along the rocky shoreline, and learn firsthand from the expert.

The first thing I learned: Not all seaweed is green. As we descended from the rocky dunes onto the soggy marshland, the seaweed floating around us came in an array of colors and shapes. Alaria, or "winged kelp", is an olive-brown variety that comes in six-to-ten feet long, ruffle-shaped strips that flow like fabric, while the lovely, wide, shiny leaves of Iridaea Cordata ("rainbow seaweed") shimmer with purple, blue and iridescent tones. Ulva lactuca, or "sea lettuce", is a bright, slick green, fucas ("rockweed") is olive green with yellow tips, and the incredible nerocystis—or "Bull Kelp"—has thick, whip-like mustard yellow leaves that grow up to 120 feet long, topped by thick stalks and bulbs. It took more than a few of us to pull these massive, ropey leaves from the muddy ground.

As we gingerly made our way along the slippery coast, through what Bernard calls her "ocean garden", she filled us in on the various benefits of seaweed—and encouraged us to taste a couple of the fresh leaves, too. (Not surprisingly, they were salty and chewy.) British Columbia's outer coast is home to over 700 species of seaweed, she explained, and each has its own health and wellness benefits. Most are high in vitamins B1, B2, B6, B12, C and A1, as well as folic acid and niacin. They've also got close to 60 trace minerals and elements, like calcium, iron and zinc, and are rich in fatty acids (to fight inflammation), beta carotene (to treat acne and irritated skin), and the amino acids that help renew tissues. The miracle plants can also have a positive effect on the functions of our internal organs.

If you ask Bernard, we should all be eating some form of seaweed—or drinking seaweed tea—every day, and soaking in it as much as possible. For those who can't get to the coast for a freshwater dunk, you can check out Sea Flora's excellent, potent products (and learn more from The Seaweed Lady) at www.sea-flora.com.

- Sandra Ramani

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February 1, 2010 Bursting in Brussels

I'll admit, "I'm in the mood for Belgian food" is a phrase that rarely crosses my lips. While I know the country has its signature delicacies—most famously beer, chocolate and waffles—I've never really thought of it as a foodie destination. But on a recent trip, I experienced firsthand just how serious the Belgians are about their homegrown delicacies, and as a result my stomach is still on a time-out.

It didn't take long for the country's culinary obsession to reveal itself. On my first day in Brussels, I had signed up for a walking tour of the historic Lower Town, beginning in the gorgeous Grand Place square. After a brief spiel about the ornate guild houses that line the plaza, our guide marched us straight into La Maison des Maitres Chocolatiers, a new square-side shop that features the products of 10 of Belgium's master artisan chocolate makers. Under the watchful gaze of a giant cocoa baby, we browsed and sampled beautiful creations from purveyors who still use traditional sweet-making methods and pure ingredients. (Volumes have been written about the history of Belgian chocolate, but to sum up, the country has been making handcrafted, high-quality treats since the 1800's, and is where legendary chocolatiers like Godiva and Neuhaus got their start. Jean Neuhaus is credited with creating the first hard chocolate shell—and therefore, the first filled chocolate truffle—in 1912. In Belgium all filled chocolates are called "pralines.") Over the next few days, I ventured into many more sweet shops—some touristy, with their rotating chocolate fountains, others offering gourmet bars laced with lavender, peppercorn, sage and chili. And I quickly learned that if you ask 100 locals what their favorite chocolate shop is, you're sure to get 100 different answers.

Next stop on the walking tour? Not some architectural marvel, but rather a bar. Making our way down a long alley just wide enough for one person to maneuver at a time, our group came to a charming two-room pub complete with wood-beam ceilings, well-worn booths and one lone regular propping up the bar. Here, we learned that Belgium produces close to 800 standard beers, from amber ales to lagers, plus several thousand specialty brews, some infused with herbs, spices or fruit. Most all are much higher in alcohol percentage that what we're used to in the States. Beer in Belgium is sipped, sampled and savored, and rarely drunk with food ("For meals," a local told me with a very serious look on her face, "you must switch to wine.")

Over the next week, the Belgian passion for food continued to reveal itself (as did their passion for comic books, which is a whole other story…) Classic dishes include breaded cheese croquettes, which are found in practically every restaurant ("We judge if a place is good by the croquettes," I was informed), fresh mussels, a must for seafood lovers, and wide, thick-cut fries that come with everything from meat dishes to pasta and are meant to be dipped in mayonnaise. And of course, there are the waffles: both the standard fluffy kind (topped with Chantilly cream, fruit or chocolate drizzle) and the denser, slightly crispy caramelized Liege versions, which are cooked-up in street stalls and most restaurants and are well-worth the sticky hands.

For more on Belgium, check out www.visitbelgium.com.

- Sandra Ramani

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January 1, 2010

It was my first full day at the beautiful One & Only Palmilla resort in Los Cabos, Mexico, and there I was, sitting cross-legged on the ground banging a beat on a fully-intact turtle shell. A bit of background: As part of their extensive wellness offerings, the luxe Pacific coast hotel—a favorite with the Hollywood set—had just launched their Music Therapy program, led by musician and composer Antonio Zepeda. Guests choose between four musical themes, each of which has its own benefits: the Ancient Pre-Colombian Civilization class focuses on the instruments and melodies of Mexico's native people; the Drum session stimulates energy, vitality, power and joy with a variety of percussion pieces; and Harmony calms with wind chimes, bells and African balaphones and kalimbas.

My session fell into the fourth category—Music and Nature---so when I arrived at the spa's outdoor garden, I was met with an array of unique instruments that both evoked the sounds of nature and were made with natural materials. Heavy, carved wood rain sticks—filled with seeds—sounded like a rumbling storm when slowly swished back and forth, while clay whistles shaped like snails and turtles perfectly recreated sweet birdsongs. Conch shells represented the sounds of the sea, and a long chain of dried, hardened butterfly cocoons sounded like wind rustling through leaves when clacked together. With his loose pajama-style outfit and flowing hair and beard, Zepeda acted as a musical shaman, encouraging the small group to experiment with and layer the sounds; at one point, we got into a soothing, meditative groove, as some students kept a steady beat on turtle shell drums and others channeled cooing birds and softly growling thunder.

Along the way, Zepeda explained how ancient indigenous people created instruments like these to honor the nature they worshiped—for them, these sounds not only reflected the harmonies of the natural world, but also connected them spiritually and emotionally to the "language" of the sky, water, and earth. Surrounded by the lush, tropical beauty of Palmilla, which is set in a green belt between the Sea of Cortez and the desert, I found this insight into the healing, restorative power of nature especially fitting.

For more on One & Only Palmilla, visit www.oneandonlyresorts.com.

- Sandra Ramani

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December 1, 2009 The Shopkeeper Come-On

I was walking down the Corniche in Cairo when I hear someone to my left asking where I am from, and welcoming me to Egypt. This is nothing new on this busy Nile-side street, which is bustling with vendors hawking everything from pita bread to boat rides, but something about the dapper older gentleman asking this time makes me answer him. "Oh, New York," he lights up when I tell him where I live. "My son lives there. He is a doctor." He continues to follow me as I head down the street, telling me he teaches a class at the university. "What do you teach?" I ask. "The history of perfume," he says. This, of course, makes me stop. "Really?" "Yes," he assures me, whipping out some sort of official-looking ID (which, it being in Arabic, I can't read anyway.) "And I also have an office, where we sell oils. Come see—it's just a few blocks away."

Ah, right. So was he really a professor, or was this a well-worn spiel to get tourists into his store? In my weeks in Egypt, I had heard a lot of shopkeeper come-ons, some straight to the point, others impressively smooth. One young guy outside the old market in Cairo came-up smiling and, in perfect American-accented English, said "I promise, I'm not a sketchy dude"—which made me laugh, and got us talking. He said he was studying law, but that his family had a papyrus painting workshop nearby, if I wanted to see it—no obligation, of course. I was curious and had time, so I went with him to check it out; of course, once there, there was tea, a few rehearsed-sounding jokes, and then the hard sell. I got out wallet intact, but funnily enough, a few days later an American friend said he had been walking around the old part of Cairo when he met a guy outside the market. "He was a lawyer," my friend said. "But he knew a lot about papyrus."

So what about Professor Perfume? I went to his "office"—a small shop hidden away on a side street—where he showed me business cards from various American embassy and State Department employees, I guess to prove he was legit. He mixed up a bunch of oils for various conditions—"This one is for smooth skin" and "This one can help you lose 10 pounds!"—and me being a sucker for oils and pretty glass bottles, I bought a few of them. It didn't cost much and was interesting, so though this may have been another tourist-trapping play, at the end, I didn't mind so much. Plus, as I was leaving, the owner invited me to his daughter's wedding the next day—a generous and genuine show of hospitality that, in Egypt, is as common as the shopkeeper come-on.

- Sandra Ramani

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November 3, 2009 Market Mania

I'll admit it: I'm a market junkie. Wherever I am in the world, I like to scour the local stalls—whether they're peddling food, artisan crafts or just plain old junk—to get a sense of the culture and snag a deal or two. I've learned that the quality and uniqueness of the finds definitely depends on the location of the market and who it's geared towards. Very touristy set-ups near major monuments will mainly be filled with local-themed (but not always locally-made) knick-knacks (think nesting dolls in Russia or fake military hats and Chairman Mao bags in China), while markets geared towards residents are usually bursting with everyday items like socks, batteries and undershirts. (On the plus side, these necessities are often far less expensive overseas. I'm still making my way through the twenty hair bands I bought for a dollar in Malaysia...)

A disappointing trend emerging over the last few years is the influx of mass-produced or fake-designer items in what used to be more exotic markets. It's depressing to spot wannabe-Guccis in Italy or pick up a colorful scarf in Morocco only to learn it was made in China. But if you seek out the artisan stalls or weekend flea markets, there are still lots of unusual, creative items to be found. Some of my favorites buys include a stylish, mod-looking tote made out of recycled rice sacks that I got in Cambodia and vintage, Communist-era tea tins picked-up from a junk stall in Prague. Whenever I am in Buenos Aires, I seek out a guy with a tiny table in the market near the Recoleta cemetery who makes lovely necklaces and pendants out of old coins from around the world. If you happen to visit him someday, drop him some of the change from your pocket—he's always in the market for American quarters.

- Sandra Ramani

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October 2, 2009 Naples, Old and New

A few hours after landing in Naples, Italy, I found myself suffering not from jet lag but a carb coma. For my first meal of the day, a local friend had taken me to what she considers the best pizzeria in town—which is saying something, given that this is the place where pizza was invented. When Queen Margherita was visiting town in the late 1880s, a local baker spruced up the humble peasant dish of bread, marinara sauce, and herbs by adding buffalo mozzarella and basil to honor the colors of the Italian flag. Since then, the pie has evolved to feature many toppings, but most of the purists in Naples still favor the basics: just sauce and mozzarella.

Several places duke it out for title of "oldest" or "best" pizza in town (Brandi claims to be where the Margherita was created, while Da Michele got a shout-out in Eat, Pray, Love), but the lines spilling out into the street in front of Sorbillo—where my friend took me—spoke volumes. The family-owned pizzeria has been open for generations. Each of the 21 children (yes, 21!) in the second generation has a pizza named after them. Mine came topped with eggplant, black olives and provola, a type of smoked mozzarella. It had a smoky, chewy crust, was a little soggy in the middle, and was so big it was spilling off the plate—in other words, exactly how Neapolitans like it.

After experiencing this crucial aspect of Naples' history, it was time to get a glimpse into the city's future, so I checked into the new waterfront Romeo Hotel. Modern, creative and kitted out with an array of cool amenities from in-room espresso machines to Swarovski crystal-topped pencils, this boutique hotel is challenging the local old guard of luxury hotels. The Romeo has a stunning rooftop spa (the first in Naples), complete with a gym offering a view of Mount Vesuvius. To minimize any pizza-related damage, I indulged in the signature Pleasure of Warm Fruit Oils treatment, which promised to tone my skin with a scrub made from fresh orange and lemon peels, a thick herbal cream wrap, and a massage with lemon-infused extra virgin olive oil. Afterwards, I dragged my thoroughly-relaxed self through the hydrotherapy pool, various rain showers and, finally, into the eucalyptus-scented steam room. The view from the steam room overlooks the Port of Naples, the site of a massive revitalization project that will turn the historic warehouses and shipping facilities into retail and entertainment venues. The project is just getting underway, so no one knows what exactly will be in the new complex—but I'd bet on at least one pizzeria.

For more on the Romeo Hotel, check out www.romeohotel.it.

- Sandra Ramani

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September 2, 2009 Signs of the Times

One of my favorite things about traveling is checking out signs in other countries—both official ones and those found in shops and restaurants, which often have unique interpretations of the English language. When it comes to official signs, even the basic road type can be interesting (it's always fun to see the familiar red "Stop" shape covered with foreign letters—but still know what it means). What I love even more are the signs that seem completely normal in the local context, but would certainly cause a visitor to do a double take. Animal-related ones are a good example: Imagine driving down your neighborhood street and coming across an official "Elephant Crossing" notice, as you might find in Bali, Thailand or India, or a casual reminder to "Watch for Camels," like they have in Jordan and Israel. In the Devon region of England, there were plenty of signs letting us know there might be "Sheep Lying in Road"—though the sheep depicted on the sign seemed perfectly upright to me.

Of course, the best signs are the ones boasting somewhat garbled English translations—often to hilarious results. In Turkey, a helpful sign at a breakfast buffet identified one dish as "nut mash" (turns out it was peanut butter), while a menu in Moscow listed one key ingredient as "White Grandmother's cheese" (I never did figure that one out). At the entrance to the Great Wall in China, visitors are advised that "Cash should be counted face to face" (as opposed to behind their backs?), and at the church in Gethsemane in Jerusalem, where Jesus is said to have spent the night before he was arrested, a sign warns guests that there are "No Explanations in the Church." In a market in Chiang Mai, Thailand, an official notice under the banana stand begs you, "Please don't press," (apparently, it's a problem) while a typo on a sign near some ancient ruins in southern Turkey warns of a "Risk of Collaps (sic)" (some new global pandemic, perhaps?) Sometimes, though, the English is perfect, but it's the sentiment that's amusing: In Jordan, a handwritten notice at a street market in Aqaba promised "Spices at better prices than Walmart." Finally, a sign we can all relate to.

- Sandra Ramani

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August 1, 2009

As a spa fan I'd heard about Hungarian baths-those historic thermal centers known for their therapeutic soaks-but I had no idea just how ingrained the spa concept was in Hungarian culture. On a recent trip to Budapest, I learned that it had been dubbed a "Spa City" as early as 1934, and that today it's still home to over 100 thermal baths-most of which are frequented by a steady stream of locals seeking both relaxation and relief from illnesses like arthritis, asthma, and joint diseases. So of course, I had to see what all the fuss was about, and decided to sample two of the city's most historic baths.

Opened in 1918, the Gellert Bath & Spa is set on the hilly Buda side (the right bank of the Danube) and is connected to the classic (and somewhat ramshackle) Hotel Gellert; hotel guests enjoy free access to the hot springs, while the public pays about $17 for a day pass, which includes a private "cabin"-a curtained-off changing area in the men's or women's locker room. The Gellert is centered around three unisex outdoor pools, but most of crowd hangs out in the single-sex pools located inside the locker rooms-one bubbling, the other not-which are between 76 and 86 degrees. After changing into my bathing suit I headed to these baths, only to find that not everyone was so modest: Women of all shapes, sizes and ages, mostly local and many naked, were floating with abandon in the healing waters. After a good soak, I headed up to the second floor of the locker room to the "massage center"-a warren of clinical, barebones cubicles overseen by a group of sixtysomething women. Here, as the 80s song "Hungry Eyes" wafted over from a distant transistor, I was made to strip down and lie on a metal cot (no sheet offered) and was pummeled. Modest, it wasn't, but it was definitely an experience.

My massage at the larger Szechenyi Bath and Spa-opened in 1913 and located inside the City Park-was a little more therapeutic, though still very clinical. The masseur was a young man with thick horn-rimmed glasses and a dry sense of humor who, when I complemented his excellent English, said it was "all thanks to Nickelodeon TV." In an all-white, hospital-like room, he performed a brisk rubdown before sending me off to the baths-and moving on to the long line of octogenarians waiting for his services. The vast Szechenyi complex includes dozens of indoor pools of varying temperatures and uses (pools for soaking, doing laps, aqua-aerobics, cold plunges, etc.), plus saunas, steam rooms, physiotherapy centers, and a full gym. Outside, there are two massive pools for lazing around in-one even has in-water chess boards-and a lap pool for exercising. There's also a cafè, though most people I saw had brought picnics with them and were making a day of it. It was a fun vibe-couples, groups of friends, families with young kids and scores of older folks all soaking up the healing waters. It was a great reminder that, for hundreds of years before micro-current facials and hot stone massages were invented, this is what the word "spa" meant.

- Sandra Ramani

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July 1, 2009 A Royal Encounter

When traveling for work I'm usually given an itinerary for the trip-typically a list of places to visit, hotels to check out, and things to do suggested by local tourism reps. On a trip to England this June, however, there was something a little different on the schedule. There, in the middle of Day 2, was this instruction: "Travel to Buckingham Palace. Tea with HRH the Duke of Edinburgh." Naturally, my mind when to the most obvious question-"What am I going to wear?!"-quickly followed by the second: "Huh?"

It turned out that VisitBritain, the nation's tourism board, was putting together a media tour in which 70 travel writers and broadcasters from around the world would check out some of the latest happenings in London, then fan out to explore various parts of the kingdom. As part of the event, the Duke (AKA Prince Philip, AKA The Queen's Husband) would meet with us at the Palace, on what it turned out was his 88th birthday. In advance, we were given just a few instructions: No cameras. Turn off cell phones. Wear business attire. Oh, and no need to curtsey or bow.

The day itself started out as a bit if a spectacle, with us media all piling on to a couple of Routemasters buses (the now-retired red, double-decker ones) and pulling in through the gates of Buckingham Palace, much to the surprise of the gathered tourists. After showing our passports and getting checked off a security list-by, I have to say, the most polite security team ever-we all trouped in past the arches, through a courtyard and into the main hall. The Beefeater guards, of course, didn't even flinch.

Inside, we were greeted by various officials, then split up to take a guided tour of the State Apartments, the coterie of public rooms where the Royal Family holds events and receives guests (including, recently, the Obamas). We traipsed past exquisite paintings by masters like Rembrandt and Rubens and portraits of kings and queens past, thrilled by the fact that, unlike in a museum, these were all collected by people who once lived in this house. (These apartments are actually open to the public for a few weeks a year, when the Royal Family goes to Scotland for the summer; for details visit www.royalcollection.org.uk.) Then it was time for tea-Twinings Earl Grey, served in simple china emblazoned with Queen Elizabeth's insignia and accompanied by plates of delicious shortbread biscuits from Prince Charles' company, Duchy Originals. We gathered in small groups and chatted until, at exactly the appointed hour, the Duke appeared.

The actual royal encounter was short and sweet: When he got to our group he shook each person's hand, asked our names and where we were from (it was fun to say the words, "New York, Your Royal Highness,") then made small talk about traffic, big cities, polo and traveling. He seemed a bit stunned when someone wished him "Happy Birthday" (turns out he doesn't like to acknowledge it-something our protocol briefing didn't mention), but otherwise, any international incidents were averted. Mainly, I came away impressed with how the Duke patiently made a connection with each person and how deftly he makes small talk (which, I guess, is kind of his job). Afterwards we found out that this was just one of several meet-and-greets he had that day-pretty impressive at any age.

- Sandra Ramani

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June 2, 2009 The Bag-Go Round

I try my best to only travel with a carry-on, mainly to avoid paying the $15 domestic luggage check-in fee (which should be repealed now that fuel prices have dropped). On a recent trip from Miami to Turks & Caicos—a direct, one-hour flight—I was persuaded by an enthusiastic American Airlines curbside attendant that checking-in would be easier; it's free for international travel, he reminded me, plus the distances (and constant construction detours) of the Miami Airport would be easier to navigate without extra baggage. So I gave him my little suitcase, but somehow in his eagerness, Mr. Attendant switched my bag tag with that of another traveler, one who was going to Washington, D.C.

Of course, I didn't know this until I arrived at my destination, minus luggage. And so began a three-day ordeal of internet searches and constant phone calls to the airline, both at the local airport and through their 800-number. Luckily, I had a determined team from my hotel—the excellent Regent Palms Turks & Caicos—helping me in my quest, but that often just meant that four people were frustrated instead of only me. Have you ever lost your luggage, and if so, was anyone able to give you a straight, informed answer about what was going on? We had some people tell us the bag had traveled to a bunch of different cities, while others admitted that bags don't even get scanned until they "arrive" somewhere, which meant mine could still be sitting in the bowels of the Miami Airport. Info never got updated in their system, and they were never able to reach an actual human at the airports themselves. Meanwhile, we were also trying to track down the person who my tag got switched with—let's call her Nancy— to see if she had maybe picked up my stuff. (It turned out she worked for the government in Washington—thanks, Google!—and had somehow received her correct bag.) It would have all been comical, had I not been stuck wearing my airplane outfit of jeans, long-sleeved tee and tennis shoes for days, watching from my room as all the other guests lazed around the pool and took dips in the warm, blue-green ocean.

Finally, and thankfully, my bag did arrive, covered in tags from Miami, DC and, randomly, JFK. (It also had Nancy's name on it, of course.) While I was happy to be reunited with my bathing suit, the whole thing made me think about the utter disorganization of the bag-handling system. For this we pay $15? I'd rather save up for a GPS.

- Sandra Ramani

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May 6, 2009 Making Friends Mile High

You know the feeling: Pre-takeoff there's any empty seat next to you on the plane, so you sit there crossing your fingers, avoiding eye contact and silently repeating "Keep on moving!" as other passengers make their way down the aisle. Along with the luxury of having more space, being seat mate-less also increases your chances of a peaceful flight. It's a buffer, if you will, from some of the major annoyances up there in the (formerly) friendly skies—like overly-chatty travelers who pepper you with personal questions or undertake a flight-long monologue. For most of us, dealing with this species can be tricky: ignoring them and putting on headphones just seems rude, while engaging them can mean saying bye-bye to the prospect of a nap.

I fear, however, that the fear of getting trapped next to one of these talkative fliers has given in-flight socializing a bad name. While the majority of time I still hope the seat next to me is empty, a couple of recent experiences have made me re-think my seat-mate prejudice. On a flight from Cambodia to Thailand, a fellow American seated near me struck up a conversation and, over the next few hours, I got to know a really inspiring woman; a grandmother and cancer survivor, she was backpacking by herself through Asia—a lifelong dream—and experienced everything with an infectious enthusiasm. On a domestic flight this spring, the groan I stifled when the passenger next to me asked, "So, where are you from?" morphed into a fascinating two-hour conversation about everything from protest marches in 1960s Berkeley to major life and career changes.

If it's true that most people are more honest with strangers, then maybe your next new friend will turn out to be the person buckling in to seat 15B. Until then, we'd love to hear some of your favorite fellow-passenger encounters, positive or not!

- Sandra Ramani

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April 3, 2009 Life's A Suitcase

In the last few years, most major hotels have stepped up their game when it comes to in-room facilities, so much so that things like IPod docks, high-tech lighting systems and mini-flatscreen TVs in the bathrooms have become common touches. So it was pretty exciting when, on a recent trip to China, my hotel room at the Park Hyatt Shanghai came with the coolest, most unexpected item of all: the toilet of the future.

Now, I've seen my fair share of bidet-style potties, but it's normally not something I spend a lot of time thinking about (or where I want to spend a lot of time, period.) But this state-of-the-art john—the Rolls Royce of toilets, if you will—was something else. First of all, it was placed in own separate room with a sink, away from the main bathing area. When you enter the room, the toilet lid automatically raises as you approach, thanks to a motion sensor in its base. (Though only the lid rises automatically, you can also have it raise and lower the seat, ensuring relationship harmony for the duration of your stay.) In addition to a heated seat—a nice touch on a cold night—there are a few buttons above the paper dispenser that activate gentle, cleansing sprays of water in various directions, and even an oscillating drier. It's more that you ever would have thought you'd want from a toilet—but very easy to get used to once you try it.

So intrigued was I by this contraption that I did a little investigating and found out that the 21st century throne is actually not from China at all, but is in fact by renowned Japanese company Toto, who make a range of high-end bathroom gear, from showers to flush valves. Surfing their US website, I saw that Toto's toilets (say that 5 times fast) come in models with names like "Promenade", "Aquia" and, strangely, "Gwyneth", and boast such features as "Double Cyclone" and "WaterSense", whatever that means. In any case, I didn't see the Shanghai version listed on the US site, so I guess this is just one more example of how China is beating us to the future. It's been said that the revolution starts at home—but no one said in what room.

- Sandra Ramani

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January 20, 2008 Life's A Suitcase

One of my favorite things about traveling is the perspective it can give you on life back home. Even something as simple as a long-weekend getaway to the next town over can give you enough distance to see things—be it a work problem or larger "what's life about?" musings—in a whole new light, and for me, traveling outside of America so frequently has also afforded the chance to get some insight on my country. Yeah, part of that is political—I'd be lying if I said I haven't been forced into a few heated conversations over the last eight years—but for the most part it's been really cool to see how similar people are around the world, and get a feel for America's place in it.

At no time was this more fascinating that in the weeks leading up to the Presidential election. Traveling through Asia in October, I felt as connected to the campaign happenings as if I'd been in New York. It's what everyone was talking about, from the rickshaw driver in Cambodia who excitedly greeted me with "Obama!" and a thumbs up, to the Australian hotel manager in Malaysia who peppered me with questions on our electoral process—including such stumpers as "Why is the election on a Tuesday?" (I had to look it up.) In Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia's capital, I had the chance to meet some travelers from Iran, where access to foreign Internet sites is often restricted and the government has denounced coverage of Western celebrities. Imagine my surprise when these travelers knew not only all about Sarah Palin and her daughters, but also that Tina Fey was playing the Governor on "Saturday Night Live."

On Election Day itself I was in Sabah on the island of Borneo, off the coast of Malaysia. Being a half a day ahead of the U.S., it was already Wednesday late-morning for us before reports started trickling in from the polls. "Any news?" people kept asking my colleagues and I, and seeing how eager they were to hear the results really drove home how what happens in America affects the rest of the world. Finally, as we stood on a dock in the middle of the South China Sea, my friend's Blackberry tweeted with the news, and we rushed back to the hotel to join the crowd gathered around the business center television to watch the speeches. Later that night, the restaurant staff surprised us at dinner with champagne and a cake adorned with the American flag. We may not have been celebrating with the crowds back home, but for a moment that beachside table in Borneo was our own little Grant Park.

- Sandra Ramani

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December 9, 2008 The Tuk-Tuk Tussle

On a recent work trip through Thailand, I found myself with a day off in Chiang Mai—and with a friend in town with whom I could spend it. Located in northern Thailand, Chiang Mai is known for its great regional food, unique cultural attractions and bustling markets filled with locally-made crafts and products (it's considered the craft center of the country), so we were excited to have the time to get a feel for the place. On the way into town, we had both also heard about the famous craft workshops / factories located outside of the city center, where artisans create everything from textiles to ceramics, lacquer and woodwork, so visiting those was on our list, as well--if there was time. What we hadn't counted on, however, was the Tuk-Tuk Tussle.

Like most major cities, Chiang Mai has its pushy cab driver and tour guide contingent; the only difference is that here, they're riding around in tuk-tuks, charming motorcycle-fronted, open-sided pedi-cabs. Within seconds of stepping into the center of town, my friend and I were approached by one such aggressive gentleman peddling trips to the factories, but we managed to put him off, popping instead into roadside stalls to check out some of the famous woven work done by the area's hill tribes. But unfortunately, we weren't so strong later on: After wandering around in the dusty heat for an hour or so, we were feeling a little wilted, so when the tenth tuk-tuk driver approached us he caught us in a weakened state. We explained that we wanted to focus on the town, and he readily agreed to take us around the historic center. "We see the old town and markets," he explained. "Then after, factories." For a four-hour booking, he quoted us about $3. We climbed aboard.

You know how there's no such thing as a free lunch? Add cheap, motive-free tour guides to that list. Within minutes, it became clear that Mr. Tuk-Tuk had other things in mind for us, as he drove at break-neck speed past many of the notable sites. "That's Tha Phae Gate," he waved as be whizzed by the old city wall, "and that's a temple." "Are we going to stop anywhere?" we kept asking, are we craned our necks for a glimpse of the attractions. But he kept driving, and after a quick circle around the center, seemed to feel we were done. "Factories now?" he asked, visions of siestas and kickbacks clearly dancing in his head.

And so began the negotiations. We asked to actually enter the old town; he did a quick drive, then shot back with, "Factories? Now factories?" "Later!" we kept crying. After repeated entreaties directed to the back of his chair (covered, oddly, with stickers for shooting ranges), he finally relented and pulled over to local flea market we'd spotted—then grumbled about how we kept him waiting for 10 minutes. Questions like "What's the hurry?" and "Aren't we paying for your time?" fell on deaf ears. At one point, when we briefly got out to take a photo of a temple, I'm pretty sure he tried to ditch us.

Finally, we gave in and headed for the factories—which turned out to be large, commercial, over-priced traps geared towards the tour bus crowds. It was interesting to see some of the artisan demonstrations (though I could have done without seeing silk worms being boiled alive!), but it all lacked the authenticity we were looking for. "We want local places, where they are actually making the stuff " we kept telling Mr. Tuk-Tuk and anyone else we met, but sadly, this is what they thought all visitors wanted to see. "You don't want to go there", our man said about one small place we passed on the way back to town. "It's very expen-cheap." Like the rest of the afternoon, we chalked that exchange up to Lost in Translation.

Thankfully, our trip ended up being quite successful, shopping-wise; the next day, as we drove up north, our hotel-based driver took us to many of the real workshops and we picked up beautiful fabrics and celadon pottery. But I'm hoping to get back to Chiang Mai town sometime soon—that gate really did look pretty.

- Sandra Ramani

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November 1, 2008 From Take-Off to Bottoms-Up

"Ladies and gentlemen, I just wanted to let you know that there is no more alcohol left on this plane. You have drunk us dry. And on a related note, both the lavatories on board are full, so there will be no going to the bathroom until we land in 40 minutes. Enjoy!"

Okay, so this isn't exactly how the airline steward made his announcement, but it is precisely what happened on a flight I took earlier this summer from New York to—I'll give you one guess—Las Vegas (bingo!) Let me back up: To celebrate the launch of ThrillList's new Vegas newsletter, the manly website (they're like a guy's Daily Candy) teamed up with JetBlue to host a whirlwind 36-hour jaunt to Sin City. On board were a number of media folk, ThrillList and JetBlue staff and reps from a wide array of sponsors, from J-Date and Alka-Seltzer to Skyy Vodka and Dos Equis beer. (And a psychic, but more on her later.) The party started immediately at the gate in New York, where a tuxedo'd guy crooned Sinatra while leggy, scantily-clad showgirls staggered around under the weight of giant headdresses. I'm sure the passengers heading to Orlando were very jealous.

In the grand tradition of booze cruises, almost immediately after take-off this became a party plane. As passengers stood chatting in the aisles and perched on arm rests to schmooze with other fliers, the hard-working attendants squeezed between the crowds to refill complimentary glasses of vodka and beer. (Imagine your local bar on a Friday night....then pack it into a metal tube and hurdle it through space at 35,000 feet.) There were raffles and prize giveaways conducted over the PA, and we got to test out JetBlue's new on-board Wi-Fi-service, which works with select laptops and Blackberrys (sidenote: sending email from the sky was definitely cool, but I'm not looking forward to the barrage of "Hey, I'm emailing you from the plane!!" messages that are sure to come once this service takes off.) You could also make an appointment with the resident psychic, a nice lady who read your tarot cards and stuck colored stickers on you from her "office" in Seat 1D.

And, of course, there was the drinking. Which led to the wiping out of the bar stock, the blocking of the bathrooms, and that now-legendary announcement by the flight attendant. But in fact, it was the positive attitude of the JetBlue crew—amused, accommodating but stern when they needed to be—that made the whole thing more entertaining than annoying. They frequently took to the airwaves with a jovial comment or two, and when we finally landed, the pilot welcomed us to Vegas by saying "Local time: Party time." (Seriously.) But best of all was the hilariously deadpan parting shot from our poor beleaguered steward: "Thank you for flying JetBlue," he said. "We look forward to seeing you on a future flight." Pause. "Well, I don't look forward to seeing you personally, ever again, but you know what I mean."

I did. And I really meant to stop and say thanks to him as we de-planed, too, but I had to make a mad dash for the bathroom.

- Sandra Ramani

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August 18, 2008 "Idol" Tripping

With long airport lines, extra baggage fees and inconsistent security rules (seriously, just pick one: shoes on or off?), it's easy these days to forget about the romance of travelling—the excitement of meeting people, having new experiences, and coming back with a cool souvenir. So for our first monthly travel column (welcome!), I turned to some folks who are currently enjoying the thrill of the open road--this year's American Idol Top 10, whose 49-city tour ends September 14—to get their take on all things travel.

Right off the bat, I learned that celebrities are just like us: they over pack. "I packed a whole bunch of stuff I'm never going to wear," admits Number 10, Chikeze Eze. "A lot of clothes that have not seen the light of day." Barefoot songstress Brooke White, country gal Kristy Lee Cook and dreadhead Jason Castro all shipped things back home, but runner-up David Archuleta says he likes keeping his suitcases close. "I feel secure having stuff with me," he laughs. "You never know when you're going to need that random thing you packed."

In terms of travel must-haves, Archie is hooked on his iPhone—which doubles as his recorder and camera—while Castro can't do without his stash of books ("Although I can't possibly read them all," he concedes.) The girls profess love for cleansing facial wipes (M.A.C. and Comodynes are favorites), "amazing" Embryolisse skin care and, for White, "Omega-3 fish oil chews and natural melatonin", but Aussie Michael Johns keeps it simple with "moisturizer and lots of underpants" (yeah, didn't ask a follow-up there). Simple works for winner David Cook, too: "I'm a pretty bare bones individual," he confesses. "As long as I've got socks, underwear and t-shirts, I'm usually set. And maybe a guitar."

Since Cook's gone on record saying he's "always thought there was something romantic about waking up in a different city every day" (cool guy, but that's a whole other column), I was interested to hear if life on the road has been all that he expected. But it turns out that as the champ, he's had to fly back to LA on pretty much every free day, trading in on-the-road shenanigans for recording sessions and photo shoots. "That's one thing bumming me out," he admits. "I thought we'd be doing a lot more truck stops and stuff." Of course, there have also been some winner's perks: he got the Presidential Suite at their first hotel, the Royal Palms Resort & Spa in Phoenix, and he and Johns enjoyed a private tour of the Nike campus in Portland, OR, plus tons of swag from the employees' store. Fans have also been giving the singers gifts galore—t-shirts, DVDs, and baked goods are popular—and they've been picking up souvenirs along the way; Johns is proud of the $10 sunglasses he snagged at a Canadian border stop, and Cook's started collecting sports memorabilia—"jerseys and game-use hockey sticks"—from the arenas they've been playing.

Clearly, there are no Motley Crue-like high jinks happening on this Pop-Tarts-sponsored tour (though Johns claims his hotel room must-have is "a mini-bar", most of the gang say they're happy with "free water and internet"), but being on the road has given the Idols the travel bug. Castro would "like to see Asia", while Archuleta thinks Italy and Croatia would be "cool" and Syesha Mercado has Egypt on her list. Kristy Lee is up for "Hawaii, Alaska or a cruise to some islands", and Johns is itching to get to "Sao Paolo and Rio in Brazil, and Venezuela." And what about our hardworking winner? "I just hope (my management company) sends me to their London office sometime," laughs Cook, who until hitting Toronto on this tour had only been out of the country once before, to Mexico on a family vacation. "It would be cool to see Abbey Road. Yeah, I've got a lot to experience." Don't we all...

- Sandra Ramani

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"A MOST UNUSUAL WELCOME" - Sarah B., New York, NY

Several years ago I decided to go on an adventure vacation. My husband loves to scuba dive and wanted me to learn so he booked a trip to Guanaha. It is a very small island off the coast of Honduras. I'm up for anything so off we went. We flew from NY to Miami and switched planes and headed off to Tegucigalpa in Honduras. Once we got there, we boarded a small puddle jumper and took off for the island. As we approached for a landing, the pilot suddenly and severely turned the plane and we dove towards a small runway overgrown with weeds tucked in between two very large imposing mountains. We landed with a thud as we raced towards the end of the runway (which just happened to be a cliff that dropped about 100 feet down to the sea). The plane jerked to a stop with feet to spare and we scampered out to safety. Suddenly 3 young boys about 13 years old raced to the plane with wheel barrows to gather up our luggage. Our luggage was wheeled down the hill and piled on a small (very small and leaky) wooden boat for our trip across to the island. Fear was really starting to take over and my husband wasn't offering me much reassurance.

The boat trip was an adventure in itself but off in the distance was our little island retreat just waiting for us. The hotel was perched on a very steep mountain side. The rooms were built on stilts and the walkways looked as if they were suspended in the air. What had I gotten myself into? We left our able sea captain and started to climb the 156 steps to the check-in hut. Physically and mentally exhausted, we were greeted by the innkeeper and she informed us that the Island had no roads or electricity. I fell into the seat ready to cry. All I wanted to do was to go home and fall asleep. Suddenly, out of nowhere, as if from a dream, appeared a group of peacocks standing on the wooden walkway before us. We stood there in disbelief as they spread open their feathers, turned and started walking down towards the huts. As if in a trance we followed blindly. They walked up to the doorway of a hut, stopped, turned and looked at us and jumped off the walkway into the jungle. We looked at each other then looked up at the number painted on the wall of the hut...it was our hut. That was the start of our glorious week in the wilderness. No phones, no lights, no motor cars not a single luxury.

Rope A Dope - Cindy G., Chicago, IL

It is hard to imagine being anywhere else in the world when you are resting on a white sandy shore staring out into crystal clear ocean water. This was the outlook upon my arrival to Aruba; however, things aren't always what they appear to be.

My first day in paradise consisted of beach, boyfriend and bikini. While I was constantly cooled off by the island breeze, lounging around in the ocean was quite refreshing. Luckily for the lazy, there was a rope enclosing an area that swimmers could "hang around in" and could rest assure they wouldn't be carried out to sea. For me, laying and playing around on the rope meant I would stay afloat long enough to enjoy my pina colada.

Hours after a day at the beach, it was time for our first night on the island. This meant showing off my new colorful maxi dress, glowing tan, sun kissed hair and RASHES? Rashes, bright red, bubbled and itching, covered my body from head to toe. I figured I had just been in the sun too long, but then came the chills, the fever, and that pina colada I was so happily sipping two hours prior.

A quick trip to the concierge desk and it was confirmed, "I had touched the rope". The rope was supposedly a poisonous trap of algae and fungus, which would be known to the traveler who read the 4 inch by 4 inch sign that read "DO NOT TOUCH THE ROPE". The rest of the week consisted of a romantic, indoor, pizza and movie filled island vacation.

Back Out During a Blackout - Lea E., San Diego, CA

During a famous New York blackout and only a few hours after discovering that my first love and boyfriend of 2 years had cheated on me on a recent Costa Rican excursion, I was off to the airport with my brother to meet my parents for a week long stay in a Tuscan villa.

Sobbing, I arrived at the airport with my unsympathetic brother to find a line that extended from the ticket counter to the revolving doors, snaking around more times than I wanted to count. We quickly found out that the airport was running on emergency power which meant 3 computers and no air conditioning in August! On top of this, the airline decided that instead of honoring reservations, they were going to operate on a first-come-first-serve basis giving preference to those who did not live in New York.

Thinking he was being slick my brother changed our reservation, by phone, to Air India which had flights to Heathrow where we could then connect to Rome. We hightailed it to another terminal to find yet another endless line. After 8 hours of inching forward we finally arrived at the counter only to be told that the transfer of tickets was not valid without a signed voucher, which of course we did not have, and that the flight was taking off in a half hour. Panicked, we took a cab back to the first terminal to find it completely empty. My brother could barely explain what had happened through his gasps for air so we were escorted to a flight with the airline we had originally booked with.

After an 8 hour wait, a 5 hour flight to Heathrow, and a 3 hour connecting flight to Rome, we finally arrived! And just when we thought things could not have been worse, my bags did not show up on the luggage belt. Nothing can be worse than spending 4 days wearing your mother?s clothing in one of the fashion capitals of the world. The only redeeming facet of this trip- Italian food!