Rather than dumping travelers into the Pacific Ocean, Santa Monica offered a better solution – a pleasure pier.
Chase us around a place full of Americana kitsch at its finest, California style…CONTINUE READING >>
Route 66 ends at the Santa Monica Pier.
Have you ever wondered where Route 66 ends?
Rather than dumping travelers into the Pacific Ocean, Santa Monica offered a better solution – a pleasure pier.
The pier is actually two piers side-by-side, one of which houses Pacific Park.
The longer Municipal Pier was built in 1908 mainly for strolling and fishing, but things started to really pick up when the Hippodrome was built in 1916 to house the now famous carousel.
The carousel is a true work of art. Its forty-six wooden animals have delighted riders for almost 100 years.
The rabbit always creeped Veronica out as a kid. Still does, actually.The view from the Santa Monica Pier.
Strolling along the longer Municipal Pier we were delighted by the campy throw-back feel of place, complete with old-school pastimes, street performers, wacky businesses and odes to the old Muscle Beach days.
That night, we walked over to The Lobster for an incredible seafood dinner.
When a restaurant is named The Lobster, it’s hardly necessary to look at a menu.
The drawn butter flowed like wine… as did the wine.
Established in 1923, The Lobster has been shelling out deliciousness to generations of pier goers.
It would have been wrong of us not partake in a tradition like that – who do we think we are?
We’re talking about the biggest freestanding mountain in the world, rising over nineteen thousand feet!
Fantastic waterfalls, wonderful people, fascinating legends, vile brew, an unusual apology and a very amicable Plan B awaited us on the slopes of Kilimanjaro…CONTINUE READING >>
A big thank you to Discover Corps for providing this adventure where we reached new heights!As always, all opinions are our own.
From the time we arrived in Tanzania, Mount Kilimanjaro had been shrouded in clouds, so we got in the habit of looking in its direction every so often just in case we might catch a glimpse.
It took more than a week, but that routine reaped rewards when the summit briefly poked through while we were driving back to homebase one afternoon. That was just a teaser, making us want to see the mountain in all of its glory even more.
Our chance finally came a couple of days later, when a clear morning afforded us a full view for a brief moment. Within a few minutes it had disappeared again.
Nature is an uphill battle
That certainly helped to build our excitement for what was coming up the next day.
The entire Discover Corps team was all atwitter as the sun rose, because this was the day that we would get to set foot upon the massive mountain.
Not anywhere near the top mind you, we’re talking about the biggest freestanding mountain in the world, rising over nineteen thousand feet!
So about halfway was going to have to do.
We drove up to an elevation of about five thousand feet (a bit of cheating, we know!) to begin our trek.
Where the Water Falls
At that altitude the terrain is classic rainforest, and we were surrounded by misty precipitation.
Once we set out on foot we were quickly soaked as we followed the trail leading us to the first of three waterfalls we would visit on our hike.
Gingerly walking across a span of wet, slippery rocks allowed us to test the water and, even though we were within about a hundred miles of the equator, it was surprisingly cold.
Considering the accumulation of snow and ice above us as the mountain reached its peak, we probably should have expected that.
Climbing higher, we passed through secluded villages surrounded by the small, terraced farm fields that are typical of the Chagga people.
For centuries they have inhabited the southern and western slopes of the mountain, growing corn, beans, squash, coffee, and tons of bananas.
Levels are cut into the hillside and they reminded us of the ingenious Inca planting methods we learned about in South America.
We stopped at a little shop / bar to wolf down a well-deserved lunch and a conversation we had kicked around for several days picked up again.
We’d been asking our host, Mama Simba — and pretty much all the locals that we met — about a favorite traditional brew in Tanzania called mbege.
We love local brews and rarely pass on a chance to give them a go, but this one was turning out to be quite elusive.
A Seriously Terrible Brew
Mbege is type of beer made from millet and flavored with banana, but it is not sold in stores, only homemade.
Richard from homebase, who had joined us on our climb, felt like we might be able to find some in this village, so he headed out to scout. We adore Richard, he’s the man.
When he arrived back, he informed us that he could only find a similar beverage which the label proclaimed to be “Quality Banana Drink” and “Banana for my health.”
Popping it open, the bouquet was bad enough, but not even close to the taste.
After a sip we began to speculate on the recipe.
Our best guess was that they begin with a grimy bucket filled with giraffe urine (we surmised this from the pictures of giraffes and a bucket on the label), and add a burnt log (for a heavy, smoky flavor).
Let that steep for a few days.
Next add some old, rotten, black banana peels (for your health) and a dash of diesel fuel, and set aside again to ferment for a week or two.
Then the cocktail is ready to be strained through a dirty sock into used beer bottles (original user’s backwash is optional).
This step seemed to be less than precise because a good amount of sediment made it through to the bottle.
Serve lukewarm… oh, and we highly recommend keeping water handy to chase it down.
Lots of water.
When we told Mama Simba back at homebase about our find, her comment was, “People drink this and go crazy.”
We certainly could believe that.
Setting back out after lunch our guide, Alfred, regaled us with stories of his many triumphant assaults on the summit of Kilimanjaro.
Telling Tales
He has conquered the mountain more times than he can count, including trips guiding Sylvester Stallone, Ice Cube, Martina Hingis, and many other celebrities from around the world.
He also explained how burnt giraffe bones will draw the poison out of a snake bite, and how this method saved him from dying after a green mambo strike.
Then he demonstrated the bushman click language, which is his native tongue.
An attempt to show David how to speak it could be described as futile, at best. Hilarious, but futile.
After climbing nearly a thousand feet, we reached our third waterfall. This put us just a hop, skip, and a jump away from our destination, the Marangu Gate into Kilimanjaro National Park.
A Chagga Apology
Along the way Alfred gave us one more story.
He picked a leaf from a palm-like plant, tied it in a knot, and placed a one thousand shilling note inside the knot.
Local Chagga legend proclaims that if anyone offers this knot of goodness to someone they have wronged, the slighted party is expected to forgive and forget.
We couldn’t decide whether it was a lovely way to keep the peace, or an overly simple get-out-of-jail-free card.
Next thing we knew we were approaching the gate where most climbers begin their assault on the summit. And where we would end ours.
Just kidding!
The Race to the Top
Just inside the entrance to the National Park we noticed a few plaques, one of which especially caught our eye because of the dates on it.
Yohane Lauwo was listed as having lived from 1871 to 1996. One hundred and twenty five years!
In 1889, at just 18, he guided German adventurer, Hans Meyer, to the summit as the first European to climb Kilimanjaro.
It is possible that they were the first people from anywhere to reach the peak’s pinnacle. Climbing the mountain was taboo among the Chagga since God was thought to live up there.
Perhaps Mr. Lauwo was rewarded with his long life for breaking that taboo? We briefly mulled over giving a full ascent a shot. Alfred was game.
If you can’t climb it, drink it
We ran over some quick calculations:
Considering we put in a pretty good hike to get to this official starting point for the Marangu route, completing the climb would be a mere thirty-four kilometers to go and up over ten thousand feet.
That would not be happening.
But we found that the gift shop had the proper slogan for our sort of lower expectation expedition emblazed on a tee shirt, “If you can’t climb it… Drink it!”
Kilimanjaro had already become our favorite local beer, so we were more than happy to go that route instead.
A sentiment more fitting for our half-ass(ault) on the summit.
I met the meanest woman in the world on cruise ship.
David & I were sitting in a near-empty onboard restaurant after an afternoon cooking class, and had a jovial group of fellow classmates seated with us – new friends from all over the world.
Yes, we were a bit loud.
Yes, we were critiquing the food – we had prepared it, after all – and, I was being exceptionally… CONTINUE READING >>
I met the meanest woman in the world on cruise ship.
David & I were sitting in a near-empty onboard restaurant after an afternoon cooking class, and had a jovial group of fellow classmates seated with us – new friends from all over the world.
Yes, we were a bit loud.
Yes, we were critiquing the food – we had prepared it, after all – and, I was being exceptionally snarky.
The portion that I had created was simply pathetic. Not only was it ugly, it was so poorly put together that it wasn’t possible to transport it from plate to mouth, so tasting wasn’t even possible (likely for the best).
And, yes, we were having a blast.
Don’t believe me? Here’s a tidbit of the class we took:
About three quarters through our meal, a woman appeared at my side. There wasn’t a beat between my looking up to acknowledge her and her spewing out, “You are a really rude person.”
I was floored. Hoping to just make her go away, I looked at her straight in the eye and said, “Thank you,” and turned back to my new buddies.
Everyone had turned to look at me with wide eyes. No one knew how to react; the woman had effectively shut down our fun little impromptu party. Seconds later, I realized she was still standing at my elbow. Stupidly, I looked back at her.
“People like you are why people hate Americans. You are an ugly American.”
Let me tell you, it’s downright mortifying to be called out as an ugly American before a group of new international friends. Mustering up just enough breath to give (what I hoped would be) a dismissive second “Thank you,” I again turned back to our party. Everyone sat stock still – as dumbfounded as I was, unable to respond.
Did she stop there? Not by a loooooong shot.
She went on a long diatribe spelling out my faults. I honestly don’t remember what she said because by this point, I had shut down. I’d never had anything close to something like this happen to me – before or since (this happened two years ago and I’ve just now worked up the nerve to write about it).
So I thanked her again and she finally, mercifully, left. She had run out of awful adjectives.
Our group hung around just long enough to make sure I was okay, but the fun bubble had been burst. David and I walked to the elevator with one of the members of our party. I’ll call him Charles.
Once the doors slid shut, David says to me, “I can’t believe I just sat there like a lump – I was so completely shocked by that woman, I couldn’t open my mouth to defend you. I feel horrible.”
Charles echoed the sentiment. “I’ve never seen anything like that, and I can tell you’re really shaken. I really wish I would have said something.”
It was all I could do at that point not to burst into tears, something that I always do when people are nice to me when I’m upset.
I think I muttered something like “it would have just made it worse.” Which I still firmly believe, but to this day I wish I had gotten in her face. I can never come up with a good zinger when I need it.
After a big ole see-you-later bear hug from Charles, I bolted to our stateroom and had a good cleansing cry. Then David and I tore into Ms. Caustic in that therapeutic way that needs to be done to make ourselves feel better:
We called her names.
We thought up snappy comeback lines (better late than never).
We talked about stalking her and laying some of those snappy lines on her at an opportune time.
We questioned her lineage.
But I couldn’t shake the feeling of humiliation.
The uneasiness followed me through dinner that night. I fell asleep thinking about it.
The next morning it shadowed me in Beijing and it was even hanging in the back of my mind as David and I raced up the Great Wall.
I had let Ms. Caustic into my head. Why do I allow that?
That evening, we snagged a prime spot in the front of the ship at the huge, forward-facing windows overlooking the port.
Glasses of wine in hand, we chatted with the adorable family at the next table about the incredible things we had seen that day. The Forbidden City, the Temple of Heaven, the Summer Palace – places that we never dreamed we’d see in our lifetime.
The teenagers of the group were dynamic as they excitedly told us of their Beijing adventures and Mom and Dad were grinning from ear to ear.
Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ms. Caustic plop down nearby.
Not wanting to face her, I turned my attention to the windows, my back to the family and Ms. Caustic.
In the time that I finished my glass of wine (my leisurely sipping had become more like frat house chugging between my nerves and the urge to bolt) she had changed the whole dynamic of the adorable family’s conversation.
Starting in with all of the things she just hated about Beijing, she soon had them agreeing with her. It didn’t take long before the family was sniping at each other.
Ms. Caustic then ratcheted it up a notch. Masterfully, she played this family until the girl and her mother were full-on arguing before making a tearful exit.
Who does this sort of thing? What makes someone like this tick?
My only solace – after two years of mulling Ms. Caustic over – is that she has to have a miserable life.
The road from Catania to Taormina is an intricate system of bridges and tunnels that works it way up the mountain.
We weren’t exactly sure what to expect when we signed on for a bike tour across Sicily with VBT, but we certainly were pleasantly surprised by our very first day.
We met up with our group in the incredible town of Taormina.
We say incredible mostly for the way that this ancient settlement is perched on the side of Monte Tauro, where it gets its name, but we soon discovered many other attributes that make it worthy of high praise.
Known in Latin as Tauromenium, and founded by the Sicels who gave Sicily its name, Taormina was once one of the island’s most important cities.
It remained so for a millennium because of its strategic position high on a hill, and the nearly impenetrable Saracen Castle guarding it from above.
This kept the pillaging and plundering to a minimum even as the surrounding country changed hands multiple times.
Having just unfolded our legs from the overnight flight from the states, we were more than content to let the biking wait for another day and set out to explore the village on foot.
First and foremost, for any visit to Taormina is a stop at the Ancient Greek Theatre.
It is thought to have been originally constructed around 300 BC as a classical Grecian amphitheater, with the Romans rebuilding it several centuries later during their control of the island.
Most of what we saw after our short walk up to the ruins was the brickwork from the reconstruction, but there is also evidence of marble columns from the Greek architecture still showing through.
No matter who built it, they did it right because it is still in use today for plays and concerts.
A new stage has been set up, and some of the seating refurbished, but essentially the audience sees performances just as they would have ten centuries ago.
We didn’t get to attend a show, but were treated to an extroverted tourist bursting into a Shakespearean soliloquy from the front of the stage.
We hustled up the bleachers to see how the sound carried, and check out the view beyond the stage.
Remarkably, we could hear every word clear up on the top row, and enjoyed it even more with smoke-blowing Mt. Etna providing the background scenery.
From the theater we walked down to Corso Umberto, the main street that runs between the two ancient gates of the city.
The heart of Taormina lies between these portals inside the ancient walls, and the stretch of medieval road thrives as a major destination for tourists from all over the world.
We began at Porta Messina, named because the road leads to the city of Messina, thirty miles or so up the coast, and then made our way through the center of the village toward the opposite gate, Porta Catania, which is named for the city to the south where we landed just a few hours earlier.
The street is lined with several intriguing alleyways made up of stairways leading up or down the hillside, so we wandered up a few, but the views are mostly obstructed by the tightly spaced construction.
Level ground is at a premium, so the buildings are packed in on every available inch.
We did find a few spots where small plazas opened up the feel a bit, the largest being Piazza del Duomo in front of the cathedral. The church is dedicated to the town’s patron saint, Nicholas of Bari, and dates back to the thirteenth century.
The city is a blend of the old and the very old as the ancient castle looms above the more “modern” churches.
The square’s centered around a fountain from 1635 featuring Greek mythological creatures, and the town’s coat of arms, but that is not the main attraction.
That honor goes to the fact that this just happens to be the ultimate location for stunning views of Mount Etna, one of the most active volcanoes in the world, and the highest in Europe.
Coincidence? We doubt it.
Our timing turned out to be about perfect, and we captured the mythical mountain just as the setting sun lit up the tufts of smoke rising from her summit.
No wonder Etna has been designated a UNESCO World Heritage Site.
The billowing smoke was so accentuated by the sunset that we started to get concerned. When we asked a local if we were safe he said, “We only worry when she STOPS smoking. That’s when the trouble starts.”
We have learned from experience that after flying across the pond darkness can be detrimental to one’s ability to stay awake.
But nothing conquers jet lag like a true Italian pizza, a glass of vino.
Of course the effect is only temporary, then the two gang up to put even the hardiest traveler out cold.
Not being nearly adjusted to the time change, we awoke the next morning before sunup.
The good news was that this gave us more time to spend in Taormina.
Peering off of our balcony at dawn we found Etna basking in the red glow of sunrise, blowing new puffs of smoke to greet the day.
That inspired us to set out for a morning walk.
The botanical garden, only a few steps from our room at the Hotel Belvedere, was splendid in the crisp air.
The plant selections were beautiful, but we found the odd follies scattered around the park more interesting.
These strange structures were created by Florence Trevelyan Caccioli, an English woman who married the mayor of Taormina in 1890, as a part of her private garden.
The grounds were then donated to the city after she passed away.
Just beyond the monument honoring the fallen soldiers from the First World War, we reached the edge of the garden.
From this vantage point there was a fantastic view of the ancient town of Naxos and the bay below, as well as across the Ionian Sea to the mainland “toe” of Italy’s boot about to kick us on Sicily.
Just the kick we needed, because as much as we were enchanted by Taormina, our time was limited.
We had to board a bus to make our way south and begin the bicycling portion of our Sicilian tour.
That prospect of exciting adventure awaiting us was just enough incentive to tear us away from this beautiful town high on a hill.
Mbege is type of beer made from millet and flavored with banana, but it is not sold in stores, only homemade.
We weren’t exactly sure what to expect when we signed on for a 
