#40 THE MOST DANGEROUS WALK IN THE WORLD by Val Vassay
I was worried about walking El Caminito del Rey (the King’s Little Walkway), in the mountains about 60 kilometres inland from Malaga. Before being closed for renovations in 2000 it had been a very dangerous walk, as this narrow, concrete path stapled onto the cliffs above the Guadalhorce River had fallen into disrepair and was full of holes and had never had any safety measures! I needn’t have worried. Now it’s a beautiful wooden walkway, with glass safety walls all along it and nothing to fear – well, except for the chunks of cliff that fall off occasionally!
I was worried about walking El Caminito del Rey (the King’s Little Walkway), in the mountains about 60 kilometres inland from Malaga. Before being closed for renovations in 2000 it had been a very dangerous walk, as this narrow, concrete path stapled onto the cliffs above the Guadalhorce River had fallen into disrepair and was full of holes and had never had any safety measures! I needn’t have worried. Now it’s a beautiful wooden walkway, with glass safety walls all along it and nothing to fear – well, except for the chunks of cliff that fall off occasionally!
#39 THE MAGIC OF THE ISLES by Val Vassay
Vast expanses of sky; white sandy beaches miles long; thousands of lochs; crystal clear, unpolluted seas. Where are we? Oh yes, of course, we’re in the Outer Hebrides – my spiritual home, the islands I’ve been in love with ever since my uncle came to work here 50 years ago. And, just to make the magical even more magical, on this visit I’m accompanied by my wonderful younger son, Luke. Surely this must be heaven on earth?
Vast expanses of sky; white sandy beaches miles long; thousands of lochs; crystal clear, unpolluted seas. Where are we? Oh yes, of course, we’re in the Outer Hebrides – my spiritual home, the islands I’ve been in love with ever since my uncle came to work here 50 years ago. And, just to make the magical even more magical, on this visit I’m accompanied by my wonderful younger son, Luke. Surely this must be heaven on earth?
#38 He Llegado - I have arrived by Patricia Steele
When I placed my foot onto Spanish soil in Madrid, I felt its magic. Bliss. Wispy clouds hung in a bright-blue sky as reality pushed my mind into overdrive. My España Aventura (Spanish adventure) had begun. When travelers moved like a gaggle of geese, I followed. Several concourses, four escalators, two trains and moving walkways. And then a shuttle across the tarmac to the waiting Iberia Express. On the plane and breathless to get to Malaga, I smiled. Airline attendants’ dresses were the color of the Spanish flag. Excellent.
When I placed my foot onto Spanish soil in Madrid, I felt its magic. Bliss. Wispy clouds hung in a bright-blue sky as reality pushed my mind into overdrive. My España Aventura (Spanish adventure) had begun. When travelers moved like a gaggle of geese, I followed. Several concourses, four escalators, two trains and moving walkways. And then a shuttle across the tarmac to the waiting Iberia Express. On the plane and breathless to get to Malaga, I smiled. Airline attendants’ dresses were the color of the Spanish flag. Excellent.
#37 Pablo by Vernon Lacey
Where was the stranger taking me? We were on a remote part of the Collserola hills. I glanced backwards. Barcelona below me in the dusk. A fantasy of twinkling lights. The vast arc of inky sea.
Ahead of me a lone figure. Pablo, leading. Arid grass crunching. On past prickly pears - cladodes the size of elephant ears.
‘Come and meet my family,’ he’d said, approaching me in the Sarrià neighbourhood where I lived.
I followed, trusting.
We arrived.
His gypsy home in the woods. Plastic sheets. Timber frame. His family. Half a dozen eyes.
Waiting.
Where was the stranger taking me? We were on a remote part of the Collserola hills. I glanced backwards. Barcelona below me in the dusk. A fantasy of twinkling lights. The vast arc of inky sea.
Ahead of me a lone figure. Pablo, leading. Arid grass crunching. On past prickly pears - cladodes the size of elephant ears.
‘Come and meet my family,’ he’d said, approaching me in the Sarrià neighbourhood where I lived.
I followed, trusting.
We arrived.
His gypsy home in the woods. Plastic sheets. Timber frame. His family. Half a dozen eyes.
Waiting.
#36 Standing in the Sky by Robyn Boswell
June 2001. I fell in love with New York City.
We stood in the sky, looking down on rooftops of the concrete and glass canyons far below. A few minutes before they had towered over us.
Thousands of taxis, reduced to toy cars now, threaded the streets like endless yellow veins, carrying the lifeblood of the city.
My diary says ‘Amazing security to get into the tower.’
June 2002, nine months from the never to be forgotten day, back to the city that never sleeps.
There was no sky to stand in, only a deep, empty hole, devoid of life.
June 2001. I fell in love with New York City.
We stood in the sky, looking down on rooftops of the concrete and glass canyons far below. A few minutes before they had towered over us.
Thousands of taxis, reduced to toy cars now, threaded the streets like endless yellow veins, carrying the lifeblood of the city.
My diary says ‘Amazing security to get into the tower.’
June 2002, nine months from the never to be forgotten day, back to the city that never sleeps.
There was no sky to stand in, only a deep, empty hole, devoid of life.
#35 The Sea, the Sea, the Glorious Sea by Robyn Boswell
Four months living in Scotland, miles inland; suddenly we needed the sea. Despite it being mid-winter, we hitched a ride on a frosty morning. In a tiny fishing village on the coast, two women passed, reeking of fish, no doubt employed by the local fish factory. We came across a rocky, freezing beach. The fierce North Sea wind cut through us, howling out of a slate sky, grey waves tumbling on the shore. We were as far from our blue Pacific home as we could be. We stood there, inhaled the salt air and felt that we could breathe again.
Four months living in Scotland, miles inland; suddenly we needed the sea. Despite it being mid-winter, we hitched a ride on a frosty morning. In a tiny fishing village on the coast, two women passed, reeking of fish, no doubt employed by the local fish factory. We came across a rocky, freezing beach. The fierce North Sea wind cut through us, howling out of a slate sky, grey waves tumbling on the shore. We were as far from our blue Pacific home as we could be. We stood there, inhaled the salt air and felt that we could breathe again.
#34 Left Behind by Robyn Boswell
Who could resist the warm, crocodile-free river after a day's hiking in the searing Northern Territory sun? We wallowed by a small weir, watching families picnic along the bank.
The short waterfall by the weir, smoothed by centuries of tumbling water was too tempting. Three of us went first, crashing together in a laughing tumble of arms and legs.
Dad followed. He didn't take the smoothest route and he hit the bottom minus the seat of his shorts.
His ignominious walk through the park to the car where we left our towels is a family legend to this day.
Who could resist the warm, crocodile-free river after a day's hiking in the searing Northern Territory sun? We wallowed by a small weir, watching families picnic along the bank.
The short waterfall by the weir, smoothed by centuries of tumbling water was too tempting. Three of us went first, crashing together in a laughing tumble of arms and legs.
Dad followed. He didn't take the smoothest route and he hit the bottom minus the seat of his shorts.
His ignominious walk through the park to the car where we left our towels is a family legend to this day.
#33 OPTIONAL TOURS by Syd Blackwell
Our hotel in Torremolinos overlooks the beach. Tonight, most of our group opt for a tour to Mijas the “white village”, followed by seafood dinner along the beach. At 53 euros per person, we decline this opportunity and go shopping. Later we find an excellent Italian/Indian restaurant. Gundy eats Italian; I eat Indian. Both meals are delicious. The next day we decline the 57 euro optional excursion to Gibraltar. After breakfast, we catch a local bus to Mijas. We leisurely explore the twisting streets of the charming, delightful, white village, and return by local bus, for just 3 euros.
Our hotel in Torremolinos overlooks the beach. Tonight, most of our group opt for a tour to Mijas the “white village”, followed by seafood dinner along the beach. At 53 euros per person, we decline this opportunity and go shopping. Later we find an excellent Italian/Indian restaurant. Gundy eats Italian; I eat Indian. Both meals are delicious. The next day we decline the 57 euro optional excursion to Gibraltar. After breakfast, we catch a local bus to Mijas. We leisurely explore the twisting streets of the charming, delightful, white village, and return by local bus, for just 3 euros.
#32 THEY HAD WHISKY TASTING AT THE CASTLE TOO!! by Jill Stoking
Devon to Edinburgh by coach with an overnight stop in Leeds. An impulsive decision and a coach that… let’s just say you could choose your own seat. The hotel, opposite a distillery, had once been a hostel for homeless men, now revamped but an indefinable aroma lingered on. Best night was single malt night. The coach driver presided. He knew his whisky disturbingly well. New friend Patricia and I sampled too many and decided a late night walk through the seedier part of Edinburgh was a great idea. Through an underpass where homeless men slept in their new abode.
Devon to Edinburgh by coach with an overnight stop in Leeds. An impulsive decision and a coach that… let’s just say you could choose your own seat. The hotel, opposite a distillery, had once been a hostel for homeless men, now revamped but an indefinable aroma lingered on. Best night was single malt night. The coach driver presided. He knew his whisky disturbingly well. New friend Patricia and I sampled too many and decided a late night walk through the seedier part of Edinburgh was a great idea. Through an underpass where homeless men slept in their new abode.
#31 The Ferry Ride by Angie Clifford
“Hurry up Jon,” I shouted, disaster as I slipped, uneven paving! Yellow high wedge sandals, meant a sprained ankle, ouch! Wearing only a chiffon skirt and top, a summer’s day shopping in Jersey awaited maybe street cafes.
Our boat, bobbing sedately by the quay, only a few more meters and I was onboard. I sat upfront port side, soon Jon was by my side, and we were off. Amused: I saw, passengers wearing rucksacks, hiking boots and carrying walking sticks.
We dropped anchor by the island, not a shop in sight; seagulls, swallows and puffins; wrong boat, wrong time, gutted.
“Hurry up Jon,” I shouted, disaster as I slipped, uneven paving! Yellow high wedge sandals, meant a sprained ankle, ouch! Wearing only a chiffon skirt and top, a summer’s day shopping in Jersey awaited maybe street cafes.
Our boat, bobbing sedately by the quay, only a few more meters and I was onboard. I sat upfront port side, soon Jon was by my side, and we were off. Amused: I saw, passengers wearing rucksacks, hiking boots and carrying walking sticks.
We dropped anchor by the island, not a shop in sight; seagulls, swallows and puffins; wrong boat, wrong time, gutted.
#30 A Lancaster Sunday by Mark Boyter
Lancaster. Sunday morning. Damp under a weak autumn sun.
It rained last night.
My backpack feels heavy and cold.
The Priory Church pipe organ bleeds through heavy wooden doors. I stop. Belongers and believers in hats and warm coats and polished shoes arrive, and I hesitate closer. A woman in brown wool smiles me a welcome. “There’s space in the back pew.”
I sit. We stand. We sing mountains green. We amen, and a man in gentle grey tweed approaches. “If you want,” and I hesitate, “a photo, that’s the best spot,” and he nods and smiles and turns away.
Lancaster. Sunday morning. Damp under a weak autumn sun.
It rained last night.
My backpack feels heavy and cold.
The Priory Church pipe organ bleeds through heavy wooden doors. I stop. Belongers and believers in hats and warm coats and polished shoes arrive, and I hesitate closer. A woman in brown wool smiles me a welcome. “There’s space in the back pew.”
I sit. We stand. We sing mountains green. We amen, and a man in gentle grey tweed approaches. “If you want,” and I hesitate, “a photo, that’s the best spot,” and he nods and smiles and turns away.
#29 ISLA DEL SOL by Syd Blackwell
We stop for lunch at a small restaurant. Our boat and bags depart. We will walk after lunch. It is sunny; the lake and sky incredible blues. The snow-capped Andes glisten. We are the only diners. The resident Aymara family has prepared a traditional meal.
Before we finish, a Titicaca reed boat appears, in full sail. From another direction, a speed boat also approaches the dock below the restaurant. They meet and the tourist passengers transfer from the reed boat to the motor launch and leave. The reed boat, sails now furled, heads back, using an unseen, non-traditional motor.
We stop for lunch at a small restaurant. Our boat and bags depart. We will walk after lunch. It is sunny; the lake and sky incredible blues. The snow-capped Andes glisten. We are the only diners. The resident Aymara family has prepared a traditional meal.
Before we finish, a Titicaca reed boat appears, in full sail. From another direction, a speed boat also approaches the dock below the restaurant. They meet and the tourist passengers transfer from the reed boat to the motor launch and leave. The reed boat, sails now furled, heads back, using an unseen, non-traditional motor.
#28 The Gulls of Mevagissey by Frank Kusy
My step-father Bert once took us to Mevagissey – ‘the ‘nicest, most tranquil, place in Cornwall.’
‘Oh, look, there’s a Herring Gull!’ said my mum on arrival. ‘They’re famous for their “mewing calls”.’
Bert grunted. ‘They’re a bloody pest, that’s what they are.’
The single gull must have heard him. A series of mewing calls issued from its beak. One minute later, our roof was crowded with gulls, all shrieking their hearts out.
‘How long can this go on for?’ raged Bert. ‘I want to go to bed!’
But sleep was denied him. The gulls went on for ten days non-stop.
My step-father Bert once took us to Mevagissey – ‘the ‘nicest, most tranquil, place in Cornwall.’
‘Oh, look, there’s a Herring Gull!’ said my mum on arrival. ‘They’re famous for their “mewing calls”.’
Bert grunted. ‘They’re a bloody pest, that’s what they are.’
The single gull must have heard him. A series of mewing calls issued from its beak. One minute later, our roof was crowded with gulls, all shrieking their hearts out.
‘How long can this go on for?’ raged Bert. ‘I want to go to bed!’
But sleep was denied him. The gulls went on for ten days non-stop.
#27 A Stranger Abroad by Andrew Klein
We sat dreaming of food. A stranger walked by. Suddenly, time slowed. I heard his boots, and Elspeth's sigh. He wore a dark hat, sunglasses, a long, black drover and a cane. He glanced over, gliding by without a word. As he passed he dropped a paper, no, it's money! It slowly fell. Like a feather, through the air, until it settled on the ground.
Time restarted. I grabbed the bill looking up to see no sign of him. He vanished. I showed Elspeth the money, enough to buy tea and cookies. Later, we joked that he was an angel.
We sat dreaming of food. A stranger walked by. Suddenly, time slowed. I heard his boots, and Elspeth's sigh. He wore a dark hat, sunglasses, a long, black drover and a cane. He glanced over, gliding by without a word. As he passed he dropped a paper, no, it's money! It slowly fell. Like a feather, through the air, until it settled on the ground.
Time restarted. I grabbed the bill looking up to see no sign of him. He vanished. I showed Elspeth the money, enough to buy tea and cookies. Later, we joked that he was an angel.
#26 Mistaken identity? by Ann Patras
I travelled along the corridors, turning left then right, along another windowless stretch. On and on, past the room of sticky substances, skirting the place of skeletal photography. No sounds but the swish of small wheels on a soft floor, up in a lift to the fifth level.
We had arrived at room 546.
I stared in disbelief. It was a mens ward!
The orderly pointed to the description on my transfer sheet “Masculino”
“What do you think these are,” I asked pointing to the protrusions on my chest, “oranges?”
The Spanish hospital orderlies and I erupted into raucous laughter.
I travelled along the corridors, turning left then right, along another windowless stretch. On and on, past the room of sticky substances, skirting the place of skeletal photography. No sounds but the swish of small wheels on a soft floor, up in a lift to the fifth level.
We had arrived at room 546.
I stared in disbelief. It was a mens ward!
The orderly pointed to the description on my transfer sheet “Masculino”
“What do you think these are,” I asked pointing to the protrusions on my chest, “oranges?”
The Spanish hospital orderlies and I erupted into raucous laughter.
#25 A Saskatchewan Highway by Mark Boyter
Saskatchewan. Somewhere west of Swift Current. Trans-Canada highway, hitching east. Early June. Late afternoon. Cloudless. Been walking, past dusty grain elevators and double-X railway crossings. And then behind a green awning, a white picket cafe. The screen door bell jingles, and heads turn. It’s full. Farm folk. Set my backpack at the door, take a counter stool. Coffee and cherry pie and water, please. A man takes the stool beside. Where’re you from? Where’re you going? How’re the rides? Then I see it. He has an earring too. Good luck, and then it’s the road again.
That was good pie.
Saskatchewan. Somewhere west of Swift Current. Trans-Canada highway, hitching east. Early June. Late afternoon. Cloudless. Been walking, past dusty grain elevators and double-X railway crossings. And then behind a green awning, a white picket cafe. The screen door bell jingles, and heads turn. It’s full. Farm folk. Set my backpack at the door, take a counter stool. Coffee and cherry pie and water, please. A man takes the stool beside. Where’re you from? Where’re you going? How’re the rides? Then I see it. He has an earring too. Good luck, and then it’s the road again.
That was good pie.
#24 My Special Visitor…………. by Deb Bott
You can smell them, long before you see them.
I look out but don’t see them yet.
I smell them again, much stronger this time, they are close.
Then on my right side I see an eye.
I turn my head slowly, she has come to visit me.
She is a massive humpback whale, with her calf.
She is so close to the side of Matilda, I could reach out and touch her.
But I don’t move, I sit still, frozen.
I silently call my Captain.
For a brief moment in time, the three of us are connected.
You can smell them, long before you see them.
I look out but don’t see them yet.
I smell them again, much stronger this time, they are close.
Then on my right side I see an eye.
I turn my head slowly, she has come to visit me.
She is a massive humpback whale, with her calf.
She is so close to the side of Matilda, I could reach out and touch her.
But I don’t move, I sit still, frozen.
I silently call my Captain.
For a brief moment in time, the three of us are connected.
#23 Maybe Tomorrow… by Alison Galilian
Life was easy in the tiny Indian village. I couldn't bring myself to leave. ‘Where next?’ the locals often asked me? 'Pakistan’, I'd reply. 'When?’ they'd ask. 'Maybe tomorrow’, I'd say. Then one day I stood under bending palms waiting for a bus to take me on the next leg of my journey. The bus was crowded. Sweating bodies packed like sardines. I squeezed inside. The conductor insisted I take the spare seat. Spare seat? Where? I don't think so! He insisted. I found it at the front and sat down next to my future husband. I never got to Pakistan.
Life was easy in the tiny Indian village. I couldn't bring myself to leave. ‘Where next?’ the locals often asked me? 'Pakistan’, I'd reply. 'When?’ they'd ask. 'Maybe tomorrow’, I'd say. Then one day I stood under bending palms waiting for a bus to take me on the next leg of my journey. The bus was crowded. Sweating bodies packed like sardines. I squeezed inside. The conductor insisted I take the spare seat. Spare seat? Where? I don't think so! He insisted. I found it at the front and sat down next to my future husband. I never got to Pakistan.
#22 Bienvenidos a Los Cabos by Matthew Dexter
Cabo San Lucas oozes Lilliputian wizardry. Futureless toddlers peddle trinkets to dipsomaniacal idiots donning lobster sunburns and sombreros. Obstinate parents ponder varicose bellies. Dwarfish angels orbit tourists. If you close your bloodshot eyes and tap your heels, behold stardust of sharks goading an obese surfer, family dreams falling from fronds, veins larger than No. 2 pencils, pupils pulsating like doomed flying saucers, scanning with the periscope perception of drunken parasailers sandwiched into a submarine booze cruise.
“One dollar please—for school.”
I treasure their garbage, the essence of wasted life, visceral messages of neglect written across the scum of my shadow.
Cabo San Lucas oozes Lilliputian wizardry. Futureless toddlers peddle trinkets to dipsomaniacal idiots donning lobster sunburns and sombreros. Obstinate parents ponder varicose bellies. Dwarfish angels orbit tourists. If you close your bloodshot eyes and tap your heels, behold stardust of sharks goading an obese surfer, family dreams falling from fronds, veins larger than No. 2 pencils, pupils pulsating like doomed flying saucers, scanning with the periscope perception of drunken parasailers sandwiched into a submarine booze cruise.
“One dollar please—for school.”
I treasure their garbage, the essence of wasted life, visceral messages of neglect written across the scum of my shadow.
#21 ISLA DE LA FANTASIA by Syd Blackwell
A handmade handcart fabricated
from wood and wheels dilapidated
the brother pushed and concentrated
transported sister legs truncated
from top of knees were amputated
along this isle that´s inundated
by annual flooding unabated
all residents evacuated
´til summer floods have dissipated
how could this isle have been created
bestowed with name so unrelated
to these poor souls tragically fated
(On the Amazon near Leticia, Colombia, July 2012)
A handmade handcart fabricated
from wood and wheels dilapidated
the brother pushed and concentrated
transported sister legs truncated
from top of knees were amputated
along this isle that´s inundated
by annual flooding unabated
all residents evacuated
´til summer floods have dissipated
how could this isle have been created
bestowed with name so unrelated
to these poor souls tragically fated
(On the Amazon near Leticia, Colombia, July 2012)
#20 Ghanaian Justice by Jill Dobbe
The whistle woke me. I heard them yell, “Thief!” Tromping feet and furious shouts blasted through the air. Glancing out my window I watched an angry mob gather, threatening sticks raised high. Men held his bloodied body. “Help me!” he begged laying his hands on my husband, Dan.
“Please! Let him go!” Dan pleaded trying to calm the hysteria.
“No! Stay out of it! It is our way. Thieves must be punished.”
They yanked him back into their unforgiving throng and moved en masse down the road. Dan stood helpless, bloodstained handprints smeared across his t-shirt.
The whistle woke me. I heard them yell, “Thief!” Tromping feet and furious shouts blasted through the air. Glancing out my window I watched an angry mob gather, threatening sticks raised high. Men held his bloodied body. “Help me!” he begged laying his hands on my husband, Dan.
“Please! Let him go!” Dan pleaded trying to calm the hysteria.
“No! Stay out of it! It is our way. Thieves must be punished.”
They yanked him back into their unforgiving throng and moved en masse down the road. Dan stood helpless, bloodstained handprints smeared across his t-shirt.
#19 Be Careful What You Wish For by Jill Stoking
I was leaving Aggravation.
My friend wanted to live closer to her son.
We left Devon together, to settle in Kent.
Bought homes side by side, in the heart of the North Downs.
Surrounded by chalk and trees.
She was twenty miles from her boy. I was half a world away from mine.
She wasn’t close enough and moved to be near her new grandson.
She bought a large house in Lincolnshire, where they all live together.
I visited - once.
Flat fields of cabbages, without trees.
Her tiny bedsit with no front door and a view of the graveyard.
I was leaving Aggravation.
My friend wanted to live closer to her son.
We left Devon together, to settle in Kent.
Bought homes side by side, in the heart of the North Downs.
Surrounded by chalk and trees.
She was twenty miles from her boy. I was half a world away from mine.
She wasn’t close enough and moved to be near her new grandson.
She bought a large house in Lincolnshire, where they all live together.
I visited - once.
Flat fields of cabbages, without trees.
Her tiny bedsit with no front door and a view of the graveyard.
#18 Deep in Patagonia by Andrew Klein
Once, deep in Patagonia, we got caught on a glacier and had to wait until morning to be 'rescued'. We had used our last match to light a fire the night before, and could not make hot water in the morning. A Peruvian woman, married to a very funny Israeli man, had a small sack of instant coffee in her bag. We each took a handful and put it in our mouths. I can still feel the crunch it made as I chewed it up and swallowed it with ice water.
Once, deep in Patagonia, we got caught on a glacier and had to wait until morning to be 'rescued'. We had used our last match to light a fire the night before, and could not make hot water in the morning. A Peruvian woman, married to a very funny Israeli man, had a small sack of instant coffee in her bag. We each took a handful and put it in our mouths. I can still feel the crunch it made as I chewed it up and swallowed it with ice water.
#17 The Mexican Conductor by Matthew Dexter
Meth made the miniature train more endurable as it careened through the mall. Children chased the caboose. Eyes full of diamonds and watermelons and blood, pointing with cotton candy dusted fingertips as the majesty blasts its convivial horn. I think of muchachos and muchachas who ride with their siblings or mothers or babysitters. How they bounce. How they should be lost in a cave with nothing but fire. How steel melts beneath the broken wings of fallen serpents.
Meth made the miniature train more endurable as it careened through the mall. Children chased the caboose. Eyes full of diamonds and watermelons and blood, pointing with cotton candy dusted fingertips as the majesty blasts its convivial horn. I think of muchachos and muchachas who ride with their siblings or mothers or babysitters. How they bounce. How they should be lost in a cave with nothing but fire. How steel melts beneath the broken wings of fallen serpents.
#16 A Magical Encounter by Alison Galilian
A dolphin in the bay! It was an opportunity I had to take! I quickly pulled my snorkel on and swam towards him. He disappeared. I twisted around under the cold water searching for him. Where was he? Please come back! Suddenly, an enormous, smooth grey body appeared under me, belly up, and lifted me just above the water. My heart pounded with excitement and fear. He carried me along on top of him. I giggled like a child. I'm sure he would have giggled too if he could. Our magical swim was over too soon, then he was gone.
A dolphin in the bay! It was an opportunity I had to take! I quickly pulled my snorkel on and swam towards him. He disappeared. I twisted around under the cold water searching for him. Where was he? Please come back! Suddenly, an enormous, smooth grey body appeared under me, belly up, and lifted me just above the water. My heart pounded with excitement and fear. He carried me along on top of him. I giggled like a child. I'm sure he would have giggled too if he could. Our magical swim was over too soon, then he was gone.
#15 Flying Solo by Kelly Reising
12 and 15, traveling alone. Two beautiful girls with an easy confidence. My daughters. My loves. One blue-eyed, one green. Long thick hair. Living breathing American Girl dolls. I wait eagerly to hear from their grandmother on their safe arrival. It still makes me a little nervous, even though I was flying solo since the age of 8. At least my girls are together. Are things less safe now? Unlikely, when you look at the stats. Breathing a sigh of relief at the text that reads all the way across the country, “they’re here.”
12 and 15, traveling alone. Two beautiful girls with an easy confidence. My daughters. My loves. One blue-eyed, one green. Long thick hair. Living breathing American Girl dolls. I wait eagerly to hear from their grandmother on their safe arrival. It still makes me a little nervous, even though I was flying solo since the age of 8. At least my girls are together. Are things less safe now? Unlikely, when you look at the stats. Breathing a sigh of relief at the text that reads all the way across the country, “they’re here.”
#14 Travels with my Aunt by Robyn Boswell
Travelling with my elderly aunt was hilarious. In Bali, Aunty Doss went into a market wearing her hot, leather lace-up shoes and came out wearing a pair of sandals that had seen better days. She had swapped with a stall-holder. In Singapore, she outdid herself, however. She was desperate for a 'real' cup of tea. Walking through a mall she spotted a young man drinking what looked like tea. She interrogated him, he didn't speak English, so she grabbed his cup, took a sip and screwed up her nose. The look on his face will stay with me forever!
Travelling with my elderly aunt was hilarious. In Bali, Aunty Doss went into a market wearing her hot, leather lace-up shoes and came out wearing a pair of sandals that had seen better days. She had swapped with a stall-holder. In Singapore, she outdid herself, however. She was desperate for a 'real' cup of tea. Walking through a mall she spotted a young man drinking what looked like tea. She interrogated him, he didn't speak English, so she grabbed his cup, took a sip and screwed up her nose. The look on his face will stay with me forever!
#13 A Perilous Landing by Jill Dobbe
My pulse raced as Delta Flight 737 zigzagged over the mountains toward the airport runway. With a resounding thump, the plane dropped and hit the ground. It sped along the short tarmac with a loud whooshing sound and the pilot veered to a stop. Passengers sighed with relief while erupting into raucous applause. We just landed at Toncontin International Airport in Tegucigalpa, Honduras, which boasted one of the shortest and most frightening airstrips in the world. It was my first time landing on the perilous tarmac, and I applauded along with my fellow passengers.
My pulse raced as Delta Flight 737 zigzagged over the mountains toward the airport runway. With a resounding thump, the plane dropped and hit the ground. It sped along the short tarmac with a loud whooshing sound and the pilot veered to a stop. Passengers sighed with relief while erupting into raucous applause. We just landed at Toncontin International Airport in Tegucigalpa, Honduras, which boasted one of the shortest and most frightening airstrips in the world. It was my first time landing on the perilous tarmac, and I applauded along with my fellow passengers.
#12 Wonderful Indonesia Kei Islands by Bruce Nicholson
Our yacht sits gently tugging at its anchor after a seven hundred nautical mile passage. I lay gathering my senses after being jolted awake by what at first I thought was gun fire. Now conscious of where I am, I realise the noise is the passing putt-putt boats un-muffled motors. The wonderful smells of coffee, spices and cooking fire smoke waft through the companionway. The village is waking, people scurry to work in small ferries. Amongst the chaos of motor cycles, bicycles and pedestrians a rooster guards his hens. Ahh the Sights Sounds Smells of Wonderful Indonesia.
Our yacht sits gently tugging at its anchor after a seven hundred nautical mile passage. I lay gathering my senses after being jolted awake by what at first I thought was gun fire. Now conscious of where I am, I realise the noise is the passing putt-putt boats un-muffled motors. The wonderful smells of coffee, spices and cooking fire smoke waft through the companionway. The village is waking, people scurry to work in small ferries. Amongst the chaos of motor cycles, bicycles and pedestrians a rooster guards his hens. Ahh the Sights Sounds Smells of Wonderful Indonesia.
#11 ROAD TRIP (CANADIAN STYLE) by Syd Blackwell
On the last morning of school in Dawson Creek, we turned in keys and collected paycheques. At 1pm, Byron and I joined Laddie for cards and beers. At 2pm, Byron said, “I should have taken you boys home to Newfoundland this summer.” At 2:30, Laddie and Byron went to break the news to their girlfriends that the boys were going on a road trip. I went to find a cat-sitter. At 4:30, Annie looked sad, Byron looked apologetic because Cheryl was packed and joining us, and my cat knew nothing. Seven days, 5943 kilometers later, we were in Newfoundland.
On the last morning of school in Dawson Creek, we turned in keys and collected paycheques. At 1pm, Byron and I joined Laddie for cards and beers. At 2pm, Byron said, “I should have taken you boys home to Newfoundland this summer.” At 2:30, Laddie and Byron went to break the news to their girlfriends that the boys were going on a road trip. I went to find a cat-sitter. At 4:30, Annie looked sad, Byron looked apologetic because Cheryl was packed and joining us, and my cat knew nothing. Seven days, 5943 kilometers later, we were in Newfoundland.
#10 In the land of Father Frost by Olivia-Petra Coman
There are places in the world that you dream to get to. For me, such a place is Lapland. This year in early June, Russian Lapland was simply written. It has never left my mind because the encounter was very meaningful. Chuna Lake – blue yet partly covered in ice, those dense forests – crossed by springs and home to curious reindeer and shy elk, the house of Father Frost – where he receives letters written by children from all over the world, and in the end… the silence, the beautiful silence that echoed in every bit of the puffy snow still around.
There are places in the world that you dream to get to. For me, such a place is Lapland. This year in early June, Russian Lapland was simply written. It has never left my mind because the encounter was very meaningful. Chuna Lake – blue yet partly covered in ice, those dense forests – crossed by springs and home to curious reindeer and shy elk, the house of Father Frost – where he receives letters written by children from all over the world, and in the end… the silence, the beautiful silence that echoed in every bit of the puffy snow still around.
#9 An Alberta Storm by Mark Boyter
From Highway #3, I see them distant in the western sky. Southern Alberta summer storm clouds the colour of wet fire-pit ash, piled and billowing and moving. Maybe ten minutes. Shadows and dust funnels rolling across rapeseed fields, the pelting strafe of rain. Seven. #3 is empty and still. No one’s coming. Three. The scent of wet earth, the violent thrashing of grain. Sudden cold, darkness. I turn my backpack into the front and crouch. A drop hits. Then more. Then sheets, bouncing and stinging. One minute. Two. Silence. Then bright with warmth, and I stand and stretch and wait.
From Highway #3, I see them distant in the western sky. Southern Alberta summer storm clouds the colour of wet fire-pit ash, piled and billowing and moving. Maybe ten minutes. Shadows and dust funnels rolling across rapeseed fields, the pelting strafe of rain. Seven. #3 is empty and still. No one’s coming. Three. The scent of wet earth, the violent thrashing of grain. Sudden cold, darkness. I turn my backpack into the front and crouch. A drop hits. Then more. Then sheets, bouncing and stinging. One minute. Two. Silence. Then bright with warmth, and I stand and stretch and wait.
#8 HOP-A-LONG by Nancy McBride
Kicked off a tour bus that had overbooked, I was suddenly stranded with two British kids on the outskirts of Sydney. Undaunted, we bucked up and decided to do a self-tour we named The Anglo-American Singing Tour of Australia.
I rented the car, being insurable, and we assigned roles. I drove. Edith led singing, and David navigated.
I became frustrated at not seeing any kangaroos. David said, “Wait! Pull over. I see one! Look there!” Straining, looking where he’d pointed, I saw something hopping into sight!
It was the lovely David, in his hot pink shirt, making my day.
Kicked off a tour bus that had overbooked, I was suddenly stranded with two British kids on the outskirts of Sydney. Undaunted, we bucked up and decided to do a self-tour we named The Anglo-American Singing Tour of Australia.
I rented the car, being insurable, and we assigned roles. I drove. Edith led singing, and David navigated.
I became frustrated at not seeing any kangaroos. David said, “Wait! Pull over. I see one! Look there!” Straining, looking where he’d pointed, I saw something hopping into sight!
It was the lovely David, in his hot pink shirt, making my day.
#7 Karimunjawa by Deb Bott
Matilda’s sojourn in SE Asia…………..
Matilda’s anchor drops in to 20 meters of magnificent blue water. Coral fringing reef is visible around the main island as well as its scattered local islands.
Snorkeling here is a must do. We see colorful fish, rays, turtles, sharks and beautiful coral every day.
Ashore we are welcomed by the locals. Their smiling faces and shouts of hello are typical of the people in Asia. The children love posing for a photo.
The nightly seafood market for the locals is a treat for all those who visit the island.
Life is so relaxed here.
Matilda is at Karimunjawa, Indonesia.
Matilda’s sojourn in SE Asia…………..
Matilda’s anchor drops in to 20 meters of magnificent blue water. Coral fringing reef is visible around the main island as well as its scattered local islands.
Snorkeling here is a must do. We see colorful fish, rays, turtles, sharks and beautiful coral every day.
Ashore we are welcomed by the locals. Their smiling faces and shouts of hello are typical of the people in Asia. The children love posing for a photo.
The nightly seafood market for the locals is a treat for all those who visit the island.
Life is so relaxed here.
Matilda is at Karimunjawa, Indonesia.
#6 No, but I had a bath by Mike Cavanagh
The Lake District in northern England. The owner of the BnB we stayed at had said
“People come here and complain about the rain. Well why do they think it’s called The Lakes?” Katie and I laughed with her.
We stayed a lovely week there and on the morning we were leaving she popped around to say goodbye.
“I see you had a shower overnight?” she said to Katie.
Katie’s frown and tilted head perfectly reflected my confusion. How could she tell?
“No, but I had a bath.” Said Katie.
Three confused people… then much laughter. The Lakes… rain… yep.
The Lake District in northern England. The owner of the BnB we stayed at had said
“People come here and complain about the rain. Well why do they think it’s called The Lakes?” Katie and I laughed with her.
We stayed a lovely week there and on the morning we were leaving she popped around to say goodbye.
“I see you had a shower overnight?” she said to Katie.
Katie’s frown and tilted head perfectly reflected my confusion. How could she tell?
“No, but I had a bath.” Said Katie.
Three confused people… then much laughter. The Lakes… rain… yep.
#5 A Wild Tank Ride Across the Negev Desert!
Beersheba to Arad. Israel, Summer 1971
by Susan Joyce
Missed last bus home.
It's Sabbath!
No taxis or passing cars.
Scorching heat.
29 miles, 47 kilometers.
Tank barrels toward me, rattles to a stop.
“Arad?”
Driver motions. “Climb aboard!
Car stops, offers ride. “Tanks take forever.”
Confused, I wave them on.
An hour later, I hear a raucous scream overhead
“Bomber,” driver yells.
“God!” I gasp.
“Friend!” Driver waves skyward, pats tank. “Soviet from Six Day War.”
Minutes later, second bomber buzzes tank.
Driver again waves.
Friendly fire? Feel faint.
After three hours, we arrive.
Wilted vegetables, melted ice cream.
Shaken, I thank him.
Wild ride! Shabbat Shalom!
Beersheba to Arad. Israel, Summer 1971
by Susan Joyce
Missed last bus home.
It's Sabbath!
No taxis or passing cars.
Scorching heat.
29 miles, 47 kilometers.
Tank barrels toward me, rattles to a stop.
“Arad?”
Driver motions. “Climb aboard!
Car stops, offers ride. “Tanks take forever.”
Confused, I wave them on.
An hour later, I hear a raucous scream overhead
“Bomber,” driver yells.
“God!” I gasp.
“Friend!” Driver waves skyward, pats tank. “Soviet from Six Day War.”
Minutes later, second bomber buzzes tank.
Driver again waves.
Friendly fire? Feel faint.
After three hours, we arrive.
Wilted vegetables, melted ice cream.
Shaken, I thank him.
Wild ride! Shabbat Shalom!
#4 Wonderful Indonesia Borobudur Temple by Bruce Nicholson
Even in the pre-dawn light it’s dark, a small torch helps navigate the path. The first view of the temple is silhouettes. Climbing its steep steps, Buddha images appear. Higher up small stupas encase the Buddha statues. Ultimately, the large central stupa appears vertically in front of me. The mist that hangs in the still air make the structures around me appear cloaked in secrecy. The sky now turning a brilliant blue, rays of orange light burst from the far horizon bathing Borobudur temple in a soft light, spilling the carvings stories as it has for the last 1200 years.
Even in the pre-dawn light it’s dark, a small torch helps navigate the path. The first view of the temple is silhouettes. Climbing its steep steps, Buddha images appear. Higher up small stupas encase the Buddha statues. Ultimately, the large central stupa appears vertically in front of me. The mist that hangs in the still air make the structures around me appear cloaked in secrecy. The sky now turning a brilliant blue, rays of orange light burst from the far horizon bathing Borobudur temple in a soft light, spilling the carvings stories as it has for the last 1200 years.
#3 Kenji's Place by Mark Boyter
“My Fanny” was Kenji’s place. West end of Hirokoji, bank of the Horikawa. Foot of the Naya-bashi Bridge. Nagoya station-side. On the corner, tucked away. Financial district. The English pink neon sign looked better the later the night and best in August humidity. Through a heavy wooden door and follow the stale must of cigarettes down the stairs. Five tables. Six stools. Black Naugahyde corner nook. Wood paneling. A wall of Suntory whisky and Jack Daniels’. A bottle joint. Turquoise Strat hanging behind an upright piano. “Fanny?” I finally asked. “Chet Baker,” he said. “My favourite song. ‘My Fanny Valentine’.”
“My Fanny” was Kenji’s place. West end of Hirokoji, bank of the Horikawa. Foot of the Naya-bashi Bridge. Nagoya station-side. On the corner, tucked away. Financial district. The English pink neon sign looked better the later the night and best in August humidity. Through a heavy wooden door and follow the stale must of cigarettes down the stairs. Five tables. Six stools. Black Naugahyde corner nook. Wood paneling. A wall of Suntory whisky and Jack Daniels’. A bottle joint. Turquoise Strat hanging behind an upright piano. “Fanny?” I finally asked. “Chet Baker,” he said. “My favourite song. ‘My Fanny Valentine’.”
#2 IGUAZU – A BEGINNING by Syd Blackwell
A small train took visitors through the jungle to a trail to the Devil´s Throat. This section of Iguazu Falls is comparable to Niagara Falls in Canada, but is just a part of the world´s largest waterfall system. The trail soon became a series of metal walkways spanning river waters and leading ever closer to the towering mists and tremendous roar at the very mouth of the Devil´s Throat. At the end, we found ourselves on a metal platform precariously close to this incredible spectacle, buffeted by winds and water from the maelstrom below. What a beginning!
#1 ROADHOUSE by Nancy McBride
Guilly lived in a broken down, overgrown mansion, shaded by trees heavy with sorghum moss. After checking on his 101 year-old “Daddy”, we drove north to Mississippi (Meh-sippy) to visit his buddy who ran a roadhouse located just over the line from a dry county. Very dry.
We danced some, and had a beer or two.
A friendly lady at the bar asked me where I was from—my accent puzzling her.
I waited. She thought. Hard. Then she shouted, ”College! This woman, here, is from COLLEGE!” Both relieved, we laughed and hugged, celebrating. Then she and I danced.
Guilly lived in a broken down, overgrown mansion, shaded by trees heavy with sorghum moss. After checking on his 101 year-old “Daddy”, we drove north to Mississippi (Meh-sippy) to visit his buddy who ran a roadhouse located just over the line from a dry county. Very dry.
We danced some, and had a beer or two.
A friendly lady at the bar asked me where I was from—my accent puzzling her.
I waited. She thought. Hard. Then she shouted, ”College! This woman, here, is from COLLEGE!” Both relieved, we laughed and hugged, celebrating. Then she and I danced.
