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?
It had been a blast visiting my friend Tonje, but now it looked like my trip was going to round off in a sticky situation.
My return flight was through Vigra airport. However, Tonje and I were miles away in Volda, and though Norway might be a good ol’ pocket-sized country, the keyword here is “pocket-sized.” It doesn’t have airports in just any which city. The main method of transportation is by bus. We’d have to take a bus from Volda to Moa, and then transfer onto a second bus that would shuttle me the rest of the way to Vigra. Collectively, a five-or-six-hour journey.
Hey, we decided, no problem. All the more fun and countryside to see before parting.
The problem was, when Tonje checked the bus schedule, there weren’t any buses between Volda and Moa on the day I was supposed to leave.
Mental note: Never choose Sunday as a departure day again.
» Read the rest of A Detour to Ålesund ...
When I sat down for breakfast on my first morning in Paris, Brigitte fanned a heaped collection of brochures and coupons on the dining table. “Do you know where you want to go?” she asked.
“Oh, yes,“ I said, and immediately launched into a whole stream of locations. Well, more of a gushing torrent than a stream, I should amend. I knew exactly where I wanted to visit and what activities I wanted to indulge in, complete with preferred order and ideal time, not to mention grouped by arrondissement.
(I would love to tell you that I’m far more casual now, but a few days ago Tonje took a look at my list of Belgian must-see’s and responded, “Good lord, woman. You do know we’re only going to be there for a week, right?”)
One place I knew I did not want to go was the Eiffel Tower. I know it’s the very symbol of the city—and it was rather charming to watch it buzz with flickering blue light from my bedroom window at night—but it was more than a little too touristy for me. Visiting a sight just for the sake of saying you have is fulfilling an obligation to others, I think, instead of to yourself.
Still, I wanted to get a panoramic view of Paris. One option was a hot-air balloon ride I had learned about.
“The hot-air balloon is tied to the ground the whole time,” Brigitte broke the news to me. “But if you want a 180-degree view of the city,” — she pulled out one of the brochures on the table, a twinkle in her eye, and laid the brochure beside my plate of pain au chocolat — “you should go to the Samaritaine department store.”
Located at the very heart of the city, I learned, right next door to the Louvre and facing the River Seine, La Samaritaine lets you do some old-fashioned shopping, but more importantly, lets you view Paris all you want from its rooftop. All for free.
» Read the rest of La Samaritaine ...
just a question of getting in the B&B that was the issue.
It was my first trip to Paris. I’d learned the language, planned my itinerary, gotten first-hand recommendations on where to go and what to definitely avoid. I even had the directions to my bed & breakfast down pat. By the time I’d gotten off the bus at Place de la Nation and confidently making my way toward my hosts’ apartment, I was proud of myself for knowing what I was doing.
Then I found myself outside the apartment, and realized that of all things people kept telling me about Paris, nobody said a word about how to open a door.
It’s always the little things.
Oh, there was a handle, all right, but the door was locked and so wouldn’t budge. There wasn’t a keyhole in sight, besides which my hosts had assured me a key wouldn’t be required there. There was a series of white buttons outside, and I initially took it to mean the same thing as in American apartment buildings—that each button was a buzzer corresponding to each apartment. However, not one of them was labeled with a resident’s name, and I wasn’t going to start buzzing everybody in the place and earn my hosts some very annoyed neighbors.
Well, okay, I did press a couple.
» Read the rest of After This, I Knew Everything Else Would Be Smooooooth-Sailing ...