I used to think it was just the opposite. Because ( full disclosure ) I’ve never been on a trip that didn’t seem like a mistake at the beginning.

I mean, every trip I have been on – and I’ve traveled a lot – has seemed like a bad idea in the first hours. It’s because travel is exhausting, and logistically demanding. You have to work so hard to get where you’re going. And when you get there, and you’re jet-lagged, and you just want to brush your teeth, and you’re possibly not understanding the language people are speaking, you say to yourself, ‘why did I think this was a good idea? It would have been easier to just stay home.’

It would seem that traveling is hard, and staying home is easy.

But I’ve been living everywhere – or nowhere, depending on how you look at it – for more than a year now. I’m not homeless exactly. I’ve rented apartments in Prague, San Diego, Los Angeles, Santiago, Buenos Aires and Las Vegas. But technically I have no home. And here’s what the reality actually feels like.

If you don’t live anywhere, you never have to ask yourself why you’re drinking your morning coffee out of a generic white mug that says ‘coffee’ in blue block letters across the side. Of course you’d be drinking coffee out of that mug. Because you don’t have any of your own stuff – that beautiful earthenware cup you bought inside the workshop of a 90-year-old ceramicist in a little town outside of Rome? It’s in storage somewhere.

When one of those home makeover shows is on, you watch it, and you think, ‘oh, that’s cool how they refinished those cabinets,’ or ‘it’s clever how they knocked down that partition,’ but it’s just entertainment. You don’t spend one minute worrying about what you should do to improve your own living space. Because you don’t have an apartment. The pressure is officially off. The same goes when you’re at a wedding, or a bridal shower, and everyone is giving and receiving gifts. You say ‘congratulations!’ but inside you think, ‘this is ridiculous. Who needs all this stuff.’ You think, ‘I’ll buy my own espresso machine and flatware myself when I need it, thank you very much.’ You’re like, ‘I’m more than fine with the fact that I usually attend these things alone.’

To quote a few lines from Rushmore, one of my favorite films of all time:

Dr. Peter Flynn: We went to Harvard together.

Max Fischer:  Oh, that’s great. I wrote a hit play and directed it, so I’m not sweating it, either.

If you don’t live anywhere, everyone wants to talk to you. You get to be the most exciting person at the party: they all want to hear your stories: the volcano you climbed, and how you threw up from altitude sickness, and the sharks you swam with in the Galapagos, hitching a ride in Bolivia or Nicaragua, the scary hotels you’ve stayed in, and the way the ice sounds when it breaks off the glacier and crashes into the water, the trekking guide who made you pisco sours at a wooden table inside the horse stables, the people you met, the sudden companions you made, the people you fell for, the people you hurt, and the ones who hurt you.

If you’re moving, and then moving again, you don’t have to take responsibility for the fact that you never have the right clothes, and that you’re not aware of what’s cool, what’s the best new place to go for dinner or drinks. Because you don’t live there. No one expects you to know everything.

And if you don’t live anywhere, you’re not that surprised when your phone rarely rings. Because no one knows your number, or they can’t keep track of all the different numbers you’ve given them, or how to dial the country codes, or they just assume you’re out of town, because, let’s face it – you often are.

Moving around means freedom and solitude, anonymity and loneliness. Staying still involves commitment – to people, to places.

I ask myself which is harder as I lay awake in temporary beds or sit behind the wheel of a rental car in bumper-to-bumper traffic, as the brides-to-be unwrap their gifts, as the plane takes off. Catch me at the right moment and I’ll tell you I live everywhere. Catch me at a different moment and I’ll say ‘I’m tired. I think this trip may have been a mistake.’

At the international departures hall at JFK, I looked at you, and I felt nervous. I wondered whether I had made the right decision to bring you along with me. We were untested.

At first, it was a little awkward.

Isn’t it true that our joys and insecurities are amplified when we’re on the road? In northeast Brazil, I certainly don’t fit in – I am way too white, and my language skills aren’t what they should be – and you didn’t fit in either. I’m sorry, but I was so uncomfortable to be with you then. Looking at you, I saw my own self, who I am and where I am from. It’s not your fault, but sometimes, I’ve wished I could be someone else. And you were always a reminder to me that I will never be anything other than who I am.

At the same time, I loved you, I was so grateful for you, especially at the end of a long day of traveling over bumpy country roads on rural buses. We’d get to our destination and you were always ready to give me what I needed: you had my toothbrush and my pajamas, folded just so. Sometimes you even had chocolate for me – I don’t know how you managed to transport it without it turning into a melting mess in this 95-degree weather. I was so delighted with you then.

But we had hard times too. There were so many times when I thought ‘this would be so much easier without you.’ I looked around at other travelers – the carefree backpackers, the senior citizens descending from their cruise ships – and wondered if they were having a better time, or an easier time, than we were having.

I remember pulling you up a flight of concrete stairs at one o’clock in the morning at some little hotel in some little town. I sighed and wished you were easier to travel with.

There was the time that you were thrown off a bus – there was some kind of misunderstanding with the driver and you were thrown off, unceremoniously – and I had no choice but to follow you down to the dusty roadside.

Other times, I would come back to the hotel room after breakfast and I’d see you lying there. And I wished I could just continue alone without you for one day. But I couldn’t. I knew that you would be coming with me, no matter where I went.

Still, you were the only source of familiarity and comfort in these strange, faraway places – when I got sick, and when I received heartbreaking news from home. At the end of the day, you were really all I had.

We covered thousands of miles together. We rode on boats, buses, airplanes and taxis. We stayed together in dozens of hotels. I look at you and I want to laugh because we’re both worse for the wear – neither one of us is looking particularly good.

But we made it. We made it all the way to Rio de Janeiro. We had an adventure together, we survived the test, and I”ll never forget our trip, not for as long as I live.

You were my suitcase, and I was the girl carrying you.

___________

So wrote Jorge Amado, one of Brazil’s most beloved storytellers. His novel Dona Flor e Seus Dois Maridos (Dona Flor and Her Two Husbands), rich with the sensuality of Bahia – the blazing heat, the still, clear sea, the potent flavors of Africa, the debauchery of Carnaval, sex and lust and nostalgia, savor and spice, the busy kitchen and the darkened bedroom – served as my literary introduction to this fascinating region of northeast Brazil.

Twice now I’ve spent extended periods in and around Salvador, the world’s Afro-Brazilian capital, updating sections of Lonely Planet’s Brazil guidebook. And even as I am here day in and day out, exploring and observing, tasting the food and listening to the music – Bahia remains, as Amado wrote, a mystery. It isn’t like any other place in the world.

Today Bahia is called terra da felicidade (the land of happiness) because of its famous street parties – Carnaval here in Salvador is supposedly one of the biggest parties in the world – and laid-back beach culture. But Salvador’s history is steeped in strife: discovered by the Portuguese in 1500, it became a hub of the slave trade between Africa and the Americas. Five million Africans were brought to Brazil as slaves between the 16th and 19th century. Shocking numbers of men, women and children died on slave ships.

Today, it’s the confluence of two cultures and a world of contrasts – Africa and Brazil, oppression and festivity, colorful African dresses and colonial European buildings, capoeira, musical instruments from Africa, the language of the Portuguese  – that make Bahia what it is – whatever it may be, as I’m still trying to understand it. In a way, I hope the mystery is never solved, as the light and dark are part of the allure.

Some of the elements of this particular culture –

The Afro-Brazilian religion (or cult) of Candomblé, born and developed by African priests enslaved in Salvador in the late 16th century. The religion focuses on the spirits of nature – my favorite orisha (deity) is Yemanjá, goddess of the sea and of fertility. On February 2nd, local fishermen in the neighborhood of Rio Vermelho will take the people’s sacrifices (objects relating to women – flowers, jewelry, perfume, mirrors) out to sea on Yemanjá’s holy day. Above, a mural in her honor, across the street from the fishing boats.

Moqueca (left), a seafood stew blending Brazilian staples like fresh fish, onions, garlic, tomatoes and cilantro with African staples like coconut milk and the distinctive dendê (palm) oil. On the beach and street, everyone’s eating acarajé (right), deep-fried dough balls made from black-eyed peas. (A boiling vat of hot oil on the sand? When in Rome…)

Olodum, a cultural group and percussion school founded in 1979 with an emphasis on Afro-Brazilian pride and civil rights for minorities. Their signature mix of samba, salsa, reggae and merengue, known as ‘bloco afro’ music, is a centerpiece of Salvador’s Carnaval.

It’s all foreign and fascinating to me, even after the time I’ve been lucky to spend here. But I think that’s appropriate – I’m an outsider, and if travel isn’t humbling, confounding, and culturally challenging in some way, I think you’re probably doing something wrong.

Milton Hatoum, a noted contemporary writer from Brazil, captured that very thought, speaking in an interview about Jorge Amado’s portrayal of Bahia:

The world [Amado] created is full of lively, colorful, sensual characters. Not exotic.

But then again, they may seem exotic to those who have never seen what Brazil and Bahia are like….

From Salvador, capital of the terra da felicidade – wishing you all a happy Carnaval!

Ah, Christmas in New York. Sounds romantic. But my family spent the holiday there due to practical reasons – tight work schedules, easy Amtrak access in and out of the city, the fact that everyone refuses to drive in freezing rain – you get the picture. Our quickie Christmas was the stuff of lasting memories, though. My message to you is that if you want to spend your holidays in New York, you need to mix the classic with the contemporary.



You’ve got to pick one from column A, as they say, and one from column B.

Real evergreens (left) are lovely. They’re also a fire hazard. So we had a cool corrugated cardboard tree (right) made by my sister.

Ice-skating in Central Park, obviously, is a classic (left.)

Ping pong at the Brooklyn Night Bazaar (right) is also a sport we can all play, but not well enough to be competitive about it.

Horse and carriage ride (left.) Supposedly we did that ‘for the baby.’

But all the cash we spent on gourmet donuts, espresso, vintage eyewear and Anthropologie accessories at Chelsea Market (right)? That can not be blamed on a child.

Christmas Eve cocktails at the Campbell Apartment at Grand Central Station. The place felt so glamorous that night. (A sprig of evergreen in my drink? Festive!)

But Christmas Day lunch? Chinese hot pot in Chinatown. That’s a two-hour ‘all you can eat’ window, and we stayed for the full two hours.

During this unconventional holiday meal, we laughed a lot while recounting our first collective hot pot experience in Beijing back in 2006, in which all of us, stupidly, thought the boiling hot water was some kind of soup, and during which I ate a piece of frozen raw pork. I’m still living that one down.

Like everyone and his brother, I’m crazy for Mad Men – partly because creator Matt Weiner’s meticulous recreation of 1960s New York is aesthetically stunning. (Check out this handy map to the real-life Manhattan cocktail bars, department stores and old-school hotels frequented by Don and company, many still operational. I also like reading about the show’s shooting locations in Los Angeles.) But I’ve never seen a place that embodies that sixties-style retro glamour like the Art Deco District of South Beach.

Despite the influx of sleek new mega-resorts and plush sushi eateries, a dozen blocks of Collins Avenue and Ocean Drive – lined with hundreds of whimsical 1930s-era buildings in Mediterranean Revival, Miami Modern (MiMo) and Art Deco architectural styles – still feel like a candy-colored outdoor museum.

My advice to you, design-oriented travelers?

1. Stop by the Art Deco Welcome Center (at 10th Street & Ocean Drive) and sign up for a walking tour with the Miami Design Preservation League.

3. Use the DecoBike bicycle share program to rent a beach cruiser and explore the district on two wheels. Rates start at $5/hour and a nifty iPhone app lets you know where bikes are available at the user-friendly kiosks, which are plentiful in South Beach.

3. Stay at The Hotel, formerly known as The Tiffany – for a one-stop retro getaway, you can’t do any better. Todd Oldham designed the interior. I’m in love with the porthole-shaped windows in the lobby cafe, the painted wood planks and marine-colored tiles at the swimming pool, and the historic Tiffany spire soaring above the rooftop bar.

4. Have a cold martini at The Betsy Hotel, a cool 1940s structure that mixes genres: though designed by L. Murray Dixon, the man behind many of South Beach’s Art Deco works, it’s the only example of Florida Georgian architecture on the street. B Bar is the hotel’s famous speakeasy.

5. Check out the Art Deco collection at Wolfsonian-FIU, an excellent design museum in the neighborhood. I particularly liked the vintage advertisements and Paul Frankl’s ‘skyscraper furniture,’ not to mention the fanciful elevator.

Back to Mad Men for a minute. Did I mention I’m friendly with – dare I say, friends with – one of the series’ supporting actresses? I won’t say who. But I met her during a big wedding weekend in California over the summer, and, to my surprise, few people seemed to recognize her. So even though I had to tend to my own bridesmaid duties, I couldn’t help myself – I just had to hound her for details during the rehearsal dinner, reception and post-wedding brunch. She talked about her repeated auditions for Matt Weiner, her vintage costumes and her real-life crush on one of the other actors (nope – not Jon Hamm!) She’s delightful and I tried to make her my friend. Reminds me of Joan’s wise words to Peggy when she’s writing a newspaper ad for a new roommate:

If this were me I would say something like ‘fun-loving girl, responsible sometimes, likes to laugh, lives to love, seeks size six for city living and general gallivanting. No dull moments or dull men tolerated!’

- Season 3, Episode 4, The Arrangements

I recently finished a nearly five-week backpacking trip through northern and central Chile for Lonely Planet’s South America on a Shoestring. I went alone, and it was wonderful.

There’s little need to go over the obvious pros and cons of going it alone, which generally seem to hold true – the solo traveler is more likely to interact with new people, for instance, and can do exactly what he wants to do – but is also likely to spend more money, take awkward digital self-portraits, and feel lonely at sunset vistas and restaurant tables. I can certainly relate to all of that.

But for me, the big takeaway from this solo trip was of an almost meditative nature. This trip forced upon me the same lesson, over and over – how to look at the world, and at oneself, with a little more gratitude and a lot more patience. Not like it’s hard to feel gratitude when you’re hiking a volcano, soaking in desert springs or drinking Carmenere while gazing at psychedelic rock formations. But the challenge is to revel in that moment, to accept it for what it is and what it is not – and to tolerate the headaches and inconveniences that it took to actually make it there.

Here, elaboration on traveling (happily) alone, in a few key points I learned this time around:

Try to realize that ‘I won’t be sharing this with anyone. I won’t get the perfect picture of it. I won’t be able to explain it to anyone else, and even if I could, they probably wouldn’t be interested.’ Because that’s how travel is. Long ago, I gave up showing people my travel photographs or trying to explain how amazing something was. Because at the end of the day, these once-in-a-lifetime travel experiences are really for one’s own individual benefit. The challenge is to accept that the joyful moment is all there is – and whether or not you properly enjoy it, it will soon be over. You can catalogue it for yourself and treasure it in your own memory, but that’s it – and that should be more than enough.

Revel in the absolute peace of solitude. Let’s face it – travel can be a gigantic headache. Even with the most agreeable travel companion, there are moments of desperate irritation when you don’t want to do the same things, when one or both parties are jet-lagged, hungry, disappointed by a hotel room, running out of cash or frustrated by the language barrier. When you’re alone, you can sidestep the drama. If you’re starving, you can find food, if you’re exhausted, you don’t need anyone’s permission to take a long siesta. It’s a lot easier to go with the flow when you have no one to bounce your own judgments and complaints off of – if something is disappointing or you’re stuck at the bus station for six hours, you can just say ‘oh, well’ and have another coffee and read your book. It’s blissful trying to please no one but yourself.

Bring more than you think you need, and shed weight as you go. When I left California for Chile, my sister and brother-in-law said ‘that backpack is heavy.’ But I couldn’t figure out what to take out of it. And now I can see it was with good reason. When you’re alone, you have to take care of all your own needs – there’s no borrowing a sweater or an electrical adapter from a friend. You do not want to be at high altitudes without a winter coat, you don’t want to be without an umbrella (or cough drops, or reading material, or a corkscrew) when it’s pouring rain in some tiny Chilean town and there’s no bus out until tomorrow night. I ‘lose’ things as I go – I left my beat-up down jacket in a hotel room in Iquique because I just didn’t need it anymore and I didn’t want to carry it.

Allow others the same rights you’d claim for yourself. People can be… jerks. Not exactly news. But it’s easy to let other people – the surly girl checking you into the hostel, the obnoxious guy who rolls his gigantic plastic suitcase over your foot – ruin your good time. But maybe these people aren’t that bad – it’s just that we’re quick to complain. I thought about this a lot in Chile, where I had to take a lot of long bus rides. So I’m seated on this bus, I have my Macbook open on my lap – because for me this is a work trip – and the guy in front of me reclines his seat all the way back so that it’s crushing my knees and I’m forced to close the computer. ‘Come on,’ I think, ‘it’s 11 o’clock in the morning, do you really need to sleep for the next six hours in a fully supine position?’ Yes, apparently he did, and I was fuming inside – I hated that guy. But the longer I stared out the window, I thought, well, why not, it’s his right, I guess, much as I hate to admit it. If I were exhausted and I wanted to sleep on a bus, I guess I wouldn’t want anyone to tell me I couldn’t. He was inconsiderate, maybe, but the lesson is that sharing space and practicing tolerance with other travelers goes a long way to having a peaceful journey.

Figure out how to delight in your own company. Without anyone else to talk to, I’m left with my own thoughts and reactions and moods. Traveling alone brings oneself into sharper focus. It makes you realize your own weaknesses – in my case, being a little antisocial and impatient and afraid of physical danger – but it also makes me see the great things about myself. Hey, I think, I’m a pretty fun person to travel with – I’m open-minded, I’m low-maintenance, and I’m not afraid to be alone. I’m good at talking to the waitresses in Chilean seafood markets to figure out what the best dish on the menu is. And I am really, really good at enjoying it.

I ask myself: why did I adore my first experience in this place, the driest desert in the world, so much? It’s partly because I love to hike and climb and ride horses.

But it’s largely because I didn’t have specific expectations.

To begin with, I love the sea. I didn’t think the desert could compete. I’ve heard that the town of San Pedro is ridiculously touristy (it is.) Also, I am traveling alone. And I am traveling for work (researching northern Chile for Lonely Planet’s South America on a Shoestring guidebook) – I’m not on vacation.

I didn’t know what to expect, exactly. But now I get it – the Atacama is magical.

Here, exotic cacti, hiking in Valle de la Muerte and sunset on a clifftop at Valle de la Luna.

The world’s highest geyser field. Breakfasting at El Tatio at dawn.

Ascending a volcano, Cerro Toco. Elation at 5,600 meters.

Cruising through the desert on a bicycle built for two.

The charming old Iglesia San Pedro de Atacama and a walk down the dusty village streets.

Swimming in high-altitude thermal waters – and in a mountain river.

Horseback riding in the valley and wading through Lagunas Cejar.

Stargazing at SPACE and hiking through the salt caves of Quebrada de Cari.

I wouldn’t want to leave out a really important element of my trip: this past week, I had excellent, fantastically knowledgeable guides who taught me about the region and encouraged me to push myself physically. They’re a huge part of why I had such a wonderful time in the Atacama.

From left:

Erich of Know Chile and Cactus Tour. Taught me to hear the ‘symphony of salt’ and made me run at full speed down a towering sand dune.

Robin of Nomade Expediciones. Encouraged me to get in the water when I was cold, climb to high altitudes when I was scared, go out on the town when I was tired.

The other Robin. Took me biking and riding and taught me to gallop in the pitch-black darkness (the trick is that he was holding onto both of our horses’ reins as we ran together.)

Mauricio, also of Nomade. Taught me to push through the exhaustion, put one foot in front of the other, and breathe at high altitude.

Mauricio said something at the end of the week that made me feel sad. He said that working in tourism is one of the most thankless professions. He said that travelers always seem enchanted at the moment when they reach the summit, or when they’re in the middle of the experience, but afterwards they forget about you.

Travelers, let it be a lesson to all of us: our guides are the ones who give us access, and provide important context, to the most beautiful landscapes and the most exciting adventures when we travel.

Be aware of yourself, tip well, and say thank you in the right language. (And don’t forget to seek these guys out when you’re in the Atacama – they’re the best!)

‘Remnants of a lost Los Angeles, city of the mind, remembered and yearned for, the neon lights of LA – celestial fires of another sort, green, gold, ruby red, electric blue…
If Paris is the City of Lights, LA is the City of Neon, possessed of a comparable (yet antithetical) beauty and capable as well, like all great cities, of giving rise in the magic of the night to hungers of body, mind and spirit.’

                                                     – Kevin Starr, Los Angeles Times, July 4, 1999

A few weeks ago, I read in the news that the world’s oldest piece of neon had been discovered right here in Los Angeles. During renovations at classic Clifton’s Cafeteria, which dates from 1931, someone busted through a dusty old partition and found a neon lamp that’s believed to have been burning for 77 years. It isn’t news to anyone that I adore old-fashioned cafes and crumbling, once-glamorous architecture – faded grandeur is sort of my thing. So when a friend invited me on the Museum of Neon Art’s ‘Neon Cruise,’ I was totally – ahem – onboard.

And what a night it was! We spent three hours zooming around downtown Los Angeles and Hollywood on an open-air, double-decker bus, drinking wine to stave off the chilly breeze, as a fantastically funny and knowledgeable guide took us past some of the city’s great neon landmarks. Some are still lit, others are not.

Here were a few of the neon-lit treasures along the way:

Philippe’s, founded by French immigrants in 1908, and the outrageous facade (carved serpent heads and hieroglyphics, anyone?) of the Mayan Theater, opened in 1927

The glowing silhouette of Chinatown and the now-defunct Johnie’s Coffee Shop, used as a film set for The Big Lebowski, Reservoir Dogs and American History X

Did I mention the tour stops at a few historic watering holes along the way? Well, technically the Los Angeles Brewing Company (left) is new, but the restored space, in the Chapman building, is old. And Canter’s, with its famous deli counter and lesser-known dive bar, dates from 1931.

On a side note, the tour also rolled past a few of my favorite old-school bars in Los Angeles – dare I say it, anywhere in the world! – downtown’s Broadway Bar and West Hollywood’s Formosa Cafe.

All told, the Neon Cruise was invigorating and delightful. We pretty much felt like this the whole time -

What a fresh way to see Los Angeles! Get tickets – June through September – by visiting the Museum of Neon Art’s website.

I just returned from twelve glorious days on Colombia’s Caribbean coast. To say it was a tropical paradise would be no exaggeration. Cartagena de Indias is the home of the largest Spanish fort in the world and an old walled city reminiscent of a quaint European village, while powdery beaches and aquamarine waters are just a quick boat or bus ride away. But because Cartagena and Santa Marta are real Latin American cities, not resort destinations geared to tourists, there were also headaches and hardships. Obvio que si!

After swimming in this heavenly cove in Parque Nacional Tayrona, for example….         we stumbled into a six-foot crocodile creeping across the beach towards the sea.

(Being so close to this animal in the wild – without warning – was kind of shocking. We saw a park ranger and said ‘there’s a crocodile on the beach!’ And he said ‘si, viven en el parque.’ WELL. That wasn’t mentioned at the ranger station or in the Lonely Planet guide.)

Meanwhile, in Cartagena, one’s view of the sunset…..  is often obstructed by the endless parade of persistent vendors selling ceviche, jewelry, foot massages and jet-ski rides.

I fell asleep under the palm trees in the Miami-style Rodadero of Santa Marta….

 …. but heading back to the hotel, I walked right into a trap. While one guy threatened us with a knife, I felt another one running up from behind. No one was hurt, but it was frightening. After all, it’s been awhile since I’ve been robbed at knifepoint. Reminds me of my days in Nicaragua!

I guess your luck can change quickly in Colombia.

Heart-pounding encounters aside, here are the things I loved unabashedly about Colombia’s Caribbean coast:

The old walled city of Cartagena and, just outside it, the immense Spanish fort of Castillo de San Felipe -

Traditional coastal Colombian cuisine – arepas, plantains with beans, rice and fish, jugo de maracuya (and jugo de lulo, my favorite new tropical fruit) -

Lively streets -

Exotic marine life! -

On a more serious note: although I’ve been living in South America for years, this was my first time in Colombia, and it was an intriguing travel experience. The place felt both familiar and foreign – it’s another colorful, irregularly shaped piece in the cluttered patchwork of Latin America that I’m slowly coming to know. Gabriel Garcia Marquez won the Nobel Prize in 1982, the year I was born; I remember reading a transcript of his acceptance lecture, entitled ‘The Solitude of Latin America.’ He talked about how the ‘rest of the world’ viewed his culture:

I dare to think that it is this outsized reality, and not just its literary expression, that has deserved the attention of the Swedish Academy of Letters… poets and beggars, musicians and prophets, warriors and scoundrels, all creatures of that unbridled reality, we have had to ask but little of imagination, for our crucial problem has been a lack of conventional means to render our lives believable. This, my friends, is the crux of our solitude… it is understandable that the rational talents on this side of the world, exalted in the contemplation of their own cultures, should have found themselves without valid means to interpret us. It is only natural that they insist on measuring us with the yardstick that they use for themselves, forgetting that the ravages of life are not the same for all, and that the quest of our own identity is just as arduous and bloody for us as it was for them…

When I first read this speech, I didn’t understand what he was talking about.

Now I do, and I’m amazed by how, exactly thirty years later, his assessment of Latin America’s place in the world seems to hold true.

It’s worth your time to read his Nobel Lecture. (You can thank me later when you’re on a dance floor somewhere, culturally contextualizing Shakira, or raising an eyebrow at the Colombia jokes on Modern Family. You’ll be the hit of the party!)

My feelings are best summarized by the words of a Yelp! reviewer I found online when I was looking for extra opinions on XS nightclub at the Encore Hotel:

In the span of six hours, I experienced significant amounts of pain, pleasure, lust, love, hate, glee, annoyance, bemusement, laughter, concern and ultimately an abiding hope in the future.

Right, then. Vegas is crazy and ridiculous. But I had a better time in my temporary residency in Sin City than I ever thought possible. I get paid to write about conventional attractions, restaurants and hotel rooms, but here’s another list of things I liked and loathed:

Most surreal spot in Vegas: Lake of Dreams at the Wynn

Coolest swimming pool novelty: ‘swimming with sharks’ at the Tank, Golden Nugget                                                                   Longest + liveliest ‘lazy river’: MGM Grand

Vintage Vegas landmark I’m desperately wishing will avoid implosion: the Sahara. It closed in 2011, so the faux-Moroccan palace, where the Rat Pack once hung out and Elvis lounged by the pool, is creepily abandoned on the north Strip. Apparently some big-shot hotelier is going to revamp the whole thing.

I hope he’ll keep the sultan statues and campy Arabian Nights glamour, but I doubt it.

Coolest new museum: Mob Museum (left.) I interviewed the executive director for the Lonely Planet book I’m working on.

Cleverest mob-themed appetizer:

spaghetti and meatball bites at the new Mob Bar (above.)

Best place for free champagne – ahem, if you’re a woman – and views of the Bellagio fountains: HYDE Lounge (left).

Simplest + smartest design for a cocktail bar: three-story crystal-draped Chandelier Bar at the Cosmopolitan Hotel (right.)

Most striking entrance to a Vegas show: Cirque du Soleil’s LOVE at the Mirage

Most vibrant flowers: at the Bellagio. Both real (in the conservatory) and glass (by Dale Chihuly, on the lobby ceiling.)

…. and in case the faux-European elegance had you fooled, a few reminders of where we’re at.

Oh, glorious, absurd Las Vegas, where the vintage neon burns bright (the Aladdin lamp from the Neon Museum) and the drinks, made with eight varieties of alcohol and topped off with dry ice (at VooDoo Lounge) are big enough for you and your friends to share.

It gives one ‘an abiding hope in the future,’ indeed.