Ever stumbled upon the perfect café, sequestered deep in the quietest corner of a buzzing city, and just had to share the secret? Ever wanted to be part of that secret? Travelistas Lynn Lau and Abby Bender combine their journalism and travel experiences to bring readers Notes From A Café: Travel stories from the deep end, a refreshing cure to the usual stodgy travel resources. Notes From A Café revolves around the love of travel, with articles covering countries from Belgium to Norway to Malaysia, along with tips and resources to fellow travelers interested in the non-touristy side of exploring the world.
Celebrating the joie de vivre of traipsing the globe, Lynn and Abby feature their stories and secrets under headings such as "Voyage Vignettes" (focusing on the thick and thin of personal travel accounts), "Foreign Foibles" (cultural gaffes and taboos), "Travel Tips" (a grab-bag of information and suggestions for travelers), and "Roaming Reviews" (frank guides on true must-see's and definite stay-away-from's).
A random selection of our articles:
“You are here all alone?” the young man staffing the funicular ticket booth asked me.
When I nodded, he made a face that all Europeans know how to make from birth: sadly pursed lips, head tilted a smidge to the side, eyes slightly lidded and looking askance at me.
“It is sad to travel alone. It is best to have someone to share the experience with. And Heidelberg, alone …” He slid me my ticket and winked. “Next time you are here, come find me. I will take you out and show you the town.”
I glowed as I traipsed up the steps, reveling at how nice Germans were and how lovely the boys could be, and wasn’t it grand to be a fabulous young thing on a trip?
As I settled myself into the funicular caboose, my thoughts turned from meeting up with the nice young man (which I might have done, had I not been leaving the town that afternoon) to the subject of traveling alone. Before I’d left for my trip, friends had exclaimed: (1) “Won’t you be afraid to travel alone?” or (2) “Won’t you be awfully lonely?”
To which I always responded (1) no and (2) definitely no.
I’ve hardly ever felt lonely while traveling alone. I revel in the freedom of waking when I want, seeing the sights I want, getting lost and backtracking again and again whenever I want. To stand and gaze at a shop window for five minutes at a time, or flurry through the passageways of celebrated art museums and stopping at what I want to see, without having to acquiesce to group tastes.
No, the only times I’m lonely when traveling by myself are mealtimes.
Not so much during lunch – lunches are hasty meals by nature. I often find myself skipping lunches altogether while traveling. It’s easy to grab a sandwich or an ice cream if hunger bites too deeply, and I can see and accomplish so much more when I don’t have to stop for an hour or two in the afternoon.
Dinner, however, is a different ballgame. Evening meals are intrinsically social events, great family repasts where all gather around the table to celebrate after a long, hard day and savor the evening, gastronomically and communally.
Let’s face it: if you’re eating dinner alone, the societal expectations of camaraderie and companionship make you feel like a pariah.
» Read the rest of Eating For One: How to Dine Alone ...
I’m an overpacker. I freely admit it. It’s been my experience that, whatever I decide not to bring, I will invariably need. If I don’t pack my umbrella because the weather report said it would be crystal-clear-sunny, it’ll pour three out of the five days I’m there. If none of the restaurants specified fancy dress in the Fodor’s listing and I leave my skirt at home, I’ll be invited to the opera. It’s just the way of the world.
I don’t mind lugging around extra items if I know I’ll use them. It’s another thing entirely when I’m lugging around all these items and find out later that I’ve forgotten half of the really important things that one needs on a trip, like shampoo and a toothbrush and such.
This usually happens in some level or another whenever I go on a trip, but on my latest trip to Germany, I took this ludicrousness to a completely new level.
In justification, I was attending a wedding, which required makeup, hair-care detritus, fancy dress and heels, and presents. The space on my carry-on was reserved solely for a pair of crystal candlesticks and the first two books of Stephen King’s The Dark Tower. A curling iron and hair dryer take up a lot of space, don’tcha know.
When my connecting flight got delayed, ensuing a flight switch and a day’s layover, and my checked bag became lost in Luggage Hell, a blinding illumination came to me:
I was the quintessential Don’t Bee.
» Read the rest of Don’t Be a Don’t Bee Like Me ...
I could tell you about our getting lost on our first day in Seattle—well, not so much lost as misdirected, because all we did was take the wrong bus and wind up on the other side of town—or about how Pike Place Market was a riot of shops and senses, in a way reminding me of the low-cost shopping complexes back in Malaysia. But you know what the real highlight of the whole trip all was? When I held an absolutely fetching white-chested caique on my fingers and blew on her tongue.
Blowing on Katie’s tongue
Photo by Seow Yin |
Seow Yin and I had emerged from Pike Place, and decided to stroll over to a small park nearby for a breather. The bright sun and hot temperature defied April’s alleged “spring” qualities, and drew people out into the open as if by osmosis. Or like a well-sprung trap, depending on your frame of mind. So, scattered about the park were students, drummers, and casual tourists amidst tubby pigeons looking for a snack.
Seow Yin had finished taking obligatory photos when I noticed there were other kinds of birds in the vicinity, and not of the pigeon variety either.
» Read the rest of Katie the Caique ...
I stepped off the train into a Christmas card. Or as my fellow passengers on the train to Siegen would say, “eine Weihnachtskarte,” or that’s what they would have said, were they not glaring into the feather-light snowflakes tumbling out of the dusk and frosting the quay.
Before I had boarded the train for my Christmas vacation (Weihnachtsferien) in Germany, Tobi had informed me that while there would be snow in Siegenland, it always fell steadily, never too quickly, and always in an amount that was manageable. How very German, I thought, for in my mind, Germans and Germany were the epitome of the engineering philosophy, marvels in regimentation, beer, and leiderhosen.
And, also, Christmas. After all, most of the beloved aspects of an American Christmas – Christmas trees, Saint Nick, and the Christmas Pickle (well, beloved in my family, at least) – originated in Germany. When Tobi had recommended that I spend my Christmas abroad with his family, I agreed immediately. Seeing as my bloodline is almost half German, I thought it only fitting.
From Paris to Köln on the TGV, and then from Köln to Siegen, I imagined the welcome that would await me once I arrived in the land of my ancestors: Tobi waving merrily as the train pulled in to a station frosted in a picture-perfect dusting of snow while a brass band played Stille Nacht in the background.
The snow was definitely there to greet me, but not Tobi. I clutched my duffel bag and tried to look coolly Parisian while all around me rose, not the sound of Franz Gruber’s famous melody, but the buzz of the rich, buttercream-thick, absolutely incomprehensible German language. Fortunately, Tobi appeared almost immediately, his father in tow.
“It has snowed about a foot,” Tobi said, bundling me into the VW. “All the highways were blocked. It is a crisis.”
» Read the rest of Weihnachten nach Siegen ...
If I told you that Amsterdam is a little bit like America, would you believe me?
Because it is, in a way. Except for everyone riding bikes, and the prostitutes, and the legalized pot, and the Dutch language, and the …
Actually, Amsterdam isn’t anything like America. Although sometimes it felt like it, because wherever we went, the streets were paved with Americans. And everyone we met who wasn’t American spoke English. (Unlike when I told my parents everyone speaks English in France.)
Yet, surprisingly, Amsterdam was the only city outside of France where I didn’t feel overly “touristy.” Perhaps that’s because the side of the tourism industry we encountered catered specifically to Americans and Anglophones. Or because most of our tour guides were American. Whatever it was – Amsterdam is a city where Americans can feel right at home … barring the prostitutes, and the pot-slash-coffeehouses, and …
From the moment we stepped foot in the city, Michelle, Molly and I were charmed by the omnipresent view of archaic bicycles flowing en masse through the streets, along the sidewalks, zooming by us with a chirruping trill! trill!. When we discovered that there was a tour – in English! – where you see the sights of Amsterdam while riding bikes like a native …well, we couldn’t say no.
» Read the rest of Amsterdam Lesson #2: Why Walk When You Can Bike? ...