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:
Keeping in theme with Abby’s article, one handy tool to make sure you know where you’re going is the ever-simple pen and paper.
Keep the slimmest pocket-sized notebook handy for when you’re at the Metro/RER station, trying to buy train tickets, or when you absolutely, positively need directions and the only person you can communicate with alternates between made-up sign language and wry laughter. If you know the bare basics of the language, but for some reason suffer a mental short-circuit or can’t find the precise word you need, remember, the language barrier needn’t be an obstacle. It can be a starting point.
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There are multiple comic book conventions that take place throughout the year, from MoCCA in the East Coast to APE in the West, but any true-blue comic book fan knows that when it comes to the con, you’re talking about unmistakably one: Comic-Con. Whether going by the name SDCC (San Diego Comic Con), CCI (Comic Con International), or just plain Comic-Con, this is the place to be.
Having grown from just being about comic books to featuring kid cartoons, hit TV series, and blockbuster movie previews, the con receives attendees from all over the world and reaches across demographics. And how. According to its website, last year saw a turn-out over 104,000 people crowd into the San Diego Convention Center over the course of four days: artists, actors, directors, exhibitors, and regulars alike. Comics will always be at Comic-Con’s very base and foundation, but really, if all you need is pure entertainment, head on down to the convention center every July for Comic-Con weekend.
Mind you, hotels fill up fast around these parts, and rooms don’t come cheap. When you consider that over 100,000 people attend the event, and that the organizers only hold at most a few hundred area hotel rooms at a discounted rate (with free shuttles to the con), you’re in for a fight if you attempt to look for a room close by a month before the con. Book months ahead of time where possible, and split the cost with friends. Whatever money you end up saving, spend it at the con—hey, you know it’s inevitable.
Don’t be afraid of looking for accommodations outside the main downtown area for a good rate—the trolley will be your good friend. Just make sure the place you choose is at least decent and reputable; safety comes first. You can find out more about the hotel in question through reviews from TripAdvisor and Expedia.
Speaking of transportation, where possible, use the city’s public transit system or walk. San Diego being a popular destination, most locations are usually within good reach of one another. If you happen to stay at a participating hotel, or within walking distance of one, you can get a free shuttle ride to the con just by wearing your Comic-Con badge. Avoid the stress of driving—even if parking fees don’t wind up gnawing insistently at your ankles, the traffic getting to the con center can be horrendous. Saturday is the peak day for such. I remember taking a shuttle regularly to the con last year — on Thursday, it was an easy 15-minute ride. On Saturday, it turned into a 45-minute wait due to the sheer volume of vehicles on the street.
This Thursday through Sunday is when hoardes of fans, artists, costumed folk, and the general public invade San Diego for this year’s ritual event. Whether this is their first time at Comic-Con or their seventh year straight, most have a rough checklist of what they want to see or get. A fresh Flight anthology, perhaps, or sitting in on a Stargate Q&A panel, or catching a sneak preview of an upcoming movie (viva le Stardust!).
If you’re going to Comic-Con, don’t forget this other checklist as well.
» Read the rest of It's Cool To Be Geek: Surviving Comic-Con ...
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.
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One powerful site in Paris is also one of its most unassuming, at least from the outside. A passer-by might easily overlook the small patch of land partially hidden by hedges as he or she hurries off to Notre Dame, which is a mere stone’s throw away. But the Mémorial de la Déportation, located at the edge of Ile de la Cité, is far more compelling than one could expect.
The memorial, dedicated to French victims and survivors of the Holocaust, actually lies at a lower level, down some steps from the little park above. I had arrived during the lunch-break hour, so I waited at the park for the memorial to reopen. I initially wasn’t even sure I was at the right place, despite having read the small sign by the even smaller gate. I had expected to find a skinny black brick building, inside of which would be lined with pictures of the Holocaust and some placards of history. With its lovely, serene view of blue skies and the surrounding Seine, this park above—and whatever waited below—was at odds with that image.
Just before the steps is a signboard for visitors, describing the history and purpose of the memorial. I read it as I waited. A row of triangles, consisting of various styles and color, lined the bottom of the sign. One has to be truly stoic of heart not to feel a lump in the throat on reading the meaning of each triangle, and to whom each symbol is sewn on to: German Jews, French Jews, homosexuals, stateles persons, gypsies, Jehovah’s Witnesses, anti-socials, “deviants”. . . .
Those who don’t, according to some definition, “belong.”
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After three months of living in the Abbey of Pontlevoy, my fellow interns and I discovered that we had grown in many ways. Specifically, around the middle. Spending your days and nights walled up in a decaying monastery-cum-hostel or the bar across the street (only a stone’s throw away from the town cathedral) is not conducive to the waistline. Especially when said town is smack dab in the middle of the land of wine, cheese, and chocolate.
So, in honor of spring and love and swimsuit season, the interns and I banded together to face our most difficult challenge yet. More daunting than our American boss, who had us working sixty-plus-hour weeks for pocket change. More aggravating than the yellow industrial walls that surrounded us like a Charlotte Perkins Gilman tale come to life. More inescapable than the broom-closet-sized WCs in our rooms. Together, we girded our loins and commenced … the South Beach Diet.
It started off with a bang: this, our own personal Battle of the Bulge. I even accepted the horrific fate of eating salami for breakfast. Nothing says “morning” like a big slice of fatty pork. Mmm. Cold, fatty pork. Step aside, Kellogg’s!
But we were determined in our quest for physical perfection (or, at least, clothes that fit correctly). As we grew accustomed to the gastronomical sacrifices of our diet, we entered the next phase in our plan: a steady exercise plan.
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