Most of us have been on a cruise ship, riverboat or barge; some good, some bad, and generally with a bit of overeating. We’ve asked the members of the T-Boy Society of Film, Music & Travel what were some of their cherished moments, or lack of, when traversing the world’s waterways.

Ringo Boitano – T-Boy Writer:

Chaplin’s “City Lights” Revisited

On a Mediterranean sailboat cruise, an older and heavily intoxicated British gent would approach me and demand I sit at his table. Due to the martini in his hand and strained attempts at a posh British Received Pronunciation, his words were incomprehensible, but I always enjoyed playing along. Later, in the daytime, I would often notice him and greet him with a warm hello. He had no recognition of me at all, and would meet my greeting with a sour grimace as if I had just escaped from a penal colony in Australia. Didn’t I see this in Chapin’s “City Lights”?

Susan Breslow – T-Boy Writer:

Don’t Fall in the Water

On Lake Kariba in Zimbabwe was a place called Water Wilderness, comprised of four houseboats and a lodge. My traveling companion Tony and I were brought there by motorboat, served tea and scones, and then instructed to take a canoe and choose a houseboat. “Try not to tip over,” advised the guide. “There are hippos in the center and crocodiles by the shore.”

Tony complained of not hiking after several days on safari in Land Rovers. “I’ll take you tomorrow,” the guide offered. Good to his word, he showed up bearing a long rifle and had bandolier ammunition belts strapped across his broad chest. They held the longest bullets I had ever seen. The day before, he had talked about what a conundrum it would be for him to decide whether or not to shoot if he were charged by an endangered rhinoceros.

As we motored to a nearby shore for the hike, my mind raced. What if I was charged? What if my legs gave out? What if I fainted? What if I were bitten by a tsetse fly? What if I fell in the water disembarking and a crocodile ate me?

The other hikers eagerly alighted from his vessel.

I burst into tears. The guide looked at me sympathetically.

“Do you want to go back to the houseboat?” he asked. I nodded.

He tossed his rifle to Tony and turned the motorboat around.

“Please, don’t cry,” the guide said kindly. “If someone stuck me in the middle of Times Square, I’d have the same reaction.”

Then Tony called from the shore: “What am I supposed to do if we get charged? Whack him with the butt of the gun?” Everyone laughed.

I spent the rest of the day on the deck of my houseboat, watching a herd of cape buffalo leisurely graze on the hills beyond. Tony, the guide, and our fellow travelers all returned safe.

Roy Endersby – Philosopher:

Regional Food on the Columbia River

The Empress of the North continues to make voyages along the Columbia, Willamette and Snake Rivers. My memories of this historic riverboat voyage; a voyage to commemorate the 200th anniversary of the Meriwether Lewis and William Clark expedition into the nation’s new Louisiana Purchase, still color my thoughts today. The history, sites and day trips were profound. But I was anxious to return to the dining room for the Empress offered something that is often not found on a cruise vessel: Regional Sourced Food. Menus included everything from Dungeness Crab Cakes Benedict, herb rubbed Ellensburg lamb and Tillamook cheddar cheese soup to smoked salmon, grilled halibut and scallops. You could quite literally taste the landscape and waterways.

Deb Roskamp – T-Boy Writer & Photographer:

Frolicking on a Tahitian Motu

Each port of call was better than the last as my ship glided through the waters of French Polynesia. One day – a day at sea – passengers were offered a luncheon on a motu. As we arrive at the island in Zodiac boats, the cooking staff was already in order with delicious Tahitian and French hybrid dishes waiting for us. To see fellow passengers frolicking around the beauty, food and merriment of the small motu was an experience I will never forget.

Audrey Hart – T-Boy Culinary Writer:

I charged off the vessel, and somehow managed to reached the Bridge of Sighs, where the crowd had grown so thick that (ironically) I could barely look above the men’s mandatory Venetian straw hats to get a glimpse of the famous window. Of course, this is the window which prisoners would pass and take their final view of Venice before their descent into the darkness of the dungeons. A petite woman, almost hidden in the crowd, asked me to take a photo of the window with her camera; so she could actually see what it looked like. As I returned her camera, she politely smiled a thanks and disappeared into the crowd. My own personal sigh illustrated that I needed a break from the sweltering hordes of tourists. Yes, Venice is Venice, and everyone must experience it once in their life. But I felt it best to take a break.

Problem solved. My cruise pass allowed me two days of accommodations at a hotel. I accessed a water taxi in the Grand Canal to my pre-planned cruise lodging at the Molino Stucky Hilton. At first, it seemed strange that I would be staying at a Hilton property in Venice, but that was before my eyes set on the palatial Molino Stucky, a former flour mill that has been painstakingly refurbished into a swank hotel, but still very much in the Venetian character. Luxuriating by the roof top pool, with Venice’s unforgettable city skyline in the distance, it occurred to me that I was experiencing something that even a Doge in all his glory would find unimaginable. Trips to the Molino Stucky’s Rialto Bar & Lounge offered complimentary regional snacks; coffee and the Venetian mainstays of spritz, grappa and Prosecco. Both the terraced pool and bar and lounge, proved to be a welcoming venue to relax and refresh. Plus, my batteries were soon recharged for a further exploration of Venice’s major attractions. This time, hopefully, with less heat and crowds.

Richard Carroll and Halina Kubalski – T-Boy Writers & Photographers:

Heartwarming Experience on a Cruise Ship

We danced our way across the Atlantic on a 10-day dance-themed crossing from Lisbon to Miami on the Crystal Serenity. The vision of sea and sky, the foamy wake trailing behind, and the ever-changing rhythms of the sky evoked a sense of freedom. The bad news of the world, if only for a moment, could be tucked away in the heels of our dancing shoes. Throughout the cruise we were dancing Salsa and West Coast Swing, and meeting most of the guests on the dance floor, some who had not danced in years but were having a great time.

Following a morning dance session, we would enjoy a casual lunch and Halina, born and raised in Warsaw, quickly became friends with three or four of the Polish waiters. They were excited to speak Polish with Halina, hovering around her, and our service was beyond special. Halfway through the crossing, Halina ordered PlackiZiemmiaczane, one of her favorite Polish dishes which is potato pancakes Polish-style, and it definitely was not listed on the menu. The plate arrived at table and the Polish waiters were silent and staring at one another. One of them in Polish said to Halina, “That is not the correct PlackiZiemmiaczane! The cook on duty is German” and” picking up the plate, “I’m going to the galley and will create the correct Polish PlackiZiemmiaczane.” Guests were staring, but he returned to the table with a steamy plate of PlackiZiemmiaczane, the Polish waiters all broadly smiling. Halina said in Polish, “What about the German cook?” They answered, “No problem, he’s a friend and the Executive Chef is not on duty.”

Then one morning the ship came to a dead stop in the middle of the Atlantic. Everyone rushed to the port side and below was a ragged group of sun-tinged would-be amateur sailors from Boston, near death. standing helplessly in their sailboat. They were far off course, lost in the vast sea for days without food or water. It was a heart-rendering experience to watch the Crystal Serenity lower boxes of food and water down the side of the ship to the sailboat, but no PlackiZiemmiaczane. Crewmen also boarded the sailboat to help them get back on course. Later, the Captain told us that it was a one-in-a-million chance for the ship to encounter the sailboat and if it had been dark they could have easily missed them altogether.

A day later Halina spotted a large double-rainbow from our balcony, and she was thinking it was a positive omen for the sailors on the sailboat. This dance crossing was a travel memory to savor.

Fyllis Hockman – T-Boy Writer:

Love That Drink

So I was just finishing my soup at dinner on a river cruise when I spied a waiter walking by with a bottle of Disaronno Amaretto. Oh, I love that drink I mumbled as he walked by. Without skipping a beat, he stopped and poured a hefty amount into my soup bowl and casually continued on. The recollection has brought a smile to my face for years!

Ed Boitano – T-Boy Editor:

Salty Food in Moscow, Aspirin on a Plane

My group of journalists returned to our cruise ship late at night after a delayed flight from Moscow. Starved and thirsty – yes, thirsty due to the highly salted Muscovite food we had consumed earlier – and well aware that it was too late for dinner and beverages on our ship. To our surprise, we found the vessel’s staff waiting for us with champagne and a lavish buffet, complete with smiles and applause.

Earlier in Moscow, my restaurant tablemates and I had poured down a bottle of champagne and liter of water with a vengeance. When we requested addition water, our Muscovite waiter politely informed us there was no more available. Welcome to the Russian Federation.

Previously, on the tarmac for the flight from St. Petersburg to Moscow, I climbed the stairs to enter the chaotically packed plane that was well past its prime. I flashed my ticket to the flight attendant, but she decided to snatch it away into her own hand. She pointed to my seat, and then opened my hand and returned the ticket into my palm, not forgetting to close it into a fist.

Yes, I thought I was ready for anything. But as I took my seat, I found the seatbelt was out of order and the back of the seat refused to stand straight. I realized it was useless to complain, but when another attendant passed by and gave me a hello, I took a chance, informing him that I had a headache of the splitting kind. A short minute later he returned with a glass of water on an elegant tray with two aspirins by its side. Spoiler alert: My headache disappeared and I enjoyed a fascinating day of exploration in Moscow, one of the world’s most remarkable cities; salty food or not.

The post Memories of a Cruise appeared first on Traveling Archive.

The enduring Celtic Cross. Photo courtesy Tourism Ireland.

Richard Carroll – T-Boy writer:

Sightless Fiji

Fiji has a profound long-lasting effect on my heart and soul. An island country deep in the South Pacific where nature comes miraculously alive with cloud rain forests, a lush tropical mountainous terrain, 333 islands, hundreds of islets, and sweeping views of a dark blue crystal clear sea, all of which seem to be suspended in time. Fiji’s dramatic setting of upscale island holiday hideaways offering pollution free skies, an unrelenting sun shimmering on glistening water, and palm-lined beaches, have attracted visitors from all parts of the world.

I experienced a heart-tugging dilemma on one of numerous visits this time with Dr. Beeve, a noted eye physician and surgeon based in Glendale California and his wife Dorothy an RN, that unfortunately this ideal scenario of sun and sea is also a huge negative for the Fijian’s creating blinding cataracts affecting a huge number of Fijians of all ages along with other troubling eye difficulties.

Fijians travel from island to island in canoes and boats, fish and farm the ocean, swim before they can walk, and are living an island lifestyle which from birth seriously affects their eyesight. The stinging contrast is the Fijians might not be the happiest people on earth, but are affable and forthcoming, welcoming visitors with open arms, regardless of personal difficulties, of which are usually overlooked or ignored by tourists.

I found this distressing and heart-tugging drama unbelievably touching. Men unable to work and support their families because they are sightless, children born with eye deficiencies, a grandmother who has never seen her grandchildren, Fijians unable to leave their island because of poor eyesight, and young mothers who see their offspring as a milky blur. I noticed that even most of the dogs had cataracts too.

Joyful Fijians in recovery after a Dr. Beeve eye operation. Photo courtesy of Beeve Foundation.

Since that visit in 1991 when the Beeve’s established the Beeve Foundation, Dr. Beeve and his staff quickly realized that the Fijians were receiving very limited eye care and medication, and had no access to modern medicine. On their first mission with a small staff which included an anesthesiologist, ophthalmic surgical technologist, a dental hygienist, and an assistant who helped with pre and post op care, and patient education and vision testing, set up a makeshift eye clinic in Bure 2 on upscale Turtle Island. The word quickly spread and hundreds of sight-impaired Fijians formed a long line patiently standing in the blazing sun, some arriving via canoes days in advance, the line of canoes stretching to the horizon. Many Fijians I spoke with could not remember when they had vision and were spellbound when the day after surgery they gazed at Dr. Beeve with better than 20/40 vision. The Beeve’s said, “When we complete a cataract operation it’s like resurrecting someone from the dead. It’s an incredible feeling.”

The Beeve Foundation Team in Fiji. Photo courtesy of the Beeve Foundation.

In 2017 the Beeve’s were honored for their more than 25 years of medical missions; 28,503 eye exams, issuing 27,714 pairs of glasses, 1,756 cataract extractions with lens implants, 55 corneal transplants, and 1,005 other procedures for more than 30,000 Fijian patients, the majority of whom were legally blind. Dr. Beeve and his wife Dorothy finally retired with Loma Linda University continuing the Fiji missions. In 2018 with a team of world-renowned cataract surgeons Loma Linda performed 137 surgeries in six days.

The Fijians live in a tropical paradise but with an ironic twist, but for a writer the unpredictability of travel can often leave a lingering memory, such as the Beeve’s and their Foundation successfully treating over three percent of the entire Fiji population.

Halina Kubalski – T-Boy writer and destination photographer:

A Memory of My Father

My father, Wiktor Surmacz joined the Polish Army in 1934. After a few years he was promoted to the rank of Lieutenant in the Polish 179th Infantry Regiment, working closely under the command of General Franciszek Kleeberg when defending the Polish city of Kock, a town in eastern Poland about 120 kilometers southeast of Warsaw with a large Jewish population at the time.

On September 9, 1939 the German’s dropped bombs on the town and a fierce battle with the Germans took place. The Poles were badly over matched by the German 13th Motorized Corps and 60th Infantry Division, but fought gallantly lastly running short of ammunition with both sides suffering huge casualties. The final battles were fought October 2 – 5, and on October 6th after bombardment by heavy German artillery and outnumbered by the thousands, General Kleeberg surrendered.

The Germans sent my father to the infamous Mauthausen Concentration Camp located on a hill above the market town of Mauthausen located 12 miles east of Linz. The Germans never released the accurate death toll at Mauthausen but it was calculated that between 130,000 to 320,000 perished in Mauthausen during the war years. My father never spoke about his five years as a prisoner but did say to his wife, my mother, Maria, “There was no food at Mauthausen.”

Survivors at the Mauthausen concentration camp. Wikimedia Commons.

He was later sent to a sub concentration camp, a farm labor camp that was bad if not worse than Mauthausen. Possibly the transfer took place due to the fact that dad spoke German. He was liberated in 1945 at the end of the war by U.S. troops weighing all of 80 pounds.

My father’s one and only visit to the United States, he was astonished at the boundless selection of food in the supermarkets. He passed May 8, 1984, age 73, after six weeks in a Warsaw hospital, his health badly damaged by his years as a prisoner of the Germans.

Fyllis Hockman – T-Boy writer:

One of the Most Impactful Experiences in my Travel-Writing Career

First a little background. As a teenager I had my first visual exposure to the horrors of the Holocaust in some newsreel depictions of the liberation of some camps after the war – the emaciated survivors with their sunken eyes, gaunt bodies and harrowed auras. I called my mother, who had told me of the Holocaust my whole life, and said: “Mom, I finally understand.” Now six decades later, I came to understand even more.

The International Monument at the former Mauthausen concentration camp reads,
“The living learn from the fate of the deceased.” Wikimedia Commons.

Mauthausen, one of the largest of the camps, was built high upon a hill in Linz, Upper Austria, where Hitler was once a resident, near a large quarry. The rationale behind concentration camps evolved over the war years from imprisoning people, enslaving them and engendering fear among the general populace to simply one of extermination. And that was carried out in so many ways. Mauthausen was considered a Level 3 Camp where the guiding principle was that no one left – everyone was to be killed in some way or other. The SS excelled at very efficient methods of mutilation and annihilation.

The roots of genocide, according to our guide, were fostered in anti-Semitism, an us vs. them mentality, a de-humanization of others who are seen as “less.” It was hard not to draw some parallels to today’s world…

The “Stairs of Death” at the Mauthausen concentration camp. Wikimedia Commons.

Other cases involved prisoners forced outside during winter over whom cold water was poured – a particularly appealing entertainment for the SS guards who delighted in “showering” people to death – outside the actual gas chamber showers, that is…. Because any SS who shot an inmate trying to escape got extra days off, a favorite party trick was to entice prisoners into situations where they might appear to be escaping – and then shoot them. Stomach cringing continues.

Starved prisoners pose in concentration camp in Ebensee, a sub-camp of Mauthausen, used for “scientific” experiments. Wikimedia Commons.

Others, sick and beaten, simply died during daily roll call, a grueling process of standing in the heat or cold for 4-5 hours at a time, and being forced to do exercises when most of them could no longer stand. It is hard to hear all of this – and my stomach clenched and my eyes teared and I was overcome by a sense of helplessness and disbelief that these things actually happened – and no one cared.

Reichsführer Heinrich Himmler of the SS at Mauthausen. Hitler authorized Himmler to create a centralized concentration camp system. Wikimedia Commons.

In the barracks hundreds were housed in such horrendous conditions the term unsanitary does not begin to describe the degradation. On the wall is a quote depicting the “wheezing, hissing, moaning, sobbing, snoring” that filled the night-time air in 20 languages. “The noise fused into a single, terrible sound produced as if by a giant monstrous being that had holed up in the dark.” Another quote: “Anyone who hadn’t been brutal when they entered the world became brutal here.” More gut-wrenching stomach-churning.

And then we went through the gas chambers where thousands were killed and then the ovens where their remains were buried, with a side visit to the infirmary where unspeakable “experiments” were carried out.

And yet the neighbors and surrounding community ostensibly didn’t know what was happening, despite being within earshot of the thousands of prisoners suffering and screaming. In fact, some complained about the noise – but not about why it was occurring. The grandmother of our guide, who was seven at the time, said she could smell the stench of the burning bodies; she knew something bad was happening but nobody talked about it.

Survivors greeting US soldiers at Mauthausen. Wikimedia Commons.

Of the 200,000 prisoners who occupied Mauthausen from 1938-1945, about half were killed. There were only 20,000 survivors when liberation finally came on May 5, 1945, with another 80,000 already too ill to benefit from the end of the war. Not surprisingly, the liberators were shocked at the condition of the prisoners. I imagine so too were the community members when they were finally exposed to what was really happening in their backyard. At this point, my stomach was in perpetual decompression mode.
There were signs on walls from visitors in multiple languages: RIP, Never Again, and You won’t be forgotten. A simple drawing of an eye with a tear coming down was the one I most related to.

Most of the guards went home after the war suffering no consequences and little was said about what they had done. No one talked about it. According to our guide, it took Austria four decades to acknowledge its part in the Holocaust.

The Mauthausen Thought Area of today. Wikimedia Commons.

There were multiple school groups of teenagers at the camp and I felt thankful they were learning of the atrocities they otherwise would probably have no knowledge of. I wished I could understand what they were saying about their experience. History will now change as there soon will be no survivors, no one to say this is what actually happened, and the Holocaust will be relegated to the status of other historical occurrences which the young will learn about in school but will not relate to. Who really cares about the Crusades? There will be no visceral understanding. It will have nothing to do with them. There will be nothing to keep it from happening again. I only wish I could call my mother and tell her once again, that now I REALLY understand.

Stephen Brewer – T-Boy writer:

On the Lasithi Plateau

I saw Bartholomew for the first time when I was traveling around Crete twenty years ago. He was standing placidly, shyly almost, a fine long neck slightly bent beneath a mop of thick shiny black hair, sturdy legs planted firmly in the grass of a meadow on the Lasithi Plateau.

Lasithi Plateau in Crete. Photography by Stephen Brewer.

No, this was not a starry-eyed meeting with an Adonis. Bartholomew is a donkey. I have no idea what his real name is. The only other donkey I have ever known was Bartholomew, so that is what I call this one, too. I’ve been back to the Lasithi Plateau at least a dozen times since I met the Greek Bartholomew, who’s usually grazing outside a modest white house at the edge of Tzermiado, a village of just a few streets. I’ve encountered him plodding along the lanes that lace the fields, with bundles of earth-covered vegetables hanging from either side of his back. The cargo looks light and the weathered, bearded man leading him never seems to be in no hurry to get anywhere. I’ve also passed Bartholomew on the road that skirts the edge of the plateau. He’s been pulling a little cart driven by an ancient-looking woman dressed in black, a shawl around her shoulders despite the heat, and a kerchief concealing her hair. Bartholomew has been sauntering lazily and it’s always looked to me as if his companion has nodded off to sleep.

Bartholomew is a noisy animal, and I’ve become accustomed to listening for his hee-haws when I walk on the paths that skirt his pasture. If motorbikes aren’t idling in the broad intersection that passes as the village square, I can sometimes hear him when I’m sitting in the Cafe Kronio late in the evening. The homemade raki is usually taking effect by this time, and I can almost mistake Greek Bartholomew for the Bartholomew of my youth.

The first Bartholomew belonged to Franny, an artist friend of my mother’s who lived on a rose and holly farm her Dutch stepfather established back in the 1920s. Franny liked to throw parties on summer holidays. My parents and their friends would drink cocktails on the trim little lawn in front of Franny’s house as Bartholomew snorted from the other side of a hedge and my brother, sister, and I and any other children who were around ran through the fields and explored the two huge barns. Occasionally my father and a few of the other men would hitch Bartholomew up to a cart. They were unlikely farm hands in their white shirts and dress slacks, and I doubt they had any idea of what they were doing. They managed, though, probably because Bartholomew was docile and patient. We youngsters would clamor aboard and Bartholomew would pull us up and down the long gravel drive that led from the house and barns to the road.

Taverna Cafe Kronio, Tzemadio, Crete. Photograph courtesy of Christine Kargiotakis

One evening Vassilis, who runs the Kronio with his French wife, Christina, handed me a napkin on which he’d sketched a map. “Tomorrow you should make this walk,” he said. “I can’t go with you, but you should be fine.” He poured me some more raki and rummaged in a bookshelf to retrieve a reprint of a scholarly article about Karfi, a Minoan settlement in the Ditka mountains high above the village.

“It all uphill. Am I fit enough for a hike like this?” I asked Vassilis, who is a skilled mountaineer. “Probably. You are not as fat and lazy as many men your age.” I assumed he was implying American men. Over the years he and Christina have told me stories of Americans who have come into the Kronio, usually involving their size and peculiar culinary habits. An exceedingly large American woman on one of the bus tours that brings tourists up from the big resorts on the north coast made an impression when she asked Vassilis to top her baklava with ice cream. “Of course I told her ‘no.’ One does not eat ice cream with baklava,” he reported, shuddering theatrically with indignation. “Incroyable,” Christina added from the desk where she does the accounts.

A historic paved road on the edge of Tzermiado in the Lasithi Plateau. Wikimedia Commons

The next morning I walked past Bartholomew’s pasture so he could bray at me and soon I was picking my way up a steep, stone-strewn path that climbs a shoulder of the mountains. The mind wanders when you’re struggling up a hot hillside, and I thought again of the first Bartholomew. One of my early memories was being thrilled to see his picture on the front page of the newspaper when Franny lent him to the Adlai Stevenson presidential campaign for a photo-op during a whistle stop. I don’t know what became of Bartholomew. Franny sold the farm when I was still in grade school, and I remember being embarrassed because I burst into tears as my dad and I drove around the cul-de-sacs of split-level houses in Holly Hills, the subdivision that replaced the familiar fields.

I was now high enough to see the plateau spread out below me, a tidy patchwork of fields, comfortable and welcoming, enclosed within an unbroken circle of mountain peaks that keep the outside world at bay. White sails of windmills that pump water through irrigation channels moved with the wind. After leveling off a bit the path rose again to the crest of a rise. Just across a gully was a jumble of rocks that are the remains of Karfi, cradled in a fold of barren terrain and indistinguishable from the gray landscape. Far below, the Sea of Crete appeared as a bright blue expanse on the horizon.

Karfi was a sanctuary for the last of the Minoans, who took refuge in these heights about 3,000 years ago, and the civilization that built vast palaces and painted fanciful frescoes of dancing ladies died out on these barren slopes. I could make out faint traces of their single-story houses and gridlike streets, and I could almost see the phantoms of Minoans among the rocks. It was easy to imagine the mountainside humming with the chatter of human souls who no doubt laughed, told stories, shared meals, fought and made peace with one another. Residents out for an evening stroll must have scrambled up to the knoll where I was standing and gazed out to sea.

The return was on a longer route, across a high ridge then a gradual descent on a stone-littered track that herders use to goad goats up and down the mountainside. I’d been picking my way across the rocks for at least half an hour when I began to hear the tinkling of bells and bleats that grew louder as I neared a tall, wide tree. My thoughts of resting in the shade were dashed when I came close enough to see a large herd of goats crowded beneath the branches, sheltering from the sun.

The stunning landscape of the Lasithi Plateau.  Photograph by Stephen Brewer.

A little farther along the scrub gave way to dense, unkempt olive groves. I heard him before I saw him, a loud hee-haw from the overgrowth. Then Bartholomew appeared, grazing in grass almost as tall as him. I noticed he was saddled, and the bearded man I’d seen with him before was working a neatly plowed patch of earth tucked away among the trees. I sat down against a gnarly trunk, not far from Bartholomew, who raised his head to acknowledge my presence. There I soon dozed off, thinking about donkeys and those Minoan ghosts floating around on the mountainside above me.

Tammy Skinner – T-Boy writer:

Rediscovering my Heart and Soul

Expectation burnout. Oh, it’s a thing my friends. A very real one. Which is why when I was asked to ponder the theme of Heart and Soul travel and what that means to me, I instantly knew where I had to go to rediscover my heart and soul which has most definitely been squeezed out of me like a tired dirty mop that has barely any drips of water hanging from its threads. Point blank. I was slightly… just a little teensy OKAY a whole lot depleted. I know I’m not the only one by any means. Who of all of us hasn’t found themselves stretched with oh too many expectations over the past year and counting? Whether it was the expectation of pulling internet connectivity out of thin air when in midst of a zoom call that goes dead or the 40th call from your kids’ teacher that they were falling behind on their fractions and division… we were ALL in some way, shape or form in survival mode. And all of that on top of playing the game of KEEP AWAY with a deadly virus.

For more than 80 years the Little River Inn has been welcoming guests to experience the beauty of the Mendocino Coast. Photograph courtesy of Tamara Skinner.

As my husband and I drove up the Mendonoma Coast after dropping off the kids at their grandparents at Sea Ranch, I could feel a little bit of an exhale coming on. Then we got to Mendocino and the azure blue ocean waters started to cry out my name. TAMMY it called…YOU’RE FREE LIKE THE SEA. Soon we caught glimpse of the spot we had picked for our refuge from incessant expectations – the Little River Inn which is an inviting 80-year-old hotel that has a restaurant (with a full bar) on site and hospitality like no other. It’s been in the family over five generations and the warmth of the owners trickles down to every single employee who seem intent on doing only one thing-to nurture you back to well-being.

Central Californian coastline looking south, with the McWay Rocks in the foreground, and McWay Cove in the center. Photograph courtesy of Diliff.

We also specifically picked Little River Inn for its’ special rooms that come with a hot tub on the deck along with a built-in special back rolling massager (I can’t even talk about this without rolling my eyes to the top of my head). Because of the covid craze, I hadn’t been comfortable getting a human massage so I couldn’t wait to get in the tub and get my machine massage. Oh boy! I don’t know how to describe the pure bliss of sitting in a hot tub overlooking the deepest blue majestic water, soaking in the negative ions and having my muscles pounded releasing the tension which felt like a thousand rocks settled into the river inside my body. As I sat in the tub longer and felt more and more of the rocks dissipate, slowly my own flow started coming through as I was able to hear my intuition again. It had been a while! I missed that trusty guide of mine that I used to be able to access so easily. Turns out over a year of incessant snack demands and frustration tantrum sighs coming from my “zoombies” from their “bedrooms/classrooms” had drowned out that melodic voice of guidance.

Mendocino, California. Photograph courtesy of Jef Poskanzer.

Mother’s Day upon us, newly restored and with exploration vibes drawing us out of our heavenly room, my hubby and I got in the car and drove to the picturesque Mendocino village to see what my heart had in store for me there – revelation wise. Found in the backdrop of many films due to it being established in the 1850s and filled with New England styled Victorian homes (which have been restored into shops, inns and restaurants), we lazily strolled up and down the streets of this peninsula/bluffs surrounded land and wandered into the shops that called to us.

There was one in particular that summoned me in by its décor alone. I seemingly floated into Loot & Lore and found myself instantly surrounded by my favorite things-jewelry, tarot decks and books. I glanced at a beautiful Saints and Mystics deck that begged me to pick a card and picked a message from St. Paul who (according to this deck) was the Patron Saint of writers and spiritual searchers! The synchronicity was not ignored by me who had just told my husband that I’d like to get an intentional sign of a way to release my writer’s block. Finding two intriguing little zines (one on making vision boards and the other entitled GETTING OVER IT: Move on from the Bullshit That is Holding you Back) I decided to buy them along with a pen that had a quartz attached to the end of it with “Be the Light” etched on the side of it. At check out, I befriended the lovely store owner, Cynthia, working the register who told me this pen would cure my writer’s block. Yes please! And thank you! Enchanted by the flow and feeling of effortlessness languishing type roaming my soul told me I was healed.

Animals on display at the Little River Inn. Photography courtesy of Tamara Skinner.

I have often pondered on the fact that like machines we as Americans specifically are programmed to produce. Produce results. Produce good grades. Produce promotions. Produce babies. Produce retirement funds. But what if all of that is just one really really long inhale? What if the answer involves us also concentrating just as much on the exhale? For our waves to recede back in the waters after thy maniacally crash onto the shore? What if we just want to talk? To laugh? To have fun? Be known and understood? Feel the sun on our bare legs, drink champagne, embrace for too long? Mendocino healed me and it didn’t take much. Okay maybe it did. Ocean view+hot tub+negative ions from the waves crashing+genuinely caring employees concerned with my needs+magical stores offering guidance and hope. Most important, this stunning coastal wonder found me in the silence and without interruptions long enough to sneak its guidance in, and voila just like that I find myself back on California’s Highway 1 heading south to pick up our children, eager to practice this new mantra of “producing” less while “allowing” more.

Weave Cleveland – Travel Guys cinematographer:

Super Cool York

It’s surely timing and serendipity that set any particular place in our reverie forever. For me I will forever say that York, England is the most fascinating and enchanting place I have ever visited. You can instantly get lost in history at the walled city of York, and I mean instantly!

York’s city walls (circa 1890 and 1900). Wikimedia Commons.

You can stand in one spot and see Medieval, Gothic, Roman, and Edwardian architecture each direction your eyes are drawn… and more. Not the oldest part of town but the most compelling part is ‘the Shambles.’ Named so for the meat shelves and hooks where butchers and sellers displayed their meats for sale. Those were days long ago. Nowadays it is the ‘must see’ area of the city. It looks like a movie set. You can even spot Turkish architecture mixing in with the Tudor stylings. These narrow, tangled cobblestone streets also have something unique which I have never seen or heard of before – Snickleways. A Snickleway is a narrow tunnel-like passage to get you over to another street without having to walk around the block. An ‘enchanting’ short cut. I think there’s five of them.

Five Snickelways lead off the Shambles in York. Wikimedia Commons.

York has some serious Viking history and I learned something there that now makes sense even in my own city. The Viking word for road is gata. In English, gata gets translated to gate. So, even though I have spent my life imagining a garden gate or front yard gate, etcetera, in this case it actually means road. Bathgate, Helmsgate, Fossgate, Coppergate, Newgate, etcetera. I think that’s cool.

Another fascinating fact was how much time the Romans spent there and all the work they did. Constantine the Great was in York when he became a Roman emperor in 306 A.D. and started his rule from there. He was pretty great, he had a city named for himself – Constantinople (now Istanbul). The magnificent York Minster Cathedral has underground excavation of Roman ruins going on right now since workers in the 1960’s discovered them when trying to shore up the foundation of the Minster.

Bronze statue of Constantine the Great outside York Minster, looking down upon his broken sword, which forms the shape of a cross. Wikimedia Commons.

Now, here’s something really special, especially because I am Canadian and have grown up with these: KitKat, Rolo, Aero, Smarties, York Peppermint Patty… and the list goes on – they all came from York. Terry’s and The Rowntree Family and a few others all started in York. In fact. Mr. Rowntree even helped MacIntosh financially to keep his toffee business going. MacIntosh is still on store shelves today. Not to be confused with the MacIntosh raincoat maker or the Glaswegian designer/architect. The giant firm Nestlé may own them now but these candy bars all came from York.

If you visit York you can see the National Railroad Museum or the birthplace of Guy Faux or visit an old English pub smaller than your current bedroom and even learn all about the horse thief and notorious criminal Dick Turpin… but most of all it will be tangling your way through town that will steal your heart. What a super cool place York is.

Brom Wikstrom – T-Boy writer and mouth painter:

The real voyage of discovery consists, not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes. – Proust

It was a revelation to me when visitors to our Seattle home would marvel at our views of Mt. Rainier, the Olympic Mountain Range and Puget Sound. Likewise, guests from other parts of the country would delight in the majesty of towering cedar trees or the red flash of a robin’s breast. These are common sights to us and register appreciation but not the awe-inspiring experience that we have witnessed in others.

View of Mount Rainier National Park from Dege Peak Spur Trail. Wikimedia Commons.

The abundant natural beauty along our shorelines, in our national forests and even the arid portions on the eastern side of Washington State have always moved my spirit in ways that are renewing and I’ve always considered myself fortunate to live in the Pacific Northwest for that reason.

With that in mind, my wife and I began taking winter trips to be with family in St. Petersburg, Florida several years ago and were equally inspired by what to us is exotic wildlife and natural beauty. Because of my wheelchair, I am always in search of accessible trails, promenades and boardwalks where I can engage with nature and Florida offers many such opportunities. We stayed near two local parks that became regular destinations and offered wheelchair accessible trails that highlighted nature and native history in unique settings.

Weedon Island Preserve. Wikimedia Commons.

Sawgrass Lake Park and Weedon Island Park have miles of accessible boardwalks and trails and kayaking options and are treasures of natural wonder. I have enjoyed many peaceful hours in rapt wonder watching the diverse wildlife that call them home. Alligators ply the placid waterways along with turtles, lizards egrets, herons, and pelicans and though these are relatively common sights for residents, I am continuously amazed at the diversity and abundance present at these and other public parks in St. Petersburg.

Salvador Dalí Museum at St. Petersburg, Florida. Wikimedia Commons.

St. Petersburg is equally renowned for its beautiful beaches and the iconic Salvador Dali Museum along with the newly reopened pier and those are surprising, beautiful and culturally dynamic, but give me a few tranquil hours among mangrove swamps and leaping mullets and my heart will sing.

James Boitano – T-Boy writer:

Slovenia

As a geography buff, I’d always wanted to go to Slovenia. Its relative obscurity made vis-à-vis its better-known and more war-torn former constituent republics of the former Yugoslavia made it all the more appealing. I like obscure even more than well known Why go to France when you can go to Luxembourg or better yet, Andorra? And what was this little country of 2 million people like there tucked at the crossroads of the Germanic, Italic and Slavic worlds? I just had to wait for my chance.

Slovenia’s capital city of Ljubljana. Wikimedia Commons.

So, in 2002 while attending the Eurovision music event in Riga Latvia, I met Samo. He was a rumpled, brilliant, and kind high school teacher, a fellow Eurovision fan, and the first Slovenian I’d ever met. We so hit it off as friends, spending hours until late at night, engrossed in conversation at the hotel bar after the events and day’s rehearsals. We met again at Eurovision in 2005 in Kiev and again at Eurovision in 2007 in Helsinki. And each time, he invited me to stay at his home in Slovenia’s little capital city of Ljubljana. I finally took him up on his offer in 2011 for a 10-day visit. And you know what? I returned for another 10-day visit in 2012, And another in 2014 and my 4th x 10-day visit in 2017 (Covid prevented my last trip in 2020). Needless to say, Slovenia won my heart. During my 40 days of visits, Samo showed me every corner of the small country: from the mighty Alpine valleys to the Venetian Adriatic Coast, the rolling hills of the wine region, the little villages of the Pannonian Plain. For a small country, you can reach any region within 2 hours of Ljubljana. But most of all I met Samos friends and family.

Lake Bled, Slovenia. Wikimedia Commons.

Every night we would sit at a café and a crowd of a dozen would join us. The bar we went to was one owned by the father of the most famous Slovene, the father of Melanija Trump and they ironically called it the ‘First Lady Café’. I felt like so accepted by the people, the opposite of a tourist. Small countries so appreciate the attention, they are so often overlooked. And in small country, even a high school teacher is bound to know many people.

A traditional double straight-line hayrack in Slovenia. Wikimedia Commons.

During my visits I was a guest on Slovenian National Radio (during the coveted 1:00 am to 2:00 am spot!). Samo just knew the guy there and when he heard there was captive foreigner, I was invited. And during my 4 visits I attended several birthday parties held by his relatives and a wedding, at each being made to feel like a guest of honor. One day, I got to go on rounds with his friend who picked up produce at local farms and delivered them to grocery stores. We spent all day and crossed half the country. Imagine doing that as a ‘tourist’? And so, after all this, Slovenia has a big place in my heart…and I will return as soon as this post-Covid world allows.

Ed Boitano – T-Boy editor:

Ireland’s Romantic West Coast

My wife and I woke up to the smell of rich morning coffee. It was to be part of our breakfast on our first day in Ireland’s wild west coast. It has been said that all Irish homes become a bed and breakfast during the summer, and this Donegal County cottage with one spare room was no exception.

Full Irish breakfast. Wikimedia Commons.

The owners fussed over us at the table as we enjoyed a full Irish Breakfast: eggs, bacon, sausages, black and white pudding, fried potatoes and homemade rolls with marmalade. They told us of the area’s attractions and educated us on the Irish Potato Famine, that began in 1845 and lasted for six years, killing over a million men, women and children and caused another million to flee the country. The owner explained, the Irish in the countryside began to live off wild blackberries, nettles, turnips, old cabbage leaves, seaweed, roadside weeds and, towards the end of the Famine, green grass. The owner added you could always identify a Famine victim by the green grass stains around their mouth. He suggested that we read his favorite book about the Famine, The Silent People by Walter Macken.

To this day no one knows who these people were and how they were able to move such mammoth rocks. Photo courtesy of Nicolas Raymond & Brin Kennedy Weins, Wikimedia Commons.

We followed his instructions and found a Famine Pot in the middle of a forest, where some locals placed food for the displaced victims. It felt like we were walking through history.

We had already anticipated a trip to Slieve League Cliffs on the far west coast of Donegal, and were not disappointed once we arrived. Towering over 2,000 feet from the Atlantic Ocean, it is one of the highest sea cliffs in Europe. Its visual splendor gets my vote for the most striking site in Ireland.

We headed down the road to County Sligo for a pilgrimage to the gravesite of our favorite poet, W.B. Yeats (1865-1939), and soon found ourselves stuck in the car, avoiding a heavy downpour. We didn’t mind, we read Yeats and listened to an Altan CD, our favorite traditional Donegal music group, while basking in awe at the stunning green countryside. We read where the lyrical name “Emerald Isle” arrived from William Dennan, an Irish physician, poet and liberal political radical, in his poem When Erin First Rose in 1795.

Carrowmore Megalithic Cemetery. Wikimedia Commons.

Once the weather cleared, we stumbled upon Carrowmore Megalithic Cemetery, the largest burial site of Megalithic tombs in Ireland, built around 4600-3900 B.C. To this day no one knows who these people were and how they were able to move such mammoth rocks. We both could feel the power of the setting and something came over us; before we knew it, we were renewing our wedding vows. After a Sunday pub meal of  Irish fjord lamb, potatoes and Guinness we found another B&B, where (once again) we were the only guests. We wanted to take the owner home with us, and to this day remain in contact. From her window we could see cattle swimming across a river.

The striking ‘terrible’ beauty of the Connemara. Photo courtesy of Chris Hood, via Wikimedia Commons.

The next day, it was a drive through the sweeping Connemara in County Galway, a stunning landscape where author Charles Dicken once described as a place of “terrible beauty.” We pulled off the road to study a Famine Trail named for the Doolough Tragedy of 1849. Scores of destitute and starving people staggered through horrendous weather for 15 miles to a manor’s house in the hope of food, only to be turned away. Apparently, the owner was too busy having lunch to be bothered. Later, corpses were found by the side of the road with grass in their mouth, while others desperately crawled to a local church where they could die on consecrated ground.

The annual Doolough Famine Walk. Photo courtesy Tourism Ireland.

Once a year a famine walk takes place on the trail to commemorate the victims. As we departed down the road, we both commented that we had not seen a single car for over half an hour. A second later there was a rumbling on the road. We had a flat, not unusual on these rock-strewn Irish roads, but faced with having to unpack our little rental’s cram packed trunk just to find the spare tire was a daunting thought. Before we knew it, two cars, each arriving from the opposite direction, appeared out of nowhere. The drivers both hopped out and quickly changed our tire. They barely stuck around for a handshake. Such is the hospitality of the Irish.

It was pitch black when we arrived at our next bed and breakfast accommodations, and laughed in wonder on how the owners managed to get the bed into our little room. But where were we? In the morning, with the blazing sun illuminating this piece of paradise, we realized our B&B was nestled on the banks of a breathtaking fjord. We were in the town of Liane, where the film, The Field was made. In one of the local pubs a huge painting of the film’s star, Richard Harris, hangs above the fireplace. On our dinner plates was lobster caught that very day in the fjord. A tablemate explained to us that in pre-EU Ireland there were no taxes on food, books and children’s clothing. Upon hearing this, my wife literally held back tears.

A traditional music session at the Gus O’Connor Pub in Doolin.
Photo courtesy of Chris Hood, via Wikimedia Commons.

Eventually we made it down to the musical town of Doolin, a coastal fishing village in County Clare on the Atlantic coast. Coined the traditional music capital of Ireland, this was an adult Disneyland for us where a number of pubs specialized in Irish session music each night. We joined in with locals and like-minded tourists, had big pub meals of more lamb and potatoes, bacon (think ham) and cabbage, then nursed pints of Guinness as we listened to reels, jigs and haunting ballads, many about the Famine and emigration.

Our daytimes were spent on trips to the Aran Islands, a landscape once so cruel and unforgiving that it consisted solely of solid limestone rock, where rugged locals actually had to produce their own soil, made of seaweed and smashed rocks to grow potatoes, their only source of subsidence; then the windy, yet curiously tranquil Cliffs of Moher, standing 702 feet with a stretch of five miles, featuring panoramic views of the Atlantic as far as the eye can see; a massive Dolomite burial site located on a livestock farm (its only explanation, a note from the farmer, “Mind the Gate”); exploring additional archaeological wonders in the Burren as well as its castles, some now converted to private residences. We carry the memories with us wherever we go. Yes, Erin Go Bragh!

Postscript:

The Hand of Human Kindness: The Irish and American Indian Tribal Nations

In 1847, the Choctaw People in the U.S. collected $170 – the equivalent of several thousand dollars today – to send to the people in Ireland who were starving during the Potato Famine. The senseless deaths and struggles  experienced by the Irish was familiar to the tribal nation: Just 16 years earlier the Choctaw had embarked on the forced 5,043 mile-long Trail Of Tears, due to tyrant and American President Andrew Jackson’s illegal Indian Relocation Act. Thousands of their own succumbed to death from starvation, disease and freezing temperatures. Though the Choctaw People had meager resources, they gave on behalf of others in greater need.

A dignified Choctaw family. Photographer unknown. Wikimedia Commons

The Irish have long felt a debt of gratitude to American Indians. When current news broke that the Navajo and Hopi tribes were being ravaged by the coronavirus, Irish journalist Naomi O’Leary tweeted that now would be a good time to return the favor. That tweet went viral, and soon donations were pouring in from the Irish people, along with messages of gratitude and support.

In 2017, the Choctaw Native American Monument was erected in Midleton, Ireland, to honor the American Indian tribe that aided the Irish during the Great Potato Famine in 1847.

Kindred Spirits sculpture in Ireland, dedicated to the Choctaw Nation for their aid during the Great Irish Famine.
Credit: Photograph courtesy of ChoctawNation.com.

The post Places in the Heart appeared first on Traveling Archive.

Along with 22 other travel companions, I, the lone photojournalist invited by Insight Vacations (Insight) to experience its Easy Pace Russia journey, hop on spotless Sapsan Seven-Six-Fiver at St. Petersburg’s Moscovsky Station and step off the sleek silver, blue and red bullet train at Moscow’s Leningradsky Station in just under four hours (3:58:00 to be exact).

One of three major hubs that surround Komsomolskaya Square, the Leningradsky, where Moscow’s railway history began, is by far the largest and busiest as it takes quite a while just to exit the station and make our way to the Insight motor coach. Once everyone is on board and accounted for, Gennady, our tour director extraordinaire, gives the thumbs up to the pilot and we pull out into the rush-hour traffic headed for our new, temporary digs overlooking the Moscow River: the Radisson Royal Hotel, one of Joseph Stalin’s “Seven Sisters.”

“Having been on the winning side of World War II,” Gennady comments from the front of the coach, “Premier Stalin believed that foreigners would soon begin to arrive, walk around and notice that Moscow had no skyscrapers to match the cityscapes of other world capitals.” Gennady continues, “He strongly felt this negative reaction would be a moral blow to the Soviet Union, so he commissioned seven skyscrapers, nicknamed the ‘Seven Sisters’ because of their wedding cake-like design topped with a sweeping crown, to jump-start the modernization of Moscow.”

The historical footnote expertly explained, we arrive at the large circular drive fronting the Radisson Royal Hotel, the second tallest of the septet at 206m (676 ft). Dripping with 5-star opulence, it’s a magnet for rich and influential oligarchs, their leggy, runway-ready companions and their exotic rides, all buffed to the nines — the cars, SUVs and limos that is. If ever I felt out of place, now is the time; but, I’m a journalist on a mission and I must endure.

Check-in’s a “no muss, no fuss” affair as we’re pre-registered, handed keys to our rooms by Gennady, and head for one of at least six lobby elevators and quickly ascend to the 15th floor.

With 497 stylish rooms and suites, along with 38 serviced apartments, all spread out over 34 stories, the Radisson Royal, formerly known as Hotel Ucraina (Ukraine), is quite the structure, especially if you score a room overlooking the river from which the city got its name. And, I do. Right out my window I have a suitable-for-framing view of the city’s “White House,” a government building along the banks of the Moscow River where Dmitry Medvedev, Russia’s prime minister, reports to work.

My deluxe room is not large, nor small, and is impeccably appointed and neat as a pin, from the light sage-green bed cover and gold fabric walls, to the complimentary, stiff-upper-lip Penhaligan of London toiletries on display in the sparkling marble bathroom.

A quick freshen-up, then it’s out the door, down the elevator and, before I know it, I’m seated at an outdoor table at il Forno, an Italian restaurant-pizzeria overlooking the river. With only an hour to consume, I’m in and out in a flash — I had the grilled salmon, it was delish — and back on the motor coach with Vera, our local art-history guide for the next three days, who’s going to narrate our “Moscow by Night” tour, an optional Insight experience.

Bursting at the seams with a population of 13.2m within her city limits and another 17.8m out in her ‘burbs, Greater Moscow — with more billionaire residents than any other city in the world — has its fair share of traffic, but our Insight pilot doesn’t seem to mind as he steers our business class legroom Mercedes coach through, around and above traffic until we safely reach the first of three destinations as the sun goes down: Novodevichy Park.

Following Vera with her raised umbrella, like ducklings behind their mother, we come to a bronze statue display and I wonder if life is imitating art. “Based upon the characters from the acclaimed American children’s book Here Come the Ducklings by Robert Mccluskey,” Vera explains, “these are exact replicas of the original statues at the Boston Public Garden.” She adds, “These statues were a gift back in 1991 to Raisa Gorbachev, the late wife of former President Mikhail Gorbachev, from Barbara Bush, the former First Lady of the United States.”

Further into the park we go until we come to a pond, but not just any pond. According to Vera, “Legend has it that Novodevichy Pond served as the inspiration for Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky to compose the world-renowned ballet Swan Lake.”

Straight across this postcard-perfect body of water is the real reason why we’re here, to admire Novodevichy Convent, a UNESCO World Heritage Site. A marvelous example of Orthodox architecture, the convent, an ensemble of 14 buildings, including 8 cathedrals, is the only ancient nunnery which served as a fortress at the same time. “The complex,” Vera notes, “was home to Sofia Alekseyevna, the half-sister of Peter the Great, who was confined there permanently by the young Tsar when he became of age.” Wow, talk about sibling rivalry!

Like Athens, Lisbon and Rome, to name but a few, Moscow is also built on seven hills, including Vorobyovy Gory (Sparrows Hill), one of the highest points in the city and a popular rendezvous spot for lovers in love. From here your lens can capture quite a bit of Moscow proper spread out down below.

Before flying away from Sparrows Hill, we stop long enough to capture Moscow State University’s main building shimmering in a reflective pool. The tallest of Stalin’s “Seven Sisters” at 240m, she was once the loftiest building in Europe, but still remains the highest educational building in the world. Thirty-six stories in all, MSU’s main building reportedly contains 33km of corridors and 5,000 rooms. “Hey, does anyone know where the Bio 101 lecture is being held?”

“Despite what you may have heard,” intones Vera, “Red Square is not named after the color of the bricks of the surrounding buildings nor from the link between red and communism.” She pauses slightly for effect, “The red in our beloved square is from the Russian word krasnaya, which means beautiful.”

Red Square is a spacious quadrangle and is considered the country’s “kilometer zero” since all of the city’s major streets, which connect to Russia’s major highways, originate from here. Red Square serves as the cobblestone divide between two of the cities most iconic sites, St. Basil’s Cathedral and the Kremlin’s Spasskaya (Savior) Tower.

We’ll find out more about Red Square and the nearby environs when we return tomorrow, hopefully under sunny skies.

It’s been a long, long day as the motor coach finally brings us back to the Radisson Royal, one of Stalin’s magnificent “Seven Sisters” that towers above the cityscape, shining brightly from wherever you look when you tour Moscow after dark with Insight.

Spokoynoy nochi!

Go here for detailed information on Insight’s six journeys to Russia, as well as more than 100 other premium and luxury-escorted itineraries around Europe, or call toll free (888) 680-1241, or contact your travel agent.

The post Easy Pace Russia: Moscow after Dark with Seven Sisters (Dispatch #11) appeared first on Traveling Archive.

Like a black cat with nine lives in its final countdown, who was this person who couldn’t be killed? Grigori Rasputin, the Siberian peasant-turned-Russian mystic who became a member of Tsar Nicholas II’s inner circle.

Fearful of the powerful influence he wielded over the Romanov court, a group of aristocrats, led by Prince Felix Yusupov, the eccentric son of the richest family in all of Russia at the time, plotted and carried out the murder of the “Mad Monk.”

Rasputin’s bloody and brutal demise took place on December 30, 1916 where it began in the basement of Yusupov Palace, the prince’s estate along the affluent banks of the Moika, and ended in the frigid waters of the Neva.

Along with 22 paying customers, I, a guest photojournalist invited by Insight Vacations (Insight) to experience its Easy Pace Russia journey, meet up with Guyla, our expert guide since we arrived in St. Petersburg, and head straight for the eerie, low-lit basement of Yusupov Palace to view the Madame Tussauds-like exhibition of Rasputin and his assassins. A static display, you still sense the evil that is about to take place down here and just want to bolt. And, we do. QUICKLY.

The gruesome historical footnote now behind us, we breath in the calmer air upstairs on the second floor where the Yusupov Palace — a building of federal significance that was originally built in the 1770s by French architect Vallin de la Mothe and steadily improved over the years — really comes alive on this optional Insight experience.

“One of the very few aristocratic homes of St. Petersburg to have retained many of its original interiors,” Gulya explains in our ear buds, “the palace, once the epicenter of high-society events hosted by the rich and famous House of Yusupov before the October Revolution of 1917, was nationalized, handed over to the educational authorities who then turned the palace into a club for local school teachers.” She adds, “Today, Yusupov Palace has been transformed into a modern museum and cultural center and boasts some of very best 19th century interiors you will find anywhere in Russia.”

Guyla is spot on as we move from one sumptuously rich room to another, down hallways and into large halls, all equally adorned with graceful art, sculpture, portraiture, golden chandeliers, frescoes, tapestries and some finely-handcrafted furniture pieces.

The private, rococo Palace Theatre, where world-class classical concerts and live theatre performances still unfold is stunning; the White-Columns Hall is impressive; and, down on the ground floor, Prince Yusupov’s billiards, study and Moorish drawing rooms are intimate and rich.

Despite the whodunnit, Clue-like atmosphere surrounding Rasputin’s demise down in the basement, upstairs Yusupov Palace is alive and well along the banks of the Moika. This prominent architectural gem of the Russian “Northern Capital” should be a must-see sight for anyone planning to visit the city that Peter the Great built.

I’d like stay and show you more, but I’ve got an ultra-fast Sapsan train to catch as this Easy Pace Russia journey picks up steam (electrical current) and heads for Moscow like a speedy peregrine falcon.

Do svidaniya St. Petersburg!

Go here for detailed information on Insight’s six journeys to Russia, as well as more than 100 other premium and luxury-escorted itineraries around Europe, or call toll free (888) 680-1241, or contact your travel agent.

The post Easy Pace Russia: The Beginning of the End at Yusupov Palace (Dispatch #10) appeared first on Traveling Archive.

As a photojournalist invited along to document Insight’s Easy Pace Russia journey, I’m offered complimentary tickets to all ten of its optional experiences, and I gladly accept. Like, tonight’s performance of the ballet Swan Lake at the intimate and historical Hermitage Theatre inside St. Petersburg’s Winter Palace. After all, you really can’t visit Mother Russia without attending a ballet, just like you can’t ignore the country’s two epicurean delights of caviar and vodka. It’s simply unthinkable. Uh, more vodka please. Spasibo.

It was in this very theatre, designed by architect Giacomo Quarenghi in 1783, that Catherine the Great, the 18th century Empress who ruled over all of Russia for 34 years, took her seat and, as a true patron of the arts, was entertained by the very best artists, playwrights and composers of the day with a steady diet of plays, ballets and concerts.

Tonight, the theatre is packed to the rafters as many a cruise ship has offloaded its passengers who now occupy most of the red velvet-cushioned chairs. I spot an aisle seat, ask the gentleman sitting alongside it if it was already occupied, he shakes his head no, so I sit down.

Not the greatest seat in the house, where photography of any kind during the performance is strictly prohibited, but I do manage to get off a few shots of musicians warming up, then quickly close up shop and settle in as the lights dim and the overture comes to life.

Swan Lake is a romantic ballet in four acts composed by Russian Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky. The storyline of this world-renowned ballet is partially based on a German fairytale. In a nutshell, it’s about a handsome prince, Siegfried, who, of course, falls madly in love with a beautiful princess, Odette. She, however, turns out to be an elegant swan by day, a young woman by night.

Princess Odette, interpreted by a prima ballerina who plays both swan and woman, is under a magic spell that can only be broken by a man who must promise to love her forever. In bounds Prince Siegfried, light on his feet, who pledges his love to the princess for all eternity. But, the plot thickens and the music takes on a dark tone as the prince is tricked by the magician, an evil-doer named Von Rothbart, dressed all in black (of course), who casts the spell.

In the final act, like Romeo and Juliet, Siegfried and Odette perish hand-in-hand as they jump into the lake and drown together. The spell finally broken, the two lovers’ spirits lift and all the swans in the lake turn back into girls. The end.

Craning my neck, I jump to my feet and applaud loudly — BRAVO! BRAVO! — as the curtain comes down on Swan Lake.

Now, I desperately need a shot or two of vodka to calm my nerves. And, a bit of caviar wouldn’t hurt.

Go here for complete information on Insight’s six itineraries to Russia, as well as more than 100 other premium and luxury-escorted journeys around Europe, or call toll free (888) 680-1241, or contact your travel agent.

A high-speed Sapsan train whisks me off to Moscow tomorrow, but before I bid St. Petersburg adieu I’ll spend some time exploring elegant Yusupov Palace, the site of the murder of Rasputin, the “Mad Monk” from the court of Tsar Nicholas II.

The post Easy Pace Russia: Craning My Neck At Swan Lake (Dispatch #9) appeared first on Traveling Archive.

Water is as much a part of her soul as the stone and brickwork that breathed life into her atop marshlands along the Baltic Sea 300+ years ago. With 45 rivers, tributaries and channels crisscrossing her city limits, not to mention 40 man-made canals and 342 bridges, St. Petersburg has rightly earned the moniker “Venice of the North.”

Mother Nature continues to bless us with another splendid day in the city that Tsar Peter the Great built, as this photojournalist, invited by Insight Vacations to experience its Easy Pace Russia journey, boards the Baltika, a sightseeing boat, with my travel mates — 22 paying customs — and shoves off on this optional one-hour cruise from a dock along the banks of the Moika.

Passing under bridges, some less than 3m tall (DUCK!), we make our way past the Winter Palace, home to the State Hermitage Museum, and into the Neva, the city’s largest river that empties out into the Baltic, and take in the hustle and bustle of all the water traffic and camera-ready panoramic views.

Like La Serenissima, situated across 118 islands out in the Venetian Lagoon, St. Petersburg, bathed in the White Nights — those unique, luminous northern mid-summer eves when the high latitudes radiate an overnight glow — encompasses 101 isles, sans crooning gondoliers in striped shirts and straw hats, but she’s equally intoxicating in her own special way.

Outdoor seating under a clear blue sky makes this the ideal photoshoot. Add to that glasses of champagne and I’m all in on cruising the canals and rivers of St. Petersburg, one of Europe’s most beautiful cities, made even more spectacular at water level.

Down past the ornate, art nouveau Troistkiy Most (Trinity Bridge), St. Petersburg’s second longest bridge at 582m, we glide. The Neva rests easy today, like a cobalt-blue sheet of glass, as it reflects perfectly Peter and Paul Fortress out in the distance. Just past the Mir, a three-masted, full-rigged, sail training ship, our pilot slows the craft down as we cautiously tuck in underneath the three-arched Parchenchy (Laundry) Bridge and enter the Fontanka.

From here it’s clear sailing as we pass by Letniy Sad (Summer Gardens) and squeeze underneath St. Petersburg’s high street, Nevsky Prospect, via the Anichkov Bridge and its four, horse tamer statues. We then make a U-turn at the opulent, palatial digs of the Stroganoff family — from whom the classic sautéed beef in a sour-cream sauce dish got its name — and then head back up the Fontanka.

Nearing the end of our cruise, we veer left back onto the Moika, passing by the iconic, five-domed Church of the Resurrection of Christ, a.k.a. Church of Our Savior on the Spilled Blood, and then slowly make our way to our starting point just behind the Winter Place, gliding alongside more Italianate mansions and baroque and neoclassical palaces. A friendly wave to the crew of the Baltika — SPASIBO! — and we disembark.

Lunch, on my own ruble, is just a few steps away as I stroll along the cobble of Moika Embankment until I spot the bright-red, wooden bicycle fronting No. 16: Yat, a Russian fare-only, country-cottage-style restaurant down in the basement of an elegant, okra-colored building.

I score a table straight away, select a bottle of chilled French rosé d’Anjou, scan the menu and order the following: a beetroot and cottage cheese salad, an assortment of homemade pickles, a plate of pancakes with both red and pike caviar and a tempting slice of Yat’s homemade cheese cake. I finish my midday repast with a couple of shots of interesting flavored house vodkas — cranberry and horseradish. Na zdorovye!

Go here for complete information on Insight’s six itineraries to Russia, as well as more than 100 other premium and luxury-escorted journeys around Europe, or call toll free (888) 680-1241, or contact your travel agent.

They say it’s unthinkable to come all the way to Mother Russia and not experience a Russian ballet troupe. Well, if you’ll join me at sunset we’ll find a couple of seats inside the intimate Hermitage Theatre for a performance of Tchaikovsky’s very first ballet, Swan Lake.

The post Easy Pace Russia: Cruising the Waterways of St. Petersburg (Dispatch #8) appeared first on Traveling Archive.

The trio in question is comprised of Empresses Catherine I, Elizabeth and Catherine the Great. And, the property? Tsarskoe Selo, or Tsars Village, home to Catherine Palace, a massive and opulent structure enveloped by fascinating decorative pieces of architecture that sit among extensive, well-manicured gardens.

Arriving in Pushkin, a charming suburb renamed during the Soviet era to honor Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin, the country’s most famous poet and founder of modern Russian literature, our deluxe motor coach, with business class legroom seating, comes to a full stop within a short walk of a gilded entrance gate and the start of our two-hour guided tour of Catherine Palace, inside and out.

Slipping into a mandatory pair of felt footwear covers, I, a guest photojournalist invited by Insight Vacations to sample its Easy Pace Russia journey, get in step with my other 22 travel mates and Gulya, our knowledgeable St. Petersburg guide, and immediately begin buffing the floors to a high gloss as we move out.

Gulya begins her narrative by stating in our earbuds, “If any proof is needed for the extravagance of the Romanov Tsars, then it can be found right here at Catherine Palace.” She adds, “In terms of grandeur and excess, some experts say Tsarskoe Selo surpasses even Versailles.” I swear I can faintly hear a mon dieu being uttered all the way from Île-de-France.

Named after Catherine I, this prime piece of real estate started out as a modest two-story building erected in 1717 named Saarskaya and gifted by Peter the Great to his beloved empress, but its awesome grandeur and name change is credited to Empress Elizabeth, daughter of Catherine I, who chose Tsarskoe Selo as her primary summer residence.

Although reconstructed and expanded upon by a group of prominent architects, Elizabeth’s final statement-of-work required a design that would be on par with Versailles. And, that final blueprint fell to the creativity of Bartholomeo Rastrelli, Chief Architect of the Imperial Court whose building credits in the Baroque style include the Winter Palace and the reconstruction of the palace at Peterhof.

Nearly one kilometer in circumference, Catherine Palace is elaborately decorated with blue-and-white facades highlighted by gilded atlantes, caryatids and pilasters. During Empress Elizabeth’s reign, no less than 100kg of gold was employed to decorate the palace’s exterior.

Inside, Catherine Palace is no less jaw dropping. The Golden Enfilade of state rooms, all designed by Rastrelli, are a main focus on our visit, but not to be overlooked are the State Staircase, the Hall of Light, the White Dining Room, the Portrait Hall and the legendary Amber Room.

With Elizabeth and Rastrelli exiting the scene at Tsarskoe Selo and this earth, Catherine the Great, the third and final empress in our blue-blood design trio, takes over the look and feel of Catherine Palace and enlists her favorite architect, James Cameron, a Scottish designer schooled in the Neoclassical style.

The so-called Cameron Rooms mark the most noteworthy of the palace’s interiors. The Green Dining Room, the Blue Drawing Room and the flamboyant Chinese Blue Drawing Room showcase Cameron’s penchant for classical uniformity and his taste for color.

Felt footwear covers now removed, we step outside Catherine Palace to admire the sprawling Catherine Park with its formal imperial garden complimented by the more informal thematic parks.

Combining examples of French, English and Italian landscape gardening, Catherine Park features a score of exquisite structures, beginning with the Cameron Gallery. Designed by the building’s namesake, it stands perpendicular to Catherine Palace. An elegant Palladian-style colonnade structure — 44 slender Ionic columns in all — it was conceived to encourage strolling and philosophical discussions by Catherine the Great and her invited guests.

Accessible to all visitors are postcard-perfect scenics dotting the landscape, like the Great Pond, the Grotto Pavilion, the Admiralty — a Dutch-style boathouse — the charming Palladian Bridge and the Old (French) Garden’s Upper Bathhouse, just to name a few.

With Gulya back in our earbuds announcing it’s time to depart, I save my last frames for the palace’s Formal Garden. Designed by Rastrelli under Elizabeth’s reign, this well-maintained plot of land is characterized by its rigid symmetry of box-hedged paths that frame the gilded onion-shaped domes of the palace’s church in the background.

Camera batteries now spent, I, too, like Bret Maverick, fold, cash in my chips, call it a day and head for the Insight motor coach. You know, there’s really no competition when you’re dealt a poker hand with less than three queens [empresses] at Tsarskoe Selo.

Go here for complete information on Insight’s six itineraries to Russia, as well as more than 100 other premium and luxury-escorted journeys around Europe, or call toll free (888) 680-1241, or contact your travel agent.

Join us tomorrow when we’ll shove off from the banks of the Moika and cruise down some of the rivers and canals that wind their way around St. Petersburg’s historic center, and then meet up in a basement bistro for more tasty Russian fare.

Da skorava!

The post Easy Pace Russia: An Afternoon at Tsarskoe Selo (Dispatch #7) appeared first on Traveling Archive.

Bathed in mid-morning sunlight that accents its colorful mint-green, white and gilded facade, the impressive Winter Palace takes center stage in the heart of historic St. Petersburg, a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Once upon a time the official residence of the all-powerful Romanov Tsars, stretching from the banks of the Neva River across to Palace Square, the Winter Palace houses the city’s most popular tourist attraction: the State Hermitage Museum.

Together with 22 other like-minded travelers and Gulya, our effervescent local guide, I, a guest photojournalists invited by Insight Vacations to sample its Easy Pace Russia journey, weather a very long queue — despite pre-booked tickets with an assigned entry time — and finally cross over the threshold and enter into one of the most impressive collections of priceless art, culture and interior design found anywhere on the planet.

“When asked about its status,” intones Gulya, “the current director of the Hermitage replied: ‘I can’t say it is the number one museum in the world, but it’s certainly not number two.’”

Up the imperial Jordan Staircase we go, elbow-to-elbow with the masses, to take in as much of the history, beauty and riches that adorn the hallways, rooms, walls and ceilings in the short amount of time we’re allotted.

One of the oldest museums in the world, the Hermitage was founded in 1754 by Catherine the Great. A true patron of the arts, the Empress of Russia relentlessly acquired artwork en masse from European aristocrats, and the museum continued to grow under the watchful eyes and deep pockets of her successors, and was massively enriched by Bolshevik confiscations during the Revolution and Red Army seizures from a defeated Germany during World War II.

With over three-million pieces of art at its disposal, of which only a small portion is on permanent display to the public, the Hermitage collection, incredibly varied, spans the history books. Bookended by artifacts from ancient Greece, Rome, Egypt and Persia and post-impressionist masterpieces by Matisse and Picasso, there’s a venerable “Who’s Who” from the annals of the art world — Da Vinci, Michelangelo, Rembrandt and Velasquez, to name but a few — sandwiched in between.

Spread throughout 360 rooms located inside five connecting buildings — The Winter Palace, the Old Hermitage, the New Hermitage, the Small Hermitage and the Hermitage Theatre — the State Hermitage Museum dazzles the eyes with its lavishly decorated state rooms and spacious halls, all testaments to the incredible wealth, extravagant tastes and lifestyle of the Romanov Tsars.

As we near the end of our three-hour, whirlwind tour, Gulya remarks, “One estimate has it that you would need eleven years to view each exhibit on display for just one minute.” Well, that leaves me with just 10 years, 11 months, 30 days and 21 hours to fully appreciate the State Hermitage Museum.

Go here for complete information on Insight’s six itineraries to Russia, as well as more than 100 other premium and luxury-escorted routes around Europe, or call toll-free (888) 680-1241, or contact your travel agent.

It took three empresses to build a village, Tsarskoye Selo (Tsar’s Village), on the outskirts of St. Petersburg. Join me tomorrow morning and we’ll view it together.

Do svidaniya!

The post Easy Pace Russia: Inside The Hermitage Museum (Dispatch #6) appeared first on Traveling Archive.

Just seconds after “Alexander the Great” applies the brakes in front of the Crown Plaza Hotel Ligovsky, my four-star digs while in St. Petersburg as a guest photojournalist of Insight Vacations on its “Easy Pace Russia” journey, I hop off the luxury motor coach and make a bee line for Varenichnaya № 1, just up the prospekt, for an all-Russian fare dinner, the lip-smacking part of our two-part folksy night in the city.

“Varenichnaya,” notes Gennady, Insight’s Moscow-born tour director-concierge, “means dumpling house.” He adds, “It’s one of the most traditional, tastiest and economical restaurants in St. Petersburg.” To prove his point, he takes me inside.

As with most eateries frequented primarily by locals, the menu at the “Dumpling House,” with its retro Soviet decor and Cold War-era prices, is in Cyrillic script. Not to worry, I’ve got Comrade G standing by to translate and help me make my selections.

With just over an hour to devour, I order way more food than I should: a crunchy white cabbage salad; eggplant wraps; deep-fried pike fish cakes with a creamy mound of mashed potatoes; pumpkin fritters with sour cream; blinis stuffed with cherries; and, a few glasses of Permskoye Gubernskoye, a Russian-brewed European pale lager, to wash it all down.

While I wait for the parade of mouthwatering dishes to begin, I pass the time staying within the lines as I experience the latest dining craze: adult coloring sheets. How’d I do?

One of the main avenues of St. Petersburg, running perpendicular to Nevsky Prospekt, is Liteyny Prospect. Once lined with foundry workshops tasked with casting the very first canons for the new Russian Navy, the Liteyny of today is a grand boulevard of upscale neighborhoods dotted with luxurious palaces, ornate apartments and stylish public buildings, like the Officer’s Assembly House, where we alight for the second and final leg of this folksy night in St. Petersburg.

They say a visit to Mother Russia is not really complete until you get up close and personal with the barynya (landlady). Monthly rent payments aside, this landlady is a top-flight folk show of traditional Russian song, dance and music that plays out on an old stage inside an ornate early 20th century music hall that was part of the then Red Army House.

One of ten optional experiences on the Easy Pace Russia itinerary, the folklore show, nearly two hours of entertainment with a champagne-filled intermission, is the absolute best way to experience the history, spirit and traditions of Mother Russia in one evening.

I score a front-row, center-stage seat and clap and stomp along with the troupe during this cornucopia of melodious folk songs and traditional dances. Fab singers and athletic dancers in colorful costumes perform historical pieces from the different provinces of Russia: lyrical dances of the north, fierce dances of the Cossacks, and humorous numbers from the Urals and Siberia.

As the curtain closes on the final act and the audience rises to its feet to acknowledge the folkloric troupe with a well-earned standing-O, I quickly check my wallet to make sure I’ve got enough rubles. This month’s rent is due and I really don’t want to hassle with the barynya.

Go here for detailed information on Insight’s six itineraries to Russia, as well as more than 100 other premium and luxury-escorted routes around Europe, or call toll-free (888) 680-1241, or contact your travel agent.

It’ll be another relaxed start tomorrow as we head inside one of the oldest, largest and most impressive museums on the planet: The Hermitage. See you in the queue.

The post Easy Pace Russia: A Folksy Night in St. Petersburg (Dispatch #5) appeared first on Traveling Archive.

Our Savior on the Spilt Blood, with its striking edifice, is a memorial church that was built on the very spot where, in March 1881, Emperor Alexander II was assassinated — after six previously unsuccessful attempts — by a terrorist bomb that exploded while he was making his way back to the Winter Palace after presiding over a military parade.

Construction of St. Issac’s Cathedral, on the other hand, commenced without any blood shed prior to the first pine log pile being driven deep into the marshy soil. Designed by Auguste Montferrand, a French architect, the cathedral is a mammoth religious building at 10,000 square meters, crowned by a 25 meter gilded dome — the largest of its kind in the world — with an interior that can accommodate 14,000 standing worshipers and accented by vibrant green columns chiseled out of nearly 16 metric tons of Ural Mountain malachite.

Gennady, Insight’s GQ-worthy tour director-concierge, grants our party of 23 time off for lunch — and, perhaps, good behavior — to sample some regional fare around St. Issac’s Square.

I´m off the clock for an hour, a guest photojournalist on Insight´s Easy Pace Russia journey, and I find the perfect spot to pick up the cutlery and my camera. Sitting right around the corner, in the shadows of St. Issac’s along Malaya Morskaya St., is Schastye, or Home of Happiness, a chain of café-bakery bars that showcase an oversized, piping-hot Ukrainian cheese bun served alongside my fave Russian delicacy, red caviar. Need I say more.

According to Gulya, Insight’s local expert, “Peter I, the hands-on Tsar-turned-Emperor, left absolutely nothing to chance when he envisioned St. Petersburg.” She adds, “Employing the very best architects and artisans of the day, not to mention the deep coffers of the Romanov family, he set out to create a city along the Baltic Sea to rival the well-established capitals of Western Europe.”

And no other place in Greater St. Petersburg is more imperial, more spectacular, more over-the-top than the Great One‘s early 18th century summer palace: Peterhof.

Most tour operators deliver their clients to Peterhof via motor coach, spending needless time in slow-moving traffic until finally reaching their destination. But, with Insight, our party of 23 is treated to a speedy and scenic hydrofoil ride across the Gulf of Finland — standard mode on the Easy Pace Russia itinerary — where we see Peterhof come into view well before we glide to a full stop, disembark on the pier and quickly enter the imperial grounds that were modeled after Versailles.

“It was Peter the Great’s personal challenge to transform the gloomy northern landscape into a Russian Versailles,” Gulya intones, “and he realized his dream, and then some, in just a decade.”

Set among 1,000 hectares of land in the suburbs of St. Petersburg, Peterhof, a UNESCO World Heritage Site, is filled with well-manicured parks and gardens, numerous lakes and ponds, five palaces containing thousands of works of priceless paintings, sculptures and applied arts, and countless water features, like the Grand Cascade fronting the Great Palace, with its three waterfalls, 75 fountains and more than 200 bronze statues, bas-reliefs and other ornamentations.

Lens caps off, let’s fill up our digital memory cards for family and friends back home.

Camera batteries now spent and memory cards maxed, we board the Insight motor coach for the relaxed ride back into St. Petersburg proper aided by several shots of Mother Russia’s favorite tipple, vodka, graciously offered and expertly poured by Gennady, Insight’s tour director, concierge and, who knew, barista. Na zdorovye!

Go here for complete information on Insight’s six itineraries to Russia, as well as more than 100 other premium and luxury-escorted routes around Europe, just click, or call toll-free (888) 680-1241, or contact your travel agent.

Care to join me for dinner and a show? Then I’ll see you this evening when we’ll dine on more traditional Russian fare and be entertained by a fab group of professional folk singers, dancers and musicians down at the Officers Assembly House in the heart of St. Petersburg. Did I mention that I scored front row seats?

The post Easy Pace Russia: Spilt Blood, Red Caviar and Peterhof (Dispatch #4) appeared first on Traveling Archive.