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:
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 ...
When my parents, who were in France visiting me, decided to sally forth and explore the countryside for a few days, I blithely waved them on their way without a second thought—entirely forgetting that our linguistic journey through France had consisted of them sporting deer-caught-in-the-headlights eyes whenever anyone spoke to them, followed by rapid pointing in my direction.
“You’ll be fine!” I said cheerfully as they threw their suitcases into the silver-gray Peugeot stickshift rental. “Everyone speaks English here—don’t worry!”
Oh, the ignominy. I’d broken Rule Number One of being a successful (read: polite) traveler: never assume that people speak your native language.
Examples of books you won’t be needing. |
Yes, a lot of people will speak it. But a lot more won’t. How quickly I had forgotten a previous trip to Barcelona, where I found myself in at the entrance to a small art gallery nestled within an ancient monastery, with nary an English speaker in sight, and no amount of arm-flapping could translate I bought my ticket, but I don’t know where it is—can I show you the receipt instead? (Not for lack of trying on my part!)
Boy, did I get it when the folks came back three days later.
How can a humble traveler communicate in a foreign country where she doesn’t know the language? Flashcards, thick and clumsy phrasebooks, and the universal language of arm-flapping aside?
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 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 ...
Air Asia (previously reviewed here) is under fire for poor service—indeed, lack of service—offered to disabled travelers. The low-cost airline offers open-air boarding only, requiring passengers to leave the terminal building and climb up a flight of boarding stairs in order to get to their plane. There are no alternatives for those who are infirm, or, as reported in this newspaper article, those who are disabled:
“Passengers are instead required to walk up a flight of boarding stairs – a daunting task when one is disabled from the waist down,” she said.
Lee said that when booking AirAsia tickets online, a separate icon would appear on the website asking if the ticket purchaser would require “special assistance”.
“If you clicked ‘yes’, then you won’t be able to proceed with your booking.
“That’s when I called AirAsia’s call centre, and was told that they were unable to accept passengers who are completely immobile.
“This is even stipulated in AirAsia’s terms and conditions!” she added.
Budget airlines have their drawbacks, true, but disabled passengers have just as much a right to low-cost travel.