Film it, paint it, map it, put yourself in the frame.
Maps you make for work, maps you make for fun, maps that inspire you, maps that force you to be practical, maps that cause you to fight with your boyfriend.
The start of a new year always makes you think. Traveling alone also makes you think. So what happens when you travel alone to a foreign place over New Year’s?
Or bidding farewell to an icon as we’ve known it. ______________________________
We’d never been on such a long trip together, you and me, so I didn’t know how it would go. Six weeks of traveling through Brazil – no, seven.
‘The city of Bahia, black and religious, is almost as mysterious as the green sea…’
On traveling alone: accepting solitude, tolerating jerks and being your own best friend.
I just spent one of the happiest weeks of my life in San Pedro de Atacama, Chile.
Sunshine, coconuts and white sandy beaches – and wild crocodiles – and armed robbery – oh, Colombia.
Siestas, asados, pelopinchos, empanadas… oh, how I love the laid-back charm of northern Argentina.
We toasted the end of 2011 with heart-stopping steak sandwiches and wild fireworks on the sand.
When you stay in a foreign home, you learn what the locals wear to bed and how they take their coffee (in this case? Instant Nescafé with steaming hot milk and liquid sweetener.)
I skipped the museums. But I had breakfast in the subway, pretended to shop for apples and saw lots of beautiful Hungarian women.
Yesterday I floated in the waters of Budapest’s thermal spas. Yes, the system is confusing if you don’t know Hungarian – and yes, the older gentlemen are satisfyingly rotund in their tiny swimsuits.
Or the ways in which revisiting a city where you once lived is like seeing a person you were once in love with.
A week of gourmet meals on a yacht in the Galapagos – plus a week of cevicheria-hopping in Quito?
The islands startled me. They’re rougher, colder and more spectacular than I expected – somehow bleak and lush at the same time.
‘My life, which seems so simple and monotonous, is really a complicated affair of cafés where they like me and cafés where they don’t, streets that are friendly, streets that aren’t, rooms where I might be happy, rooms where I shall never be…’ — Jean Rhys (Good Morning, Midnight)
Parisian architecture, Peruvian street food, handsome gentlemen in three-piece suits, crowded bookshops, glamorous old cafes… what’s not to like about living downtown?
Another holiday, another cake, another desperate attempt to carry on our family traditions far from home.
I like talking about the stuff that never makes it onto a postcard. The unexpected failures and mini-disasters, jet lag haze, upside-down maps. Interpersonal dramas.
In the past week, I’ve been to Portuguese farmhouses, bohemian apartments in Pamplona, birthday parties in the Algarve and a dinner party in an old Spanish barn. (Oh yeah, I also spent a night at the Holiday Inn in Lisbon. Don’t ask.)
This isn’t my first time in the Catalonian capital – it’s one of my favorite cities. But until this week I thought that the leafy settings of Vicky Christina Barcelona were just another of the director’s urban fantasies.
I’m kidding. But it wasn’t easy traveling up one of the world’s most rugged and desolate highways on a beat-up old bus with thirty backpackers – and my mom.