Go Girl Magazine

Greetings Go Girl Readers!!!

2010-02-11T09:00:00.003-05:00

Greetings Go Girl Readers!

I'm so excited to be writing my very first blog with you!

First off, I want to ask some very important questions:

Are you going on a vacation?
Will you be traveling to another state?
Are you planning on studying and/or living abroad?
Do want to study and/or live abroad?

If you've answered yes to ANY of these four questions, you've come to the right place! I'm here to cater to your traveling needs! My desire is for every Go Girl reader to have fun, safe travels, whether they're traveling inside the United States or going abroad.

But WAIT! For those who couldn't answer yes to any of those questions, it's ok because you can benefit from this column too, even if you're just traveling to another state. Also, I'm pretty sure you know of someone who may benefit from this information…so, send them right here to me!

So, what qualifies me as an "expert?"

Well, I actually lived abroad and attended a university in Guanajuato, Mexico. It was my first time ever leaving home, so you can imagine the overwhelming sense of frustration I endured. Unfortunately, from the time I left the States, it was complete chaos! My host family's number was incorrect, I was bitten by a scorpion, became extremely ill from some fruit, almost robbed, etc. etc…the list goes on and on.

With that being said, I want to share my experiences and knowledge of what I learned through tips, advice, and suggestions. They say that experience is the best teacher? Well, I beg to differ! If you've gone through it, someone else can learn from it, too, so that they don't have to repeat same mistakes—and that's why I'm here! I want to help you avoid these simple mishaps so that you are able to enjoy your time abroad.

So, let's get started!

Also remember, NO question is a dumb question! Please, feel free to ask advice!

Looking forward to having some fun, see you every other Thursday!

--Lakia Gordon

(Picture Attributed to IK's World Trip)

How do you prepare for a trip to India?

2010-02-10T12:00:00.007-05:00

By Megan

I decided that there is no one way to properly prepare for a visit to India. You can read novels, guide books, ask other travelers opinions, but in reality, you probably just have to experience it yourself. Take, for example, the train travel system. I booked my ticket nearly three weeks in advance, paid for it online (after the credit card company figured out that I was not trying to steal my own identity- thank goodness!), and I am still in wait list limbo. There has been advice on whom to bribe and how much, other traveling options, and still, I have some sort of faith that everything will work out just the way it should. (Of course, there will be an update regarding the ticket crazies.)

I've packed everything I think I might need including a key turn powered alarm clock, insect repellent, and my glasses. Of course, there is a journal to record thoughts and a camera to snap at least a few photos to share. I cannot wait to share my adventures with Go Girl, but I've got to go catch a plane. So, until next week, travel safe!

Bluesfest!

2010-02-10T09:26:00.002-05:00

Big news for Go Girl.

Marianne will be representing our writers at the Byron Bay Bluesfest in Australia!

The festival will be taking place on April 1-5, 2010 and will feature top artists such as Jack Johnson, The Fray, Gipsy Kings, Jeff Beck and others.

Stay tuned for some great news about how it goes-- and maybe an interview or two while we're at it, too!

Saying Goodbye

2010-02-09T08:22:00.009-05:00

By Beth

December 17, 2009

On my last full day in São Tomé, the sun is blazing. My boyfriend, Kilson, and I spend the day at the beach, swimming off Ned's dock, taking pictures, dancing in the street to neighbors' loud music, sipping beers at a cafe strung with Christmas lights. From Ned's dock, sopping wet and in our bathing suits, we watch TAAG- Angola's airline- touch down on the runway close to Ned's house. Kilson's sister's boyfriend is on that plane and we take my motorcycle and rush to the airport, as do a couple hundred other São Tomeans.

And as I watch the crowd at the airport in the setting sun, I can't help but think about the fact that the next time I see the sun again, I will be in the very same airport, with my suitcase, leaving. Kilson is very good at detaching and putting on a smile so I don't know if he is thinking the same thing, but he must be. A knot forms in my stomach. On one hand, I have got to go back to the States because I have the best chance there of finding someone to finance more computers for the São João school. On the other hand, I can't bear to leave Kilson behind.

I have wondered if Kilson and my relationship is mostly enchanted by the new surroundings and the paradise-like atmosphere. That may have been how it began. But I also think I am just simply enchanted by Kilson, and the man that he is. So many times our lives in São Tomé have been a hindrance to our relationship rather than a help. We never have a place to go that is our own, for example. But we have survived it all and with flying colors, and now leaving a boyfriend behind is one of the hardest things to do.

My friend AJ tells me of friends of his that left behind relationships upon finishing the Peace Corps. When you're countries and countries away and not sure when you will be back, it's impossible to ask the other person to wait for you, no matter how much you want them to. Kilson and I only dated for maybe six weeks but he very quickly became my best friend on the island. Yet during the last two weeks, our relationship was very trying. We got into countless arguments. In addition to the fact that I was leaving, his sister was coming home for Christmas- the first time he would see her in nine years. I was hustling to get the computer program at São João minimally stable, writing guidebooks, meeting with teachers, writing grant proposals.Often we would start play-fighting...but then it would end up as a real fight. Both of us were about at the end of our ropes...stressed out of our minds.

But our last day together is perfect. We have both reached a level of peace with the fact that I am leaving. There is nothing we can do to stop it. And in this recognition the stress drips off and let ourselves enjoy each other. We fall in love all over again. We are done fighting with each other; for each other. We surrender our stubborn selves to the inevitable.

If Abercrombie São Tomé existed, it would be us in this picture.

The next morning on the plane to Portugal I rub Kilson's necklace that he gave me. It is a grain of rice that he got in Cuba with his name painted onto it. For four of the six hours of flight I write in my journal about him. I am not ready to get him go. When I arrive at my cousin João's house in the little town of Val Florido in Portugal, a stopping point on my journey home, João's wife, Elsa, offers me their phone. They say if I need to call my dad or anyone else, to feel free. I call my dad but then I call Kilson. I hear his voice light up on the other end. “I'm so glad you called,” he says. “I've been thinking about you all day.”

Straddling Two Worlds

2010-02-07T08:00:00.005-05:00

by Emily

When I decided to come to Utah for college, it was a big deal. A lot of people thought I was throwing my academic future away by not attending school on the East Coast, or at least the West Coast. No one listened when I explained how prestigious the BYU professors were, or how competitive admissions were. (The average GPA of incoming freshmen is currently above a 3.8). Other New Hampshire friends worried I’d be sucked into the whirling eddy that is Utah patriarchal culture, or that I’d come back with straight, blond hair and a face full of make up. And in all honesty, their fears weren’t unfounded.

My older sister, a natural blond with wavy hair and poor eye sight, came back from her first semester at BYU with a straightening iron, contacts, and a slew of Mary Kay products. She already liked country music, but now she loved it more than ever, ecstatic to have finally found a place where it was cool. She embraced the area’s mild winters, early springs, and gaping mountains, while I saw Utah as a desert devoid of the trees, plants, and water I loved.

Perhaps I too would have liked Utah if I hadn’t arrived during a hostile election season. Or if I’d been in love with George W., like ninety percent of the students I encountered. Whatever the reason, I saw everything about Utah through an outside lens. The people seemed backwards, the culture archaic, and even BYU seemed intellectually impoverished.

It’s hard to say when my perspective changed, but today I feel like a sheepish anthropologist who only realizes she’s been looking down on the local culture after spending years in its midst. We all know how important it is to keep an open mind and control our culture shock when we travel to another country, but I forgot everything I’d learned about fighting ethnocentrism, the first time a history TA said I’d be voting for the devil if I voted for Kerry.

So you see, I might as well be leaving the country when I fly between New Hampshire and Utah. You can tell the difference as soon as you step on a plane. Flights connecting to Utah are filled with young families, most of the women and children blond. All the teen and tween girls wear make up, and most of them have straightened hair. Also, everyone is smiling and friendly, to the point that it almost makes you sick. The women are especially friendly, speaking to you in these breathy, high-pitched voices, as if it would be rude for them to speak in a deeper voice, for even a second.

Flights connecting to New Hampshire or Massachusetts, however, are filled with people who are either talkative and down to earth, or deliberately quiet as they keep to themselves. The women aren’t as skinny, blond, and make-uped; the men are less likely to wear business suits; and most of the adults drink coffee. And it goes without say that everyone wears Red Sox paraphernalia. When you step into the airport, it gets even better: everyone walks fast, New England accents are everywhere, and there isn’t a Yankees cap in sight.

But the real differences between New Hampshire and Utah show up in cultural values. At the liberal New Hampshire high school I attended, we learned about socialism as a beautiful and progressive economic system. In Utah, socialism is nearly synonymous with communism, which is synonymous with evil incarnate. Also, Fox New is scripture, Global Warming is a crock, Michael Moore is an anti-Christ, and Sarah Palin is a gift from Heaven. Oh, and feminists have destroyed The Family. After several months of Utahisms, I’m always anxious to return to New Hampshire, where nobody calls me a flaming liberal or makes fun of me for “dropping ‘r’s where they go, and adding them where they don’t."

And yet, after a few weeks in New Hampshire, I start missing Utah. I miss people who think my religious beliefs are normal. I miss the slightly warmer weather and the much-shorter winters. I miss the dull red canyon leaves, even though they don't compare to New England foliage. I miss how urban Provo is, compared to my tiny home town in NH. I miss hanging out with friends who never want to drink, and I miss being the one roommate who actually knew where babies came from before she was sixteen.

I miss being surrounded by friends who enjoy hanging out… sober. I miss my BYU-Liberal friends who, like me, are actually moderate. I miss renting a private bedroom in a nice apartment, for $295/ month during the school year and $175/month during the summer, including utilities. I miss tulips blooming in February, and snow so light and fluffy that you sweep it off the porch instead of shoveling. I miss grocery stores that refuse to sell alcohol but offer 25 different flavors of hot cocoa. I even miss being the one to explain why it’s offensive when someone compares homosexuality to a mental illness.

Sometimes I even miss the mountains.

The Toxic Lake of Phnom Penh

2010-02-06T09:18:00.007-05:00

By Lillie
Catch more of her posts at http://www.aroundtheworldl.com

There is a toxic lake at the heart of Phnom Penh. If you swim in it, your flesh may sizzle, or perhaps the effects will cancerously explode in a few years. Regardless, though naked children slide through the brownest rivers of the Cambodian side roads, there is not a soul amid the silvery waves of Boeung Kak Lake.

Naturally, this is where I spent my first night in Phnom Penh.

All six hours of the bus journey from Siem Reap were in Spanish, as I fell in with a fabulous Colombian crew across the cramped aisle. When we got off the bus I decided to let Camilo do all the tuk-tuk haggling, as his skills were quality after a month as a photographer in rural Vietnam and Cambodia. His thick Spanish-Australian accent battled the choppy English of the Cambodian driver until we had a ride to the lake for a dollar.

Warnings of this seedy "backpackers-who-no one-wants" area abound in the guidebook, but so, too, do reports of the strikingly beautiful view and vibe, as well as the great prices. Sure enough, the moment our feet hit the rocky pavement, we were offered opium. (Opium! Do people even DO opium any more? Rest assured, we fully declined.) Also, sure enough, once we walked through the pool-table-filled narrow alleyway past the stray animals and grubby children, the gorgeously rickety veranda spread its arms wide to show: the lake!

Floorboards creaked and almost broke under the weight of us plus the skittering geckos. But potted plants, hammocks, soft chairs, and inviting tables lay all around, and as the sun set, the toxic chemicals of Boeung Kak mixed with the air and gave an otherworldly glow to the whole scene. Gorgeous!
We took our $2 room which hovered on stilts over the water (twinkling through the giant cracks in the wood). My bed had fleas in it; Camilo's had ants. I requested two extra sheets and a towel and slept on those. We were offered drugs again and declined.

Over hot chicken amok and rice, we watched the eerily empty piers on either side creak with the forlorn dance steps of the Cambodian workers. It is low, LOW tourist season in Cambodia. It is so low that tons of places are utter ghost towns, with the Cambodian staff idly playing games, texting on cell phones, and throwing blue-lit nightclub parties which they pray will bring in the three tourists. On either side of us, music thumped in an empty echo: plaintive wails of Cambodian music on one side, reggae on the other, yet both giant over-water dance stages had no one on them but two small children and a drug dealer.

I awoke with no bedbug bites! Yes! A miracle.

Camilo hopped a moped to the airport to fly back to English lessons in Melbourne. I told him as he left that he had to follow his true love who moved to Africa. One must always follow true love!
By now I had contact information for my Aunt's awesome co-worker, whose house I walked to. On the way to the riverfront cafes, we dodged screeching mopeds on this city with no sidewalks. Mike and I had a wonderful, informative chat, and I bow down to him for surviving Phnom Penh for a whole year. It is an intense, intense city.

I was supposed to go to the Killing Fields to see the bones and bashed-in skulls of the hundreds of thousands of Cambodians massacred under Pol Pot, but I felt so nauseous just thinking about it that the sun set before I could even make it nearby. I stalked the STA Travel tour group my friend Adie is on and moved my backpack out of the insect-infested lake and into the sweet residential area in which the group was staying.

Adie, who is the nicest person ever, had a love fest with the owner of the Cambodian sports bar which went something like this: Adie ordered a ton of food the day before. The owner was so happy he refused to take Adie's money the next day. Adie was so happy he went upstairs and got a brand new England soccer shirt and gave it to the owner. The owner's was so happy he pulled off his own shirt and put on the new one, then came out with a giant plate of green mangoes and chili sauce for Adie. Adie was so happy he ordered a ton more food. No tuk-tuks were around by midnight (which is the craziest moment I've had so far in Cambodia, given that every other second of every other day the grown men are literally fist-fighting to get you into their vehicle), so the owner revved up his own red mo-ped and took me back to my hostel himself, protecting me from weird street-lurkers until I was safe upstairs. So sweet! Adie ordered a ton more food. Thinking of both their beaming smiles in this friendship one-up-manship makes me grin all over again.

At the crack of dawn the next morning I had the most amazing vegetable noodle breakfast soup in history, then hopped the six hour bus to Sihanoukville in order to, 1) Get the heck out of crazy Phnom Penh, 2) Continue hilariously and somewhat loserishly stalking the STA Travel group (which was in a much plusher bus fifteen minutes ahead of me, and, 3) Hit the beach!

I found out on that bus ride that the toxic Phnom Penh lake is being slowly filled in and erased. This is both good (given that it is, you know, toxic), and sad (given that all the lakeside dwellings, including the neat hotel in which we stayed, will be razed and the dwellers displaced).

In some ways, this toxic lake at the center of the capital city reflects the horrific recent history of Cambodia. My friend showed me photos of the Killing Fields; teeth, arm bones, and tattered clothes of the massacre victims are still strewn along the path the tourists tread each day. How can a people move on from this toxic history? Can it really be "filled in" and converted into an educational memorial for tourists and Cambodians alike? One has to wonder whether a filled-in toxic lake sometimes just creates toxic land.

The Ethics of Exploration

2010-02-05T10:00:00.000-05:00

Standing on the cruise ship's deck, staring at the brilliantly blue wall of ice in front of me, it was hard to tell which I wanted more: to see and hear the glacier calve with my own eyes, or for our ship to sail away and leave the wild Marjorie glacier as we'd left it. It didn't take two minutes for my inner conflict to be resolved. A rumble of thunder, a puff of ice slivers, and a rapidly expanding circle of ripples indicated that some portion of the glacier had simply slipped away into the frigid Alaskan water. By the time the ship moved along fifteen minutes later, the glacier had calved four times.

The convenience and accessibility of contemporary means of travel has had a dramatic impact on the way humans interact with the world and each other. The very fact of our online 'zine attests to the fact that people are traveling more frequently and more casually, and I don't think it's unreasonable for me to claim that a lot of us in the so-called Millenial Generation view international travels as a rite of passage between adolescence and early adulthood. For many of us, those experiences abroad have a significant impact on our self-perceptions as our lives mature. But what kind of impact does our travel have on the world?

To go back to the glacier story, let me point out a couple of things. The first is that calving is a natural part of a glacier's lifespan, occurring as the massive ice shelves shift and "travel" along mountain valleys in response to the weight of snow accumulation. The second is that there's a huge heap of evidence that most glaciers are receding- that is, are calving faster than they're forming new ice. The third is that, as I mentioned, I was standing on the deck of a cruise ship...and cruises constitute the vanguard of environmentally irresponsible forms of travel. What I was witnessing wasn't just the product of snowfall pressure miles and miles away, but also the product of the water and fuel usage of the ship carrying me along.

Environmental concerns aren't the only thing worth mentioning, however. Travel opportunities have certainly expanded in the last few decades, but the people to whom they're accessible are a limited segment of the global population. You don't have to be rich to travel, but you do have to be able to afford time off from work, documentation, travel tickets, and your food budget. On top of that, the places we're visiting are impacted by our decisions as well: as Lillie's posts have highlighted in the past, local economies and cultures are becoming increasingly dependent on tourism for economic survival, even bringing children into the equation. And, of course, in some areas this means that unique and rich cultures have been reduced to their most marketable elements- on Okinawa, Japan, it's impossible to find a shop that isn't trying to sell cheap shi-shi dogs to the thousands of tourists they encounter daily.

I realize that this article is starting to sound preachy, and I don't want it to- if for no other reason than preaching on this subject certainly makes me a hypocrite. The takeaway point shouldn't be to stay in our homes and never explore the world for fear of being unethical tourists. Rather, the point is that it's so easy to get caught up in the amazing things we see around the world that we forget that our actions have effects. If a cruise is what you're dead set on doing, do some research to see what various companies are doing to reduce their environmental footprint. When considering tourist activities, look into how the business enterprises in the area give back to their communities (if at all). And as always, take the time to learn local cultural expectations of politeness and respectful behaviour. Taking the time to do these things not only does great things for the places we're visiting, but can give us much more enriching experiences to tell our loved ones about when we get home.

Welcome Emily and Sarah!

2010-02-04T16:16:00.002-05:00

Welcome new writers! Catch Emily on a monthly basis and Sarah every other week. Go team!

Emily: Emily has straddled two home states for five years now: Utah and New Hampshire. Socially and politically, these states are about as different as two states in the Union can get, which makes for nonstop adventures in culture shock. She travels more for necessity than pleasure, but years of flying across the US have taught her the ins and outs of booking cheap airfare, surviving dreadful plane rides, and transitioning between two cultures. Four years ago she spent a semester in Paris, and she's been dying to get back to Europe ever since. She has one year left of her MFA in creative writing and can't wait to graduate and embark on more pleasurable travel adventures. You can follow more of her antics at notanotherwave.blogspot.com.

Sarah: Ohio by birth, Arizona by choice, Sarah spent her youth in the backseat of a big red van while her parents toted her on cross-country road trips all over the US (If you ever want to know anything about Civil War Memorials or National Monuments, she’s your girl!). She recently graduated from college and (surprise) balked at the idea of getting a “desk job”. Instead, she opted to travel around for a bit and see what else is out there. With a journalism degree and camera in hand, Sarah plans to tackle bigger adventures in Central America. She will be living and working in rural Honduras for the next two years, teaching HIV/AIDS prevention. You can follow her personal blog at http://sarahlagringa.wordpress.com/

Hit the Road, Jane

2010-02-04T08:00:00.012-05:00

10 Questions To Ask Yourself Before You Do

by Lisa

You feel the call of the open road. You want to pack up your car, step on the gas, and leave your normal life behind -- for a little while, anyway. You want to experience the world...or at least as much as you can get to on four wheels.

I’ve been there, and you know what? I did it. Solo. It’s possible, doesn’t have to be expensive, and is a million percent worth it. Before you make the big decision and set out, however, here are ten questions to ask yourself. Be honest with your answers, and before you know it, you could be re-creating Kerouac’s On the Road -- with your own 21st Century girl style.

Do I Want To Bring Anyone Along? Are you yearning for a living by-your-own-wits, completely independent solo adventure? Or do you want to share the experience? Think carefully about this question. Having a road-trip companion can be great, but spending hours with the same person -- even someone you adore -- in the confines of a car can drive anyone to the brink of crazy. Just make sure everyone is on board -- with the plans, the goals, and the budget -- and make a pact to be extra considerate of each other before you go.
How Much Time Do I Have? Are you going for a week? A month? Six months? How much time you have will dictate how far you can get, what kind of a budget you’ll need...and whether anyone else has that kind of time to go along. Short trips are a way to get your feet wet without committing to a lengthy journey, but longer ones are the only way to really transform a road trip from a vacation into an experience...and will help create a better balance between driving and doing.
What’s My Budget? Road-tripping can be a really inexpensive way to travel. Yes, gas prices are tough, but aside from that it’s simple to eat cheaply, and if you are willing to stay with friends, in cheap motels, or, better yet, to camp, your road-trip dollar will go far. Think carefully about how much money you can save and how much you’re willing to spend per day. (I did my six week trip on an average of $81/day, and I probably could have shaved that even further!)
What’s the State of My Transportation? Do you have a car? Is it in good condition? Do you know how to handle minor issues, and do you have a service like AAA to call for major ones? It’s a good idea to have your mechanic give your car a once over before any big trip, and especially important for a long-term road trip.
Where Do I Want To Go? Do you want to head across the country, or do you want to stay closer to home? Maybe there’s a particular road you want to travel (route 66? The Pacific Coast Highway?) or activities you’re interested in (southern BBQ, National Parks, haunted places). Decide what your trip is about...what the theme will be...and go from there.
Where Can I Stay? Once you know where you’re going, take a look at what’s available for lodgings. Are the hotels and motels within your budget? Campgrounds where you can pitch your tent? Or maybe...
Who Do I Know? ...you could crash with friends. People are surprisingly willing to open up their homes when you’re passing through on an adventure like this. I was floored that even relatively minor acquaintances, when they heard I was driving around the country, offered to let me sleep on their futons and couches. They want to be a part of your adventure...so let them!
What Do I Need To Bring? The answer to this question depends on what you’ll be doing, how long you’ll be on the road, and what the weather will be like. Make sure you consider equipment you’ll need to buy if, for example, you’re camping and hiking. Also, there’s a temptation to overpack on a road trip since you can just cram everything into your trunk. Take it from me that you should treat this like any trip, try not to overpack, plan to wash clothes while you’re on the road, and be organized about packing and storage.
Can I Keep Myself Entertained? If you’re going alone, think hard about whether you like being alone. Sure, you’ll meet people on the road, you might visit friends, but there will be long hours in a car with only the radio for company. There are plenty of ways to keep from being bored, and the excitement and freedom of being out on the road can trump brief bouts of boredom, however, so don’t worry if it makes you a little nervous.
Am I Brave, Confident, Independent? Do I Want To Be? Solo road-tripping -- particularly for women -- can be a scary endeavor to contemplate. Many women I’ve talked to about road-tripping express concern for their safety, or worry that they wouldn’t be able to handle things on their own. They’re wrong. They can, and so can you...and figuring that out about yourself is freeing, invigorating, and teaches you something about yourself along the way.

Montserrat

2010-02-03T06:37:00.003-05:00

By Megan

I knew that Montserrat was supposed to be gorgeous, but I had no idea. I also knew that it was of religious importance because the Black Madonna (wikipedia it for more information) and a monastery resided there, but other than those few things, I was in for a surprise. It was a delicious day in Catalunya when a friend and I headed out for a weekend adventure.

We purchased our tickets for 19.50 euros and woke early enough to catch the train that would take us outside of the city. After the train outside of the city, a cremallera (a 'zipper' train) took us to a the funicular de St. Joan, which pulled us up into a religious community nestled between these impressively smooth mountains. We grabbed some bocadillos (sandwiches) and a water bottle to split before exploring what we could of the church and other worship spaces. To be honest, I was really there for the outdoor views and the opportunity to explore a new space; the religious importance was of secondary interest to me.

By that point, the sun had come out and started to warm everything up and I was ready for a hike. Camera in hand, I spied a cross that stood out on a mountain side across a little valley, and decided that that was were I wanted to go. There was a path that lead us out there and the views were incredible. But, it was not enough. I had my purple wrap around skirt on, sweater stuffed in my heart print bag, and legs ready for climbing.

It was one of those adventures that made you feel as if you were the first person to discover that spot, the first to experience the thrill of standing that high on a mountain even though you knew that you were not the first and that it was not necessarily unique experience. Having a good hiking partner who was willing to go along with my desire to climb higher and higher also made the day lovely. Sometimes you just need that person to smile with and realize how wonderful something so simple can be.

You Can See The Stars

2010-02-02T06:02:00.005-05:00

By Beth

My friend Alessandro is visiting the USA for the first time while I am in São Tomé (see included picture; he is on the left). I met Alessandro while living in Portugal. He was an Italian spending his time traveling around Europe and writing romance novels. He lived with a few American friends of mine in a big spacious apartment with no furniture.

Alessandro has a child's face and a small, tight, extremely muscular, body. He is your quintessential Italian stereotype- crazy about women and alive purely to enjoy the world around him and, when possible, the ladies in it. During the year he lived in Portugal, he got a huge tattoo of big black wings spread over his back. It took quite a few sessions and I remember seeing him with bandages over his back more often than not. He speaks very little English, but is one of those people that can amazingly communicate anything he wants using creative combinations of the few words he knows. On his Facebook profile, he has pictures of him having sex. This is Alessandro.

And Alessandro, for years, talked to us of his dream of coming to America, the land of the free. He wanted to see it for himself- the towering skyscrapers of New York, the rich and famous of Hollywood, the rolling plains of Iowa. Then one day he sent me and our American friend Jason, who also lived in DC at the time, a Facebook message. “My friends, I am coming to America! I will be there in April. I am in love to see the land of beauty that is your paradise.” This is a rough and very generous translation from the English that he typed to us.

So, a few months later, in October, we get another Facebook message. “I am coming to America in November! I have bought my tickets!” This is all good and well, except for the fact that I am in São Tomé and Jason is in Brazil doing a semester abroad. So Alessandro is on his own. Which doesn't bother him at all.

A couple of months ago I thought I would be a good non-hostess and check in. See how he was liking the States. What I get is a very romantic and poetic description of the majesty of New York, which Alessandro never wants to leave. He is in love with Greenwich Village. “Have you seen how much stars there are in the sky?” He types.

I laugh to myself. Stars?? In Greenwich Village?? I tell Ned, the American with whom I am living in São Tomé.

“Can you even SEE stars in Greenwich Village?” he asks me. I tell him I don't think so.

But it's such an Alessandro thing to say. In fact, maybe his poetic English has struck again. Countless times I look up into the night sky of a new place and am shocked by the number of stars I see there. It always seems like more than there are at home. In Portugal, São Tomé, the mountains of northern Maine- the stars are always a marvel. And perhaps it is the stars that allow you to experience the sheer awe of being in a new place- whether they're actually visible or not.

And in New York, where you can't see stars at all, maybe it is the Tim O'Brien way of saying that life is beautiful here. That in New York, Alessandro feels as liberated as if he had the whole universe to himself.

Australia Day Ponderings

2010-02-01T08:00:00.001-05:00

Now that I have celebrated Australia Day for the first time, I have a confession to make. I had absolutely no idea what I was celebrating. I knew it was a big day – I don’t think I know anyone in Australia that didn’t spend Tuesday in the vicinity of a barbecue, and most likely some beers, Aussie banners and some body of water if you were lucky (or a kiddie pool in my case). I know I had a good day, listening to Triple J’s Hottest 100 songs of the year, eating steak and hot dogs and lounging in the inflatable pool. I even branded my cheek with the Australian flag (and a little British pride on my forehead...). But what was it all for?

First I tried comparing it to other holidays I am familiar with. England has St George’s Day. The day they celebrate their patron saint. It’s also England’s National Day. But to be honest – how many English people reading this right now can tell me when St George’s Day occurs? Not many I’m guessing. It’s April 23, but I just looked that up. All the nations in the UK have a day like this, most well known is easily St Patrick’s Day, when everyone in the Western world claims their however-distant Irish heritage and drinks a Guinness or two, or more… But Australia Day has nothing to do with patron saints.
The USA has Independence Day on July 4. They celebrate the day they officially claimed independence from Britain back in 1776. The celebrations are definitely similar. Lots of barbecues are brought out, as well as some classic American beers, and traditionally a lot of fireworks. But Australia never claimed independence from Britain. So that’s not it.
So what is it?

Turns out that Australia Day celebrates the arrival of the ‘First Fleet’ of British settlers. Or, in other words, it celebrates the invasion of Australia by the British. Some groups, including the indigenous population, not surprisingly, in fact call it Invasion Day, and it is not a date to be celebrated but rather a good day for a protest. For obvious reasons there is a lot of controversy surrounding the day. Drinking beer and having a barbecue doesn’t seem quite right when you’re celebrating invading a country and doing a good job of ruining the lives of the indigenous tribes. But, like all holidays, while it is based on historical events, I think the majority of people here see it as a day off work and a good excuse for a party. And who can blame them when it’s this hot outside? Plus, whether you believe it’s right or not, the descendants of those European invaders are still the ones who run this country so you can hardly blame them for celebrating their own history I suppose. To make things clear, I’m not condoning the way the indigenous population is treated now, but that’s a very long battle that is far far away from being solved.So is it really okay? I suppose that’s the question. Australia certainly isn’t the first, and probably won’t be the last to celebrate a day with such a dark history, but is it alright to celebrate a holiday when the origins and memories are so painful for at least one group of people? Something I’ll be pondering this week. But, whether you are an Australian or, like me, a visitor Down Under, I hope you enjoyed a day of good food and good company on a hot summer day.

Welcome, Karissa!

2010-01-31T17:54:00.000-05:00

Putting together another warm Go Girl welcome for Karissa, a brand-new monthly writer.

Certainly a woman on the run, Karissa has lived in four countries and six states in the US. She has traveled to over twenty countries and forty-three of America’s beautiful fifty. And here’s to still counting. Currently, home base is a tiny fishing village in the wilds of northern Japan where she teaches English to Junior High and Elementary students, explores the world of Japanese cuisine, reads and writes and gets outside as much as possible. Follow Karissa’s explorations of Japan through the outdoor lens – worlds away from the Tokyo life that most people imagine. More thoughts, adventures and photos can be found on her blog: http://sailforth.wordpress.com.

Check out her posts on the last Sunday of every month, beginning February 28th. You're going to love what she has to say about Japan and the world outside!

Ways to get your hot self in photos when you're traveling solo

2010-01-30T06:57:00.001-05:00

By Lillie
Catch her adventures at http://aroundtheworldl.com

Ponder: If you're traveling alone, how do you get yourself in your photos? Here's a buffet of options.

1. Hold that arm out, grin at the wobbling lens, then click! This usually eats about forty shots before more of your face than your top hair tuft appears in the resulting photo. Furthermore, your big honkin' head will inevitably totally obscure the cool tourist attraction behind you. Hypothetically, if you are trying to photo yourself in front of Angkor Wat, the three massive spires of the temple may come out as two tiny devil horns atop your head and one puny and gray unicorn horn.

2. Just take photos of other things and people and hope your soul comes through in the artful way you shoot your subjects.

3. Feign utter incompetence at trying to take that one-handed shot of yourself. (This will not be hard.) Do a "click!", look at the resulting photo, then sigh loudly and tragically. Glance forlornly at all surrounding tourists. Make a big show of setting up the next one-handed photo and ensure that your arm wobbles like a delicate fern in the wind. Alternately, you could stop being so passive-aggressive and just ask for surrounding folks to snap that pic.

4. Stay close to Japanese tourists. They love taking photos, and they know how slick cameras work. They do! Inevitably, their guide will lead them (and thus you) to the best angle, then allow them ten minutes to set up their tripods and snap every permutation of photo. They will always offer to help you with your photos, too!

5. Steer clear, duh, of anyone who looks aching to steal your shiny camera, or, slightly less duh but still duh, people who look utterly electronically incompetent. One elderly Australian woman literally took twenty photos of my feet at a temple, all the while screaming: "I don't see the photo! Where is it? It's all black!" At last she gasped, "Ooh, I was just seeing black because I was wearing dark glasses. Whoopsie! Give me your camera again." Thank heavens her husband had grabbed the machine by then and had managed to fit my whole form into a shot.

6. Try to have friends! Clearly, this is not always possible (sniffle sniffle), but the best photos seem to be when one is nice and relaxed-- even extra creative or silly. When I tried to pull a "ta da!" pose in front of a temple, the entire flock of Japanese tourists taking the photo started chanting, "Ooohhh mama!" Sheesh-- all I was going for was, "ta da!"
In sum: Try everything. Something is bound to work eventually.

New Digs

2010-01-29T19:21:00.010-05:00

Go Girl is going on its own adventures!! We, as you can see, are now located at the very cozy www.travelgogirl.com! We love the spot and hope you do, too.

And with the new home, we also have some fabulous new writers! Let's welcome Lakia, Anna and Wendy to the Go Girl Team!

Lakia lives, breathes, and sleeps learning of other languages, cultures, and nationalities; she has lived and studied abroad at La Universidad de Guanajuato in Mexico. Although, right now, she only travels within the United States (she is working on her Doctorate degree) she still has vivid memories and experiences about her travels abroad. From how to apply for a visa to what not to wear, she gives her readers advice, tips, and suggestions on how to have fun and safe travels. You can also check out more of her writings at: http://lakiagordon.com.

Born in Thailand to a hitchhiking, hippie father and a mother who traveled to places she read about, Anna has the traveling gene in her blood. By the time she was three, she had been to Egypt and Saudi Arabia before moving to Southern California. She has trekked across the US, Europe, and been to various cities in Mexico, Canada, China, and of course Thailand. With an interest and degrees in Environmental Science, Anna hopes to experience all the beauty and wonder our world has to offer while understanding that there is a delicate balance it also sits on. She used to reside in the San Francisco Bay Area until she decided to follow her gut and just go! Her travels to Australia begin early February. Watch for her biweekly postings at Go Girl starting February 2010 or catch up with her at http://annafrankel.wordpress.com.

Admittedly a bit green when it comes to travel, Wendy is ready to change that in a big way. Only dabbling in exploration in her life so far, visiting Italy, Mexico, St. Lucia, and everywhere up and down the East Coast, she and her husband are planning the ultimate American Road Trip. Starting in early 2010, they will camp and drive cross-country to the West Coast, working their way from New Mexico to Washington State and everywhere in between. Join them on this year-long journey as they make mistakes, work on organic farms, meet different people, experience things for the first time, and learn about themselves. All with 2 dogs in tow!

Read more about our other Go Girl writers by visiting our Contributors page.

Thanks for reading!

The Team at Go Girl

Gaudi's Barcelona

2010-01-27T17:04:00.004-05:00

By Megan

My first visit to Barcelona was only a few short days, but Gaudí’s work inspired me so much that it pulled me back to the city to live amidst its wonder four years later. Today, I’m going to tour Barcelona through the eyes of three of Antoni Gaudí’s masterworks. And I refuse to apologize for all of the wonderful photos I was forced by sheer necessity to include.

1. PARC GÜELL
- The park was originally designed as a private, exclusive community and boasted access to fresh air. The architecture of the space encourages exploration and imagination with colored tiles accenting curves and supporting beams designed to look like palm trees. The entire community (that includes only two homes, neither designed by Gaudi) is set on a hillside overlooking the city, so as you stand in the whimsical central plaza you can see the mountains rise up behind you and the water beyond the city. The central plaza is lined with benches that curve like a slithering snake around the primeter of the plaza that is set upon a platform. These curves create private spaces even though they are open to the public and they are covered in the colorful tiles for which Gaudí is famous. Street performers try to grab your attention, while “artisans” hawk their jewelry and trinkets, yet you still cannot help feeling that the sun-warmed cement space where you sit and gather your thought belongs to anyone but you, even if only for a moment.

If you go and visit, be ready for tourists. Prepare yourself to look around the mass of people and mentally push aside the nearly constant camera flashes. It does not cost anything to walk around the park, but admission is charged to enter the two buildings (one of which Gaudí lived in) on the property. Tip: Walk up the hill side on on the side path and sit underneath the cross, Gaudí’s holiest spot in the park, and enjoy views of the Sagrada Familia, the very masculine looking Torre Agbar, and Montjüic.

2. LA SAGRADA FAMILIA
- This massive church has been under construction since 1882 and will take at least 16 more years to finish. Gaudí devoted over 50 years of his life working on this project and spent his last twelve years living inside of the building, sleeping there overnight. The entire structure is dripping with religious symbolism from the 18 towers representing apostles, evangelists, the Virgin Mary, and Jesus Christ as the tallest tower. There are three facades depicting the Nativity, the Glory (yet to be finished), and the Passion.
Something else that I absolutely love about this structure are the playful geometric details, that were supposed to reflect natural elements, included as part of the physical structure of the building, the furniture for the space, and in the decoration that covers the structure. It’s nearly impossible to imagine the detail that went into this project unless you visit for yourself. Tip: GO INSIDE. Get an audio tour and learn more about the project. It’s worth the euros.

3. CASA MILÀ aka LA PEDRERA
- This building is located very near the center of the city and sticks out like a zebra-striped piggy bank on a Christmas day parade. You cannot help but notice the unique outer structure of the work when you walk down the Passeig de Grácia (the ‘Funny’ Street, in English). It has a similar curve as that of the benches in Parc Güell, but it is five stories tall and is still used as a residential facility. You can walk into the building and wonder at the colors used in the atrium, and then head up into the first floor to view some of the architectural details on display along with free art displays.

This is another place where the cost is worth the tour. GO ON THE TOUR! Your ticket will grant you access to one of the apartments, still decorated with furniture designed by Gaudí. Check out the unique handles on the doors and don’t forget to look up. When you take the elevator to the roof, you might imagine that you are in some sort of skate boarders dream/nightmare, as the roof curves and drops in an almost unimaginable fashion. Then enjoy in exhibit indoors of Gaudí’s furniture and designs.

4. LAMPOSTS AND SIDEWALKS
- Okay, I know I said three, but I cannot help but mention the designs in the pavement on Passeig de Grácia and the lamposts in Plaça Reial, Gaudí’s first project in Barcelona. Keep your eyes peeled while in the city because his work and inspiration are everywhere.

(Photos by Me, Ana Aebi (Mom!), and Amy John)

35,000 Dobras

2010-01-26T00:44:00.005-05:00

By Beth

“35,000 dobras????” Kilson looks at me in disgust. “Can you believe that?”

I'm out getting beers with Kilson and his cousin and they are in absolute shock over the check. The beers at this restaurant in the small oceanside city of Pantufo, in São Tomé, are almost three times the cost of other areas- they ring up for 35,000 dobras each, or a whopping $2.50. I smile, saying nothing. It's not that things are always much cheaper here- they aren't always. But they are most of the time. In the USA where prices are stacked higher and higher in order to benefit the many people who work within the production chain, here in São Tomé things are priced only slightly higher than the cost for which they are purchased or produced. There is little profit. I noticed that when I was living in Portugal, too- you could buy a loaf of bread there for less than 0.50 EUR, when loaves of bread in the USA are $2 or $3 at the very least. But here the prices are even lower.

Well, like, I said, most of the time.

I learned the hard way to bring more clothes- especially clothes for going out- the next time I come back to São Tomé. A simple cotton dress, one of those light summery pieces with little flavor or design that you can pick up at any K-Mart for less than $10, retail here for about 400,000 dobras, or $26. And those are the cheapest dresses I could find.

: Imported African wax print, 30,000 Dobras, or $2, per meter

If you want something that actually looks nice, Kilson's mom owns a store in town. The dresses there, something I could pick up at TJ Maxx for $20, cost about 2 million dobras, or $125. Something so shocking I now understand why so many of the poorer women in town wear pieces of fabric tied around their waist- because it's so expensive to do anything else!

You can buy a cerveja nacional, or the locally produced beer, for 10,000 dobras, or about $0.70. For 10,000 dobras you can also buy:

A taxi ride anywhere in the city, provided you don't mind sharing with a car-full of people, which is how they do it here.

A patching on your motorcycle tire and filling of air, which I learned the hard way- but if you're with Kilson, because he knows everyone in town, that's free.

Two cinnamon bun-type pastries at the local padaria

Ten pieces of chewing gum or five lollipops (that are equivalent to Blow-Pops, with gum in the center)
A one-scoop ice cream cone (though let me tell you, the ice cream culture here is depressing)

: Palm wine I think we spent about 25,000 Dobras on for a three-gallon jug

For 30,000 dobras, or about $2.10, you can get order a conch appetizer at a restaurant, or about eight small espetadas (shish kabobs). You can successfully eat a filling dinner at a restaurant, consisting of two cervejas nacionais, an appetizer, two entrees and two coffees for about 180,000 dobras, for $12.
Which is why Kilson almost shrieked with delight when, on my last night here, I was paid for teaching the English classes that I thought I was doing for free, leaving us with about 400,000 dobras to spend in one night (because who cares about saving, really?). “We can do ANYTHING,” he said to me with a smile. That night we ate like kings.

The People Working - AND LIVING - in and Around Angkor Wat

2010-01-23T00:43:00.002-05:00

By Lillie
Catch more of her adventures at http://www.aroundtheworldl.com/
His tiny form flitted past the hole in the stone wall so fast I thought he might be a forest spirit. But then there he was again: sparkling eyes, tiny body in a grubby orange shirt, barefoot... He disappeared again, and I was ten minutes further into the thick jungle path to the next temple when he materialized right beside me.

"Hello lady!" he said with a smile. "This used to be the Grand Palace, almost a thousand years ago. See those big and small pools over there?" I looked, seeing glistening water through the sunlit green foliage. "Big pool for woman, small pool for man. You know why?" I didn't. "One king, many concubines!"
The boy continued his informative chatter by my waist for the next three jungle temples, and to tell the truth I could use the company, as these sites, though extremely famous, were eerily deserted at this time of day. But I suppose I knew the inevitable would come soon enough.
"Do you live here?" I asked, gesturing to the tangled expanse. "Yes, I have no mother and father, so I live with the monks here," he said. "In the afternoons I go to school and learn Khymer, English and Thai." Indeed, his English was excellent.

I neared my meeting point with Sopheak, and so I turned to wish the little one well. When he realized I was leaving, his eyes turned suddenly dead.
"Give me some money for school," he said so quietly and robotically that I could barely hear.

"I'm sorry, but I don't give anyone money at the temples," I said truthfully. Much has been written about how young children are being pulled out of school across Cambodia to shill trinkets to tourists, and to beg for money-- all of which goes right back in the pockets of the unscrupulous adults.

"Give me some money. Just one dollar," the tiny boy intoned, holding out his hands. The dark jungle framed his body, and the incense from the nearby shrine wafted past us.
"Just a dollar. Give me money," he began chanting over and over, following me slower and slower until I reached the road. I could still hear his voice as I climbed into the tuk-tuk. By now, ten more children had surrounded the car, holding out scarves, postcards, flutes.
Every visitor who has been to Angkor Wat will remark on the intensity of the selling and begging. The moment your tuk-tuk or motorcycle pulls up, a hoard of young Cambodians will sprint up, screaming any and every combination of the following: "LADY! You come here, lady! Where you from? I give you good price. Scarf? For your mother? Nice cold drink? Batteries for your camera? Guidebook to Angkor Wat? You buy, you buy from me, okay? Maybe come back later, okay?"

Every visitor has different reactions-- all difficult. If you buy from her, are you supporting an unethical adult? If you buy from him, what happens to the forty children behind him that you don't buy from? The most common and consistent solution is to hold off on giving any money to these children, and rather make a larger donation to a reputable Cambodian organization.
Meeting this little boy, however, I became intensely curious about just who is living in and around Angkor Wat, and where. We know, since it is a working temple with many active shrines, that there are monks here. We also know from the boy that these monks have some orphans in their care.

I asked Sopheak, gesturing to the hundreds of rickety vendor stalls along the temple roads, "Do these people also sleep in the temple grounds?" "Oh no," he replied, "Police don't allow. They pay off police so they can sell here, maybe five dollar a month. But to live they have a village right outside."
I nodded. However, as the day wore on, I began to spot small tents and hammocks hidden in the jungle right behind the more obscure temples. "Are you sure people don't live here?" I asked Sopheak again. "Well," he said, "Sometimes, yes."
Imagine arising in your tattered tent, right under the eighth wonder of the world!

The Angkor Wat complex of temples stretches for miles upon miles, and in between there are villages. Sopheak and I drove nearly an hour straight each way today, and the villages we passed were as beautiful and fascinating as the temples. First, there were the stunningly green rice paddies, shimmering wetly, smattered with water buffalo, rice workers, and tiny children.

Then there were vendor stalls lining the road. So many stalls! Could they possibly sell more than two items a day with all that competition? While they waited the interminable hours for a customer to stop, the families cuddled together under palm roofs, playing with each others' hair and cooking smoky food. Slick naked bodies peeked out of the brown rivers we passed, and half-clothed men worked on engines. Whole families crowded onto mopeds and zoomed by us, the fourth child in the pile sometimes waving with glee.

And the mines. Cambodia is one of the most heavily landmined countries in the world, and thus you must never stray off a beaten path. Sure enough, six jungle patches we passed displayed signs: "Landmine field cleared by Japanese Armed Forces". We saw many group homes for people who had lost limbs in the explosions, signs saying they were funded by German or American organizations. Musical groups formed of amputees grace the paths of many temples.

Of course, not all the Cambodians in and around Angkor Wat are there to sell to tourists! Angkor Wat provides free entrance to any Cambodian national, and thus at least ten percent of the awe-struck temple viewers are from the land itself.
Today we passed a small Cambodian family climbing off their moped, laying out a blanket by the Angkor Wat lakeside, and diving into a rollicking picnic lunch. Beautiful!
"Hey honey, where should we take the kids to eat today?"
"How about in front of the biggest temple in the world?"
"Sounds good to me."

Traveler's Advocacy

2010-01-22T00:42:00.005-05:00

By Erica

As some of you may have discovered after reading my bio, I've been traveling for most of my life. I've been through it all: trips with lost luggage, trips with terrible weather, trips with language barriers, trips where I got massively lost, and trips with grossly incompetent companies. There are enough horror stories out there to scare even the bravest of new adventurers, so I'll keep mine to a minimum, but it occurred to me that something that many guidebooks lack is a section on Traveler's Advocacy.
No, it's not a magical organization designed to assist travelers in negotiating reasonable room prices or provide free translation services. Simply put, it's a kind of mindset you grow as you become more experienced with travel- a combination of spine and intuition that allows you to know, among other things, when to hold 'em, when to fold 'em, and when to show 'em what you're made of. It's not something that's easily taught, because each person advocates for hirself differently, but there are general guidelines that are applicable to each person's experiences as they globetrot.

The first guideline I'd suggest is work on walking that fine line between nice and spineless. Often when we travel, it's easy to become overwhelmed by the complex array of transportation systems, busy people, and (possibly) strange locales. Add weather complications to the mix, and you've got a perfect recipe for chaos. If traveling between Point A (where you are) and Point B (where you want to be) is so important, it's worth the time and energy to swallow some of your frustration and confusion and be nice to the people who are supposed to facilitate your travel. Being a jerk, which seems to work for some people, only gets most of us to Point C (out on the curb on your ass) and makes the travel employees less pleasant for others to deal with. At the same time, however, it's also worth it to have a spine and advocate for your place in transit. Case in point: when I was stuck in Atlanta for 30 hours, it was because Delta insisted that it needed to board its red carpet customers first. The only reason I ever got put on a flight was because one of the employees recognized me from his earlier shift, 24 hours prior. After 15 hours, with flights running on schedule, it would have been more than reasonable for me to be a little firmer about getting on a plane.

The second guideline I'd suggest is to brush up on your pantomime, or let go of any performance anxiety you might have. If you're in a country where you don't speak the language, you're going to do a lot of dancing around and waving your arms. Alternatively, you can do what my partner did and use Google translate to write notecards in the host language before you leave that have critical phrases such as "I don't speak ______" on them. Regardless, whichever you use, be patient: sign language isn't universal, and it may take a while before you and the person you want to communicate with to settle on the meaning of your gestures. It's worth knowing, too, that in some parts of the world people will use their social networks to translate your madness. On Okinawa, for example, Nick and I failed at pantomime in a little shop and were amazed when the shop owner decided to call her friend, who spoke a tiny amount of English, to translate for us over the phone. Between the friend and the pantomime, it all worked out, and the three of us laughed about it over a cup of tea in the back of her store afterwards.

The third guideline I'm going to pass along, which is less amusing, is to know how to keep yourself (and, if you have any, your stuff) safe wherever you're going. One of my friends told me a story about traveling in Italy, in which his hotel room was burglarized and his replacement stuff was stolen out of his rental car two days later while parked in a friend's driveway. This kind of awareness, about keeping yourself safe, isn't just about knowing where to hide your things, what neighbourhoods to avoid, or having a black belt. It's also about knowing the local resources- laws, police, informal networks- that can support you in case something DOES happen. For my friend, that meant going inside to explain to his friend what had happened; 20 minutes after his friend called some of the neighbours, all of the stuff was returned to his car. Sometimes knowing these resources isn't easy to accomplish in advance, in which case I suggest seeking out other, more experienced travelers or recommended hotel/restaurant/museum guides to offer advice.

Above all, enjoy the adventures and roll with the punches. You're never going to be completely in control of any travel experience, so keep a good sense of humour when things go awry, for as long as you can. Just be ready to put some of that Traveler's Advocacy into practice when you reach an impasse.

Beginnings and Endings

2010-01-21T00:41:00.003-05:00

by Lisa

My mission for the evening was simple: to watch football.

You see, it was a Thursday night. It was also opening day of the 2004-2005 football season, and that night's game was a match-up I was really looking forward to: Tom Brady of my beloved Patriots was facing Peyton Manning and the Colts. But there was a problem. I wasn't in Boston. I was in Springdale, Utah, just south of Zion National Park, and my lodgings for the night were a bare bones private campground. My tent doesn't have a television.

I asked around, stopping here and there (hotels, outfitters, souvenir shops) along the main road to ask where I might watch the game, and preferably drink some beer and eat dinner while I was at it. The consensus was clear.

So, shortly before game time, I strolled in to the Bit 'N' Spur, a Mexican restaurant a short way down the road from my campsite, and settled myself on a bar stool. The (ruggedly adorable) bartender kindly agreed to put the game on one of the televisions, I ordered a drink and some dinner, and dug in to watch the game.

A little while later, an older couple took the stools to my left. The gentleman heard me zealously rooting for my team, and asked me if I was a Pats fan. He asked if I was from Boston. I said yes to both, and introduced myself. We got to talking.

I explained that I was on a cross country road trip to celebrate graduating from law school and surviving the bar exam before starting my legal career. He was a just-retired District Attorney from San Diego, on a cross country road trip with his wife, celebrating the end of his legal career. We got along famously.

His wife, upon hearing that I was traveling solo, immediately asked, "Isn't your mother worried?" Yes, probably. "Aren't you scared out here on your own?" No, not at all. She told me that she'd chew her fingernails off with worry if her twenty-six year-old daughter took off on a trip alone. I assured her that it's not that bad, particularly if you pay attention and don't take unnecessary risks.

Her husband jumped back in. He didn't want to talk about my trip, he wanted to talk about the law.

Where was I going to practice? Did I have a specialty? Where did I go to school?

A few hours later, the game was over (27-24 Pats, thank you very much). The couple got up from their stools.

"It was a pleasure to meet you," he said, shaking my hand, "and I wish you congratulations on success in law school, and a long and fruitful legal career."

I thanked him. "Maybe I'll start planning my own retirement road trip," I teased, "since it seems to be working out so well for you."

She shook my hand too. "Good luck, and call your mother. As often as possible. And tell her another mother is worrying about you too."

We said goodnight. I settled my bill, and returned to my campground.

Mission accomplished, with a little career encouragement thrown in. A good night, indeed.

Vienna Art

2010-01-20T00:40:00.002-05:00

By Megan

The train took two hours longer than expected and really would not have been that bad if we understood what was going on. And maybe it would have been nice if we had remembered to bring snacks other than our 'Orbit' gum. But honestly, I did not care a bit that we were drenched in sweat and sleepy, because our train for Wien (Vienna) and I was ready for regal beauty in Mozart's old stomping grounds.

Our first morning in the city- after a night of freak hail storms- was spent in the traditional Viennese style; at brunch. It was a simple meal with to die for coffee, that was nestled in an adorable vine-covered courtyard. Young families passed babies off to friends, and older couple read bits of the local paper aloud to each other.

: A night at the museum

For some unknown reason, this had become the city of museum visits extraordinaire for me: I had been to the Prado, enjoyed the best in the mid-west (thank you, Chicago), and fell for Paris. Wien had become my museum mecca. I was on a mission to find the Klimt mother load and I was not going to leave the city disappointed.

Step 1: The Leopold Museum, post-brunch. The building itself was imposing, let alone their collection. Room after room was filled with stunning works and tourists from all over the world. But alas, there were fewer Klimt works than I had been lead to believe. After the amazing beauty we enjoyed indoors, we took in the sunshine outdoors in the garden, and tried not to be too mischievous.

: Outside of the Albertina Palais Museum

We both wanted to visit the opera or potentially the Vienna Boys Choir, but decided that our shabby-chic looks would not quite make the cut, so I instead inquired about common past times in Wien for early June and found out that swimming in the river was quite popular. So off to the 'beach' we went, bathing suit already on. The train let us off right near a bank of the river and did not take me long to jump into the river with my travel buddy looking on. As I swam in the water with the other older gentlemen, I realized where I was-- I was SWIMMING in the Strauss' BLUE DANUBE! I dried in the sun and thought that my music teachers would be proud.

Step 2: The Albertina Palais Museum. While my travel partner rested, I went to the Albertina which was beautifully situated in the center of town. I also remembered enjoying the reduced ticket price for students and the pistachio/nutella gelato I had as a snack. No Klimts in sight.

: A dip in the Danube

Step 3: The Belvedere Palace. Finally, I got to see some of Gustav Klimt's expressive works and they did not let me down. I must have spent 15 minutes enjoying each piece the museum featured until we were both so exhausted that we needed another ice cream, just to keep on going.

Our time in UpEurope was coming to an end, and we were heading back home to Barcelona. I was even excited to take my exams and finish my time at the university. Come on paper writing- give me your worst! Barcelona even smelled better, but I still long for swims in Wien, long walks in Prague, and rhinos in Berlin.

Boleia!

2010-01-19T00:39:00.002-05:00

By Beth

“Boleia!” the men shout to me from the sides of the road as I whiz by on my blue Suzuki motorcycle. This is how you flag down a ride when you see a motorcycle taxi go by in São Tomé. But directed to me it is more of a joke, of course- there are no female motorcycle taxi drivers, and certainly no white ones. It makes me smile because the São Tomeans play with me the way an aunt or uncle or cousin would- lightly making fun that, in some ways, makes you feel more at home.

Dany taught me how to ride a motorcycle so that I didn't have to depend on him for rides into town. As someone who never knew

: My lovely mota, sans me, because I was uh...the one taking the picture

how to drive a car with a manual transmission, learning to ride a motorcycle took me a minute. I still have trouble starting it sometimes and shifting into first without stalling (for this reason I used to abhor four-way stops, but am slowly getting better at them), especially with someone riding behind me, since they add more weight. But the feeling of being on a motorcycle is freeing. My thighs tighten their grip on the motorcycle's body as if I were riding a horse. I lean forward, turn up the gas, passing palm trees and people selling coconuts and oceans and sand. I love my mota and it serves me well.

Like learning to ride my mota, it also took me a minute to get used to the stares. No one means harm by them, but coming from a place like the USA where people will get into fights with other people that look at them, it's strange to move from invisible to famous. But the worst thing you can do is turn in. In a strange way, São Tomé very much nurtures individuality. You learn to be like, “yup, I'm a white woman, and I ride a motorcycle, and what of it?” Kids pass and they call to me. “Amiga!” They yell. “Branca!” Friend. White woman. Men do the same, or they hiss.

But you don't ignore them. You look at them right in the eye. You say, “Hey there, good afternoon! How are you?” You smile, laugh. You are comfortable with who you are. And they, in turn, are comfortable with you too. You are a part of this community whether you like it or not.

My boyfriend, Kilson, greets every single person he sees. Everyone knows him. He might walk into a room with fifteen people and if ten of them are people he vaguely knows, he will walk around shaking the hand or kissing the cheek of every single one, then introduce himself to the people he does not know yet. Sometimes I think he is a local celebrity. He does not demand respect from people. He gives it out with graceful ease; and, in this way, it comes back to him tenfold.

Like my motorcycle weakness is shifting into first, Kilson's driving weakness is speed bumps. But he doesn't know how to drive a motorcycle, and he's not afraid to admit that he's scared of them. He gives me his baseball cap and sunglasses and I give him my helmet. We're in the middle of the city and he hops on the motorcycle behind me, wearing the helmet, even though 99% of the time it's the driver that wears the helmet in this culture. But then again, 99% of the time it's the man that drives, too. He is a muscular black man hopping onto the back of a white woman's motorcycle, and he's wearing a helmet, and what of it, because he's Kilson and everyone knows him and he is comfortable with himself and because of this he can do absolutely whatever he wants.

Get Yourself a Girlfriend, or Two (Part 2)!

2010-01-17T00:38:00.002-05:00

By AJ

Last month, I focused on the parts of male culture that I saw in South Africa that promoted infidelity and having multiple girlfriends, or cherries (http://letsgogirl.wordpress.com/2009/12/27/get-yourself-a-girlfriend-or-two/). There is more to the story though. The pressure doesn't just come from other guys, but from some girls too.

Now most women who have traveled abroad will probably have experienced some of the unwanted attention that is a result of a healthy patriarchy. If you are unfamiliar with this, see: (http://letsgogirl.wordpress.com/2009/11/15/shes-with-me/). One of the reasons this kind of behavior is so alive and well is because a lot of women play into it. The few that don't are mavericks like Mpho (http://letsgogirl.wordpress.com/2009/10/11/starting-the-conversation/). But there is a story you may not often hear, and that is of the unexpected attention that men sometimes get when traveling abroad.

“Un”wanted Attention
I'd been at my site for almost two months and I was finally beginning to put names to faces. I had almost all the teachers down but was lost with the 500+ kids at the high school. Only a few stood out, like Mofokeng, who taught me to herd goats after school, Thabiso, who spoke great English and was teaching me seTswana, and Patience, whose powerful voice led the entire school in song at each morning assembly. She was a senior and a pretty girl. Each day after school as I walked home, I'd pass her and her group of friends as they chatted. Patience would always greet me with a big smile. One day, she called me over to chat.

“KB, when are you going to make us dinner.” (KB was my nickname)
“I think there's a misunderstanding. I'm not making any dinner.”
“Can we come over to visit you then?”
“Umm, I guess so, everyone here knows where I live.”
“Can I spend the night?”
“No no no no...and in fact, maybe you shouldn't come over...”

I hastily beat a retreat down the dusty road. This was not the first nor the last time I'd turn down such propositions and flirtations.

One instance was more subtle, but far more troubling. Lerato was a relative of my host family and often came over to help with errands and take care of the babies. She was one of my early allies as I struggled to master seTswana. She'd often help translate what people were saying in broken English. One day as we were baby-sitting the two year old Tlotlo, I tried to teach her “Rock, Paper, Scissors.” After a few minutes she gave up and insisted on showing me a game. She held out her right hand in a fist. She wiggled her thumb, and told me to raise it. Then she wiggled her index finger. Then her thumb again, this time indicating to put it down. And finally she wiggled her index finger again. As I looked to ask what was next in this game, she gave me a big smile and I looked down again at her hand. “Oh shit...” I thought to myself. The hand gesture, which some of you may know as sign language for “t”, in South Africa is one of many ways to subtly say, “I want to have sex with you.” I looked at Lerato with terror in my eyes and shook my head to try to erase any mixed signals I may have unintentionally sent. It's not that I'm terrified of girls, just that Lerato was 14 at the time.

Unfamiliar territory
From what I've seen, in the world of guys, unless you happen to be a Brad Pitt look alike or the star quarterback, it's unlikely that you'll find girls aggressively hitting on you. Flirting is an entirely different matter, but most of us are not used to having a girl directly communicate that they want us. The onus is on the guy to make the first move in general. When an American guy is then placed into this unfamiliar circumstance where he might have to actually bat away girls, there are many problems that can arise. Quite honestly, it feels kind of nice for a change and it can be very tempting for a guy alone in a foreign place. Some lucky ones find meaningful relationships but unfortunately, in most cases, I think the American guy is viewed as an economic rather than an emotional investment.
In places where male promiscuity is boasted about, it's often the case that female virginity and fidelity are highly prized. This asymmetry shouldn't be mistaken for practice. If every guy has multiple sexual partners, it's highly unlikely that all the women are sticking to one guy. When I started my service I was in a long distance relationship. I thought that the answer that I had a girlfriend would be enough to end the discussion. I was taken aback when some girls responded with, “But she is so far away. You need a girlfriend here.” Another volunteer working in the health sector was told by people in his organization that he should knock up some local girls in order to “leave a remembrance” of himself for them. Perhaps, as I discussed previously, there should be some kind of menist movement, but the feminist movement still has plenty of work out there globally and more men we get behind it rather than obstructing it, the better.

Shades of Grey
Like so many other issues, the issue of male promiscuity can't be pinned down to one thing alone. Sometimes there is pressure from both men AND women for guys to be promiscuous. It's not an excuse. But it's something to think about before demonizing men. Lots of the married male teachers I knew and worked with had stuff going on with women in the village, some even with students. In some cases, I already didn't get along with them for other reasons and this just added fuel to the fire. In some cases though, it was a tortuous relationship because I knew some of these guys were good people and good teachers but that under a very heavy societal and physical pressure they had made a few choices that were not the best.

When traveling or working abroad, you will occasionally find the guys that are true free thinkers that swim against the patriarchy like the friend I described in my last column. More often, you will find guys that are doing some things that clash with your sensibilities. Some may be jerks that you want nothing to do with. Others though, may actually be decent people that could be quite helpful. It's not easy to tell sometimes but it's worth the effort to find out.

Angkor Wat by Sunrise

2010-01-16T00:37:00.003-05:00

By Lillie
Catch more of her adventures at http://www.aroundtheworldl.com/
At four thirty am, my cellphone alarm exploded me awake in my ridiculous supply attic room (pictured left-- no joke).

Was a torrential lightning storm going to foil my plans like yesterday morning? There are no windows in my supply attic room, so I padlocked the door and barefooted down to the second floor to peer out the grated balcony. Clear! Dark! This meant ten minutes to throw on clothes and meet Sopheak at his tuk-tuk downstairs. Woo hoo!

We hit the road fast, joining a parade of tuk-tuks, bicycles, minibuses, and maxi-buses, all headed for the same glorious destination: Angkor Wat, the biggest temple in the world, at sunrise.
Twenty minutes later, we squealed into the packed, muddy parking area as the first glimmers of sun wavered though. "Run that way!" Sopheak urged in his soft, sweet voice, pointing to the beautiful line of humanity streaming through the gate. "I meet you at the big tree there in two hours!"
Through the giant stone gates I ran, clutching my camera, and easing past Japanese tourists of all ages. A massive stone walkway rolled out beyond the gates, and at the end, the most delicious peaks of architecture pointed up to the dawn sky: Angkor Wat! It's you! Hello! You're gorgeous!!

At first I got confused and ran right in the looming temple itself, but soon realized that the inside the pitch black masterpiece was a dumb location to watch the sunrise. Out again I sprinted, and made straight for the hundreds of enraptured people clustered by the side of the lily-pad kissed lake.

For the next hour and a half, we were awe-struck paparazzi. Each inch more of sun brought fresh gasps of delight and sparkles of flashbulbs. "Ooh yes, that angle there," you could almost hear the Japanese grandfather cooing as he adjusted his giant tripod. "Stunning, honey, stunning-- now just a little more in the light so I can see that graceful curve..." Everyone passed around their cameras to everyone else to take different permutations with and by strangers. Everyone became less strangers and more family, united in the cause of timeless, centuries-old wonder.

Cambodian children and adults milled around the crowd, selling coffee, water, and books. I snapped a photo of a man wearing an Angkor Beer shirt in front of Angkor Wat itself and chuckled. Indeed, one can see from the fact that Cambodians name and shape everything from their beer to their border gate like Angkor Wat that the temple is the absolute pride and joy of their country. The Lonely Plant Guide emphasizes that it was to this heavenly, distant past, that Cambodians clung when Pol Pot was massacring their countrymen and women.

After the sun was fully glowing above the temple, we all began to flow inside. One can basically climb over and up nearly any part of Cambodian temples, and often I would look up in shock to find a tourist way out on an overhang.
The inside of Angkor Wat is breathtaking, boasting ornate carvings on every surface, painstaking sculpture work, and columns, halls, stairs, and turrets to make Cinderella drool.

And yet-- that wasn't even the end. From 7:30 am until one in the afternoon, Sopheak took me and my English lady friends to about fourteen other temples in the "small circuit" of the hundred temple complex. Tomorrow we go back for the "Big Circuit", and the day after to the far-off sections. WOW.
Truly, Ankor Wat deserves its title as the Eighth Wonder of the World!

Silver and Bones

2010-01-13T00:37:00.001-05:00

By Megan

I don't know how we figured out the ticket situation at the bus station in Prague, but we ended up on the right bus towards Kutná Hora... without seats. So my new friend and I sat on the floor and talked like old friends about music, travel and food. Feet numb from the two hour ride, we made our way to the Sedlec Ossuary, ie. the bone church, after grabbing a quick lunch.
I knew that it would be interesting to visit the church where an estimated 40,000 to 70,000 human remains had been artistically arranged in piles, chandeliers and wall decorations, but I honestly thought it would be more creepy than it was. To be honest, it was devoid of any energy or emotion. The Ossuary was creepy because of the sterility of the space and besides, it was really difficult to believe that 40,000+ human remains were stacked around us.
We hiked back into the city center to visit with St. Barbara's gothic church; St. Barbara is the patron saint of miners, apt for this town established on the discovery of silver. Construction began in 1388, but was not complete until the 1905 (reminds me a bit of a certain Catalan structure, cough Gaudi, cough Sagrada Familia). The double arched flying buttresses were stunning (flash backs to that middle school architecture class, thank you Mrs. Crumm).
We had a few more hours to kill before the bus picked us up, and as it just so happened, an English language tour of the silver mine was just picking up. So we joined a group of students traveling with their college professor and donned a plastic helmet and cloth coat. Playing with our head lamps, we listened hard to decipher our wonderful guide. She told us that the mine was of 14th century origin and that we would only be on level 1 of 10-12 stories of the mine. I could hardly keep from laughing when our guide warned us that the tunnel would begin to get much smaller and then we nearly had to crouch through the tiny tunnel- the helmet came in very handy. She also had all of us turn off our headlamps to simulate what light would have looked like for a minor in the 14-16th century and it was barely enough to see your hand in front of your face. Yikes!
We casually caught the bus back to the city after the tour to find my travel partner waiting for me at Sir Toby's. The day ended with a good meal and lots of conversation about our day. The last leg of our trip, Vienna, loomed just in front of us and we were starting to miss Barcelona.