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:
Tomorrow I will be hopping onto a plane for Belgium, where I shall meet up with a good friend and indulge in as much chocolate and castles as possible. Considering I’ll be heading out of the country in 24 hours, you might understand my trepidation when I confess that I haven’t finished packing yet.
Granted, given my penchant for bringing only carry-on luggage, how much packing could I possibly do? It’s not as if I, say, have the option of stuffing a partridge and a pear tree into my wheelie. Then again, having a limit on luggage space leaves no room for error. That, ladies and gents, is the sticking point.
No matter what you do or don’t bring, however, or how much time you have to pack, there are a number of things that can help keep your head on straight before your trip. I know they do mine. In this first of the series, we see how being finicky can actually be a good thing.
» Read the rest of Travel Checklist #1: Keeping It Together ...
Most people, when they go overseas, tally the fantastic things they have accomplished during their stay. Such as how many chateaux they have visited, how much fondue they’ve eaten, or how many tchochkies they’ve purchased for Aunt Bessie.
Me, I tally pickpockets. Specifically, how many pickpockets I’ve beaten up. Don’t let my pretty face fool you—to date, I’ve come in contact with five pickpockets and beaten up all of them.
Actually, I’ve only beaten up two pickpockets. Well, really, I’ve only “beaten up” one. And I didn’t really do the “beating” part, because my black-belted beauty-queen friend was the one who threw the punch. But when my dad was mobbed by a gang of three pickpockets on the Paris metro, I stepped on one’s foot and hit him with an umbrella. Which half-counts.
Pickpockets happen. They happen whether you’re in Paris, London, Madrid, and anyplace in between. And, while every traveler has been warned at least five times to “keep your passport close!” and “split up your money in case your purse gets snatched!”, a lot of us come from nice neighborhoods in a country where the public pickpocket population is pretty … petite.
Yes, it is smart to have a money belt, passport pack, and all those other lovely contraptions that you can staple and glue to your skin to keep your valuables as close as possible. And always be sure to have copies of your passport stored in separate places—and distribute your credit cards, travelers checks, and cash into different pockets or bags to “diversify” your wealth and lessen the risk of losing everything.
But have you noticed that the native citizens of these countries don’t wear money belts? How do they keep from getting robbed blind every five minutes?
» Read the rest of How to Not Get Your Pocket Picked (and what to do if it happens) ...
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 ...
I slid up the ramp of the I-35 toll road, pausing briefly to catch the ticket the cheerful, blue-shirted man held out the window of the toll booth. My stomach gurgled, complaining about the Mickey D’s double cheeseburger I’d ingested half an hour prior. The underthigh of my right leg was cramping, and a dull ache knotted at the base of my neck unless I rolled my shoulders every three minutes or so, making me look like someone out of a Richard Simmons workout. Or a reject from a Ricky Martin music video.
Ah, road-tripping. That maddening, perilous, oh-so-traditional pastime of Labor Day weekend. Like a dutiful sister-slash-sister-in-law, I was headed to the heart of Kansas to visit my brother and his wife for the holiday.
The first CD I ever bought was Shawn Colvin’s A Few Small Repairs, which I listened faithfully to until I accidentally left it on the TGV to Paris. Track eight was a song called “Wichita Skyline,” and while I had not yet then been to the Great Plains, I was captivated by the wistfulness of the lyrics coupled with her throaty-yet-little-girlish voice.
And then I moved to the Great Plains, and took a road trip to Colorado, and as the flat, flat land unrolled on every side, I crunched myself into the back seat, horrified, expecting tumbleweeds to blow across the road at any second. Yes, what I had been forewarned about was true—driving across Kansas was about as exciting as watching toast being made.
» Read the rest of Wichita Skyline ...
| Chautara Restaurant 334 State St Madison WI 53703 (608) 251-3626 |
Stepping inside Chautara, you’re immediately faced with statuettes of elephant fertility gods and Buddhist figurines, while vibrant drumming music reels in the background. Tiny square tables leave you bumping chairs against those of your fellow diners, whose noisy chatter battle with the sizzles and clangings from the back kitchen.
That immediately sets the mood for this restaurant, which serves a tantalizing mix of Nepalese-Tibetan-Himalayan cuisine, with a couple of dashes of Indian dishes thrown in. Yes, when I say it’s a mix, it is indeed a mix. There is nothing ordinary about what Chautara serves up. Its food is divinely spiced, but not to the point that it overwhelms the subtleties of its gravies or sauces. Chautara doesn’t shy away from flavor or chokes it to death, but instead embraces it like a favorite friend.
» Read the rest of Chautara Restaurant ...