Family Vagabonding » All Travels http://familyvagabonding.com Family Travel Blog Mon, 09 Sep 2013 23:53:35 +0000 en-US hourly 1 http://wordpress.org/?v=3.6 On Re-Entry . . . Back in the USA http://familyvagabonding.com/on-re-entry-back-in-the-usa/?utm_source=rss&utm_medium=rss&utm_campaign=on-re-entry-back-in-the-usa http://familyvagabonding.com/on-re-entry-back-in-the-usa/#comments Sat, 03 Aug 2013 13:14:01 +0000 Powell Berger http://familyvagabonding.com/?p=1193 I made coffee this morning. A whole friggin’ pot.
It’s hot; it’s strong, and I’m completely caffeinated.
I’m not sitting in a Parisian cafe with a tiny little espresso cup.
I didn’t make it in that crazy gravity-defying-espresso-pot that required YouTube tutorials to use.
I’m not stirring it with a tiny little spoon reminiscent of tiny little spoons from Florida parties in the 1980s.
I’m drinking it black from a huge mug that says Bald Head Island, plucked from a cabinet of mugs from other uniquely American destinations.
I just refilled the mug. For the third time.

It’s loud. Everything and everybody is loud.
The Jetson-bus that transports passengers from the plane to the terminal at Washington Dulles was loud. (And for the love of god, can they not dig a tunnel and connect the airport like every other airport and get rid of those ridiculous buses that last seemed cool in 1983?)
The immigration line was loud. And long and slow, but I was tired, so maybe it was just like every other immigration line.

People are oddly friendly. Well, maybe.
The line at Hertz Gold was long (and loud) but not as long as the regular line at Hertz. Those poor souls are still there.
The woman smiled as she assumed I wanted all their extra insurance and rolled her eyes when I declined, then smiled again as she assumed I wanted to get a larger car for $7/day more and rolled her eyes and sighed when I didn’t.
The woman who let us through the gate after confirming I was, in fact, licensed to drive a car in the USA asked “How you doin’ today?” and Emmi was reminded immediately of our Versailles host, who’d opined that the question always seemed nosey to her. We laughed, answered her — our official American Welcome Wagon — and told her to have a great weekend.

The highways are huge and loud and the cars are huge and loud and for a moment I thought I’d forgotten how to drive on these roads. But like riding a bike, for better or worse, I remembered.

Our iphones work without roaming and we can pull email and use the apps and text and call and check Facebook without incurring a national debt.

Netflix works. Enough said.

There’s a washer and dryer that make sense to us, and a refrigerator larger than some Parisian apartments, and ice in every glass.

We speak exactly one language between the three of us. Everyone here speaks that exact same language.

It’s our flag flying around the monuments and on top of buildings and in the parks.

We are home.

And with my mug refilled (for the 4th time, now), I’m looking at fares and options and miles and figuring out how early in June we should return next year so we can actually see and do all the things we want to see and do in Paris before my writing month begins and we do it all over again.

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Paris Moments http://familyvagabonding.com/paris-moments/?utm_source=rss&utm_medium=rss&utm_campaign=paris-moments http://familyvagabonding.com/paris-moments/#comments Sun, 21 Jul 2013 20:41:25 +0000 Powell Berger http://familyvagabonding.com/?p=1156 Three summers in Paris now, and it’s starting to feel like home. Maybe not home, exactly, but a place where, just maybe, we belong. It’s the little things — the moments that are uniquely Paris — that root me here.

We missed the Fireworks last year, but not for lack of trying. Our friend had a viewing spot in mind, and we ran through the cobblestone streets of the left bank to get there. We heard the fireworks kick off, and we ran faster. We got to that perfect spot on the bridge over the Seine, with the Eiffel Tower in the distance, just as the smoke of the finale began to clear. It was not to happen again. We took the Metro this year. And left early. Pay-off.

Fireworks after the Fireworks, Bastille Day 2013

* * * * * *

I watched as a young man sat sipping wine at a cafe while writing music. Like, seriously writing music. He had a blank scoresheet and a stash of sharpened pencils and he carefully drew each note. He drew each note on the musically lined scoresheet, gently swaying his head back and forth as he drew. I write, and the words form in my head and then the keyboard to the page, and I get that. But this young man was creating music with simple pencils and a blank scoresheet. I am quite certain it was magic.

* * * * * *

A new resident moved into the apartment below us.  We know because his stuff — huge, gorgeous pieces or art, crates of Evian, massive, antique chairs and tables and lamps — appears each night at his door as he hauls each piece up the two flights of stairs. Alone. He’s moving in at night and on weekends, no movers, just him. We ran into him on the steps, sweating through his pinstriped business shirt, sleeves rolled up, trying to hoist a bookcase up the stairs. Austin picked up one end and helped hoist it up the stairs. A few days later, from our favorite Italian place across the street, we watched him step onto his Haussmann balcony andtip his bottled Evian into each of the  balcony’s twelve potted trees. He made two passes, carefully watering and checking each tree, depleting the bottles of Evian he’d hoisted up two flights of stairs just days earlier.

 

*******

We often stand waiting at the doors of the little Italian spot across the street when they open at 7:30PM; sometimes they open early, just for us.  We call it our kitchen. We sit at our same table, half inside/half outside, where the leg of the chair might slip off the floor and onto the sidewalk, ensuring a tumble.  The staff  remembers our favorite dishes, the ravioli with blue cheese and nuts, the jambon tortellini, the four cheese pasta. The chef, the waitress and the waiter/manager always smile and wave and say “bonjour!” when we walk by during the day, like old friends. We notice, though, that other patrons sometimes get fresh grated parmesan on their pasta. They don’t request it; the waiter just offers, swoops in and grates, and disappears again. Or occasionally a brown bag of what appears to be warm, fresh bread, delicate grease markings on the bag, just drops on their tables, and maybe even replenished when depleted. We do not get those things. We’re in, but not that in. Last night, we sat at our regular table and ordered our favorite dishes and made small talk with the waitress. It was like every other night. Then she swooped by and dropped the little brown bag of warm fresh bread on our table.

* * * * * * *

I order vin blanc at Cafe Universel on Monday nights at our readings.  It’s the least expensive; it’s cold; and I can usually order it in French without stumbling. Azu, the owner, speaks very little English, but it doesn’t matter. His bartending knows no translation boundaries. Yet still, I want to do it right, especially with him. I’ve ordered vin blanc every Monday night of every July for the last three years from Azu. “Bonjour!” we both say, then he leans in to hear. I order, he nods, then plunges a wine glass into an ice vat to chill it, fills the glass with a respectable aligote, and slides it across the bar to me.  He smiles. I say “Merci,” He nods, smiles again, and slips the tab on the bar near me, knowing I’ll see it and pay before leaving. This week, I order, he plunges the glass into the ice, fills it, slides it across the bar, and smiles. “Merci,” I say. But no tab appears. Perhaps he forgot.  I order another glass later, and again, same dance, no tab. “Magnifique photographe,” he says to me and smiles. It takes a minute, but I get it.  Last year, I  got a shot of Azu and his wife, behind the bar. Another friend shared it with them. I never thought about it again.  But Azu did.  The wine, an expression of appreciation. “Merci beaucoup, Azu.”

Cafe Universel, Paris

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Uniquely Paris — The Fireman Balls on Bastille Day http://familyvagabonding.com/uniquely-paris-the-firemens-balls-on-bastille-day/?utm_source=rss&utm_medium=rss&utm_campaign=uniquely-paris-the-firemens-balls-on-bastille-day http://familyvagabonding.com/uniquely-paris-the-firemens-balls-on-bastille-day/#comments Sun, 14 Jul 2013 13:37:20 +0000 Powell Berger http://familyvagabonding.com/?p=1145 Fireman's Ball -- Bastille Day Paris -- Port Royal 13eme

13eme Port Royal Fireman's Ball, Paris 2013

Among the many things uniquely Parisian  . . .  the Firemen’s Balls over the Bastille Day holiday.  The Firemen of Paris– who work out daily in Luxembourg Gardens to an audience of jogging, swooning admirers — open their Fire Houses and host raucous, music pounding, dance throbbing parties for anyone willing to drop a few euro in the bucket on the way in. Consider us willing. Us, and our fellow writers and classmates from the Paris American Creative Writing Program, our home away from home every July.

It’s our second time to stop by the Fire House on Port Royal, just around the corner from our temporary home.  We know it’s close because we can hear the music pounding well into the evening. We sipped champagne (well, I did anyway) and danced and mingled until the wall of people was too crushing and our ears too deaf to endure any more fun.  Simply put, it was fabulous.  Maybe not quite as fabulous as the croissants.  Then again, maybe it was.

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One Turned Right — A Sheep Stampede http://familyvagabonding.com/one-turned-right-a-sheep-stampede/?utm_source=rss&utm_medium=rss&utm_campaign=one-turned-right-a-sheep-stampede http://familyvagabonding.com/one-turned-right-a-sheep-stampede/#comments Tue, 25 Jun 2013 14:59:42 +0000 Powell Berger http://familyvagabonding.com/?p=1133 It was faint at first, and indistinguishable.  I’d already heard the pheasants making racket earlier, so perhaps it was them again. But this was different, guttural, and a lot of it, and it was getting closer. It takes a lot to get me out from under the plush covers of my castle bed, but this other-worldly noise did just that.

My upstairs bedroom window overlooks the entry gate, the main road just past the gate, and across the road, a lane up towards pastures and rolling hills and all that.   There’s never anyone, or anything, out there.  Just the occasional cars on the road and the mail truck every morning. It’s quiet and remote and perfectly Scotland-lovely.  Except today.

Scotland

The Scene of the Stampede

Across the road and on the lane that leads to all things rolling and lovely were hundreds — and I mean hundreds — of sheep stampeding and ba’ahing and doing whatever sheep do when they make a wrong turn.  They over-flowed the lane, trampling the grasses on either side, and stretched back up the lane as far as I could see. And they were stampeding towards the main road and the world beyond as though their lives depended on it.

I grabbed clothes and ran downstairs, out the gate and into the road. It was only then that I realized a few critical facts:  (1) I was the only human in sight and hundreds of thundering sheep were running towards me;  (2) I’d left the front door open, so in just a few moments, those hundreds of thundering sheep could be in my adopted castle; and  (3) thundering sheep aren’t cute and cuddly; they are terrifying.  I leaned against the wall surrounding the property and hoped for the best.

Perhaps the sheep found me equally terrifying, because when they had to choose between my castle and me or the main road, they thundered onto the main road and took off for parts unknown.  Sheep really do run in a wall-to-wall herd, filling every inch of space with their bodies and their hooves and their snorts and ba-ahs. It was a moving carpet of sheep, coming down the lane, onto the main road and off on a wild and woolly adventure.

The occasional cars appeared, and stopped. Sheep herds in the roads aren’t uncommon here, so they probably weren’t as shocked as I was. But they did seem to understand that no responsible human was anywhere in sight, so they chose to stay in the safety of their vehicles, rather than join me standing in the middle of the road, watching this thundering herd trample anything in its way.

The responsible humans could be heard trailing the sheep, screaming commands at them. The sheep weren’t listening. It was clear even to me, the American, that things weren’t going as planned. For these two men, who seemed to have been having a perfectly normal morning until something went askew, things were not going well. Even through their thick Scottish brogue, I knew those words weren’t meant for polite company, or even polite sheep.

But these were human men and a couple hundred wild sheep. The humans would eventually prevail. One skirted around the fields and got in front of the herd, effectively cutting it off at the pass,  while the second guy barked at the three sheepdogs who obediently corralled the sheep into submission.  Or at least stopped the stampede. There they stood, several hundred sheep in the middle of the main road, having just come thundering down the hill, past my castle and me.

They looked cute and cuddly again.  Until the men started yelling at them again and the dogs started barking and snapping and the thundering herd turned to go back from whence they came.  Straight towards me standing in the middle of the road. Once again, I took cover by the wall and hoped for the best.

Those three little dogs, 2 men and one truck worked like magic. Particularly the dogs. They barked and snapped and got the sheep to turn back up the lane at exactly the right moment, and when a few strayed, the dogs brought them back, yapping and lunging at them and forcing their compliance. The dogs seemed to love it. The sheep had gotten their joy ride, so they obeyed.

“Well you don’t see that everyday,” the man in the truck said to me as he finally got the last few strays to head back up the lane. “We were just moving them from one field to another, like we do all the time, when one of them decided to turn right. And before we knew it . . . ” He trailed off and shook his head.

Later in the day, I wandered up the lane, to see where they’d come from, and perhaps where they’d ended up.  Sure enough, on one side of the road was an open gate and empty field, sheep wool still clinging to the gate and brush along the sides.   Up the road to the left, another field, gate closed, with a few hundred sheep contentedly ba’ahing and grazing and napping.  Most were laying down. They were rather tired, I figured.

“One turned right,” the man had told me. I got it now. Rather than going left and to the safety of the next field, one obstinate buggah turned right, and the rest of the otherwise mild-mannered herd turned suddenly crazed and followed him.

It’s like the Tea-Party. One turned right and it became a thundering, frightening herd running towards something, but no one knew quite what. If only a few wily sheepdogs snapping at their heels could solve that problem too.

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Dinner Amongst Friends in Paris http://familyvagabonding.com/dinner-amongst-friends-in-paris/?utm_source=rss&utm_medium=rss&utm_campaign=dinner-amongst-friends-in-paris http://familyvagabonding.com/dinner-amongst-friends-in-paris/#comments Sun, 23 Jun 2013 16:52:11 +0000 Powell Berger http://familyvagabonding.com/?p=1107 Last year, while in Paris for the Paris American Academy Creative Writing Program, we heard about Jim Haynes’ weekly Sunday dinner.  NPR did a piece on it a couple of years back, and a student shared it with the rest of us.

An ex-pat American hosts dinner for as many as 100+ strangers weekly in his Paris apartment? Seriously? We were hooked.

 

 

This piece, from TRAVELATI,  tells our story of joining Jim for dinner last year.

A Paris Dinner Amongst Friends, TRAVELATI, June 2013

 

Any yep, we’re already confirmed for our return visit this year.

 

(click here for story.)

 

 

 

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Newbies in the Hostel World http://familyvagabonding.com/newbies-in-the-hostel-world/?utm_source=rss&utm_medium=rss&utm_campaign=newbies-in-the-hostel-world http://familyvagabonding.com/newbies-in-the-hostel-world/#comments Fri, 21 Jun 2013 11:07:41 +0000 Powell Berger http://familyvagabonding.com/?p=1064 Mention hostels to casual travelers and images of Jim Belushi fraternity parties may spring to mind. Twenty-somethings traveling with no money, perfecting the art of booze consumption on every continent, and passing out in hole-in-the-wall dives littered with moldy towels, dirty dishes, and bathrooms that shouldn’t be entered without protective clothing. That’s what I thought, anyway.

Until I found myself traveling the world, on a tight budget, with two teens in tow. The essence of travel, I think, is to blow up pre-conceived notions on all variety of things and start anew. Such was the case with me and hostels.

We’ve dipped our toe in the hostel world on previous adventures.  We ended up in a hostel in Wellington New Zealand once, where I spent the entire evening checking the door locks and keeping tabs on my kids – who thought I was crazy (and they were right.) Then in Fiji, our Yasawa Island “resorts” included backpacker dorms, and while we enjoyed our private bure in lieu of the dorm life, it was the dorm travelers we hung out with. They were more fun.

It’s been this trek through Australia that converted us. It started as necessity, as with most hostel guests I guess.  Australia is just plain expensive, and our dollar doesn’t do what it used to.  I’d always heard about the Sydney YHA, in the Rocks, near the Four Seasons, with a killer view. At $125/night for a private family room, it was still over our budget but the best deal in town, so I booked it. On a roll, I booked another one in Perth and a campervan park backpacker dorm in Exmouth. We wandered into yet another one in Adelaide (one of the highlights of our 24 hours there) and now have a couple more booked across Europe.

I know, I know. Not all hostels are alike, and staying in a half dozen or so doesn’t exactly make us experts. And like everything, there’s the good, the bad and the ugly. But so far, it’s been a good thing for us.

 

MY PRECONCEIVED NOTIONS — BLOWN TO SMITHERERENES

 

Backpacks Optional. It’s still part of the vernacular, but not necessarily part of the scene.  Leaving our bags in the luggage holds, we found a department store assortment of rolling bags and luggage, and an occasional backpack or two.  The occasional backpack looked oddly retro actually, like the true adventurer is still out there while the rest of us have discovered wheels and never looked back.

 

Baby boomers just keep plugging along. Think I was the oldest resident in the joint? Not a chance. Maybe there’s fewer backpacks these days because there’s fewer folks young enough to trek their possessions on their backs.  We ran across an incredibly fit 60-something cycling his way across Australia (his luggage, panniers for the bike), numerous “mature” women traveling solo, an assortment of families, men beyond the age of beer pong, travel photographers and videographers on a budget, and a wide assortment of Europeans of all ages looking for work.

 

BBQ Night at Wickham Retreat, Perth

Beer and Ramen for Dinner?  Not a chance. While I ate my toast for breakfast in Perth one morning, a group of women from Malaysia made a most exotic assortment of soups and veggies and meats for breakfast.  In Exmouth, we were joined by a couple who’d just grilled the fresh fish they’d caught earlier in the day, while the table next to us had some sumptuous stir fry, and yet another had a roast lamb with all the fixings.  And of course, a bottle of Australia wine was always close at hand.

In Perth, the proprietor hosts a weekly BBQ for his guests.  We were dubious, and had planned to go out that tonight.  Until we saw the grill. Steak, sausages, burgers, chicken, grilled veggies, and all the sides. It was one of the best meals I’ve had on the road. And it was free, part of the hospitality that brings guests back to his indy hostel again and again.

OK, so there was the moment later in the evening when the snarky French guests with whom we dined asked Austin and Emmi what it was like traveling with their grandmother. My children wisely withheld that tidbit of info for a few days.  And they both observed the finer art of hostel pick-up lines as the various guests mixed and mingled over the evening. All part of traveling, I figure.

 

Wild Parties Every Night? Not Even Close. Admittedly, a private family room insulates us a bit from the late night comings and goings, but I’ve heard wilder parties at Hyatts when there’s a car dealer convention in town. Like most guests, we were drawn to the communal spaces – comfy sofas, fast wifi, maybe a game of ping pong or pool or darts – but we never came upon a boozing rager.

And check out the book swap table.  Sure, there’s the expected assortment of travel guides and airport lit, but there’s also a surprising assortment of well-loved copies of Hemingway and Dickens and other classics.  And not a single copy of Fifty Shades of Gray to be found. (Our only sighting of that one was a woman at the airport who clearly had no clue what she’d just picked up; we figured her husband was in for a long flight.)

 

HazMat Equipment Needed for the Bathrooms? We didn’t think so. Okay, so in one spot, Emmi and I decided to wait til our next city for a good shower, but Austin used the showers and reported they were fine.  The next spot was spectacular though, with fluffy towels for hire (and we could even change out our towels for fresh ones at no additional cost), hot water, great pressure, and spotlessly clean facilities.  And in the family rooms, we usually scored a private bath – even better.

 

Scary Beds & Linens & Pillows, Oh My! True, it’s not the Four Seasons, and I’ve yet to find a hostel with pillows that really meet the definition of the word.  But, at least where we’ve been, the linens are clean and fresh and without stains and rips, the beds are reasonably comfortable, and the blankets seem to be cleaner than anything I’ve ever gotten on an airplane.  That works for me.

 

But Are They Safe? To borrow from another blogger, that’s like asking if the world is safe.  Sure, as long as you’re reasonably attentive, know what to expect and use common sense.  Basically the same rules for travel anytime, anywhere. We travel with a bike lock to secure our bags together when we leave them somewhere, and with a couple of padlocks, just in case we need them. Most hostels have some sort of provision for securing your belongings – often a locker in your room – and I’ve found the locks to come in handy.

 

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Whale Sharks http://familyvagabonding.com/whale-sharks/?utm_source=rss&utm_medium=rss&utm_campaign=whale-sharks http://familyvagabonding.com/whale-sharks/#comments Sat, 25 May 2013 08:09:47 +0000 Powell Berger http://familyvagabonding.com/?p=1042

Whale Shark, Ningaloo Reef, Australia

Whale Shark, Ningaloo Reef, Australia
Picture 1 of 16

“Great idea,” Owen (my 23 year old son who’s off doing his thing in the world) commented when we told him we wanted to swim with whale sharks.  “All of you in open waters, hundreds of feet deep, swimming with sharks larger than school buses. What could possibly go wrong?”  Truth is, Emmi and I wondered the same thing.  They are huge, and Emmi is pretty tiny, and I’m, well, not tiny, but still, they are really big. And they are, after all, sharks.

Austin and a whale shark, Ningaloo Reef, Australia

But it was Austin’s 16th birthday request, and so it was to be.  That’s the deal in our family. I adopted the idea from a client, back years ago when I had clients and my kids were still young, that on their 16th birthday, they could choose an adventure and I’d do it with them. There are rules and limitations of course, and it requires some mutual planning, but if it’s doable and within reason, that’s their big pay-out.

Austin was 12 when he learned about whale sharks and started planning.  Now, here we are, in remote western Australia, in a tiny outback town called Exmouth, the jumping off point for all things sharking on Ningaloo Reef.  Yep, that’s what they call it: sharking.

Exmouth itself is half the story. The town came into existence because the US military, during WW II, decided a refueling station was needed, and for reasons that aren’t entirely clear, selected this little outpost on a pristine reef as the perfect spot. They built a base, complete with a water tower (which was never used but was erected to make American soldiers feel more at home in the Outback), a bowling alley, and standard issue US military barracks. A tiny little town evolved to support the base, even establishing the point on the edge of town where cars moved from the left side of the road to the right in recognition of this American outpost.  Eventually, the US military abandoned the base – just shutting off the lights and walking away – leaving Exmouth to reinvent itself. The abandoned barracks became a traveler’s inn, and whale sharking and diving on the reef became the new source of revenue and prosperity.

We did what we came to do. We forked out the requisite small fortune and went sharking.

And I am here to tell you, it was worth every penny and every moment of trepidation.

It’s a funny dance, this sharking thing.  A plane flies overhead and spots the creatures, directing the boat captain to the vicinity. On signal, a group of ten “sharkers” jumps in the water and assembles itself into a pre-arranged order (which my group never seemed to fully grasp) and when done correctly, the whale shark comes swimming through the tunnel, almost like kids at the end of the soccer game running through the throngs of proud parents.  Unless the shark has other ideas. Then at the direction of the guide, the sharkers start swimming with the shark or around the shark or away from the shark, trying to stay with the amazing creature while also keeping the requisite distance – 3 meters from the body and 4 meters from the tail.

Trust me when I tell you that being any closer than four meters from that massive tail is something of a death wish.

Our first time in the water, it all worked just as planned. And I swear that massive, beautiful creature heard me mutter “holy f***king shit” when I saw him. We locked eyes as he swam by, as though to say, “yeah, I hear that all the time.”

Our next encounter, same drill. In the water, get in position, guide spots shark. But this time, the shark had other ideas. He took off swimming in the other direction, leaving us to catch up. This time, his swimming abilities and mine were not in the same league. Not even close.  The kids stayed right with him, but I was the forgotten bait, dragging up the rear. The kind and handsome guide in the dinghy took pity on me and towed me back to the group.

I was determined that would not happen again.

Two more encounters, each time same drill, and each time, “holy f***king shit” when I saw the shark. I couldn’t help it. There are no words to describe these magnificent creatures.  I’ve snorkeled the Great Barrier reef and seen some amazing things. I’ve been in a cage encircled by feeding sharks. I’ve had the privilege to swim with dolphins. None of it compares.

They are massive, yes, and they are beautiful, with unique patterns of spots all over their huge bodies. But it’s more than that. They swim with a grace and a power that is almost spiritual. They lock eyes with you, lazily open their massive mouths (easily 3 – 4 feet wide) and strain the krill from the water, then silently move on.

It’s magic.  And we were there to see it.

Oh, I did have one more encounter with the handsome dinghy captain, after swimming with one of the sharks I was a bit slow getting back to the boat. Once again, he came to the rescue, this time hauling me into the dinghy and giving me a lift. Trust me when I say there’s nothing ladylike about being hauled into a dinghy, but I didn’t care. I’d just been swimming with whale sharks.

 

(Photos courtesy of Three Islands, the magnificent outfitter we spent the day with. Luke, our photographer, was stellar.  The other cool creatures pictured — including turtle, reef shark and octopus — were spotted during our morning snorkel before heading out to the outer reef.)

 

 

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Perth — A Vibe and an Attitude that Fits http://familyvagabonding.com/perth-a-vibe-and-an-attitude-that-fits/?utm_source=rss&utm_medium=rss&utm_campaign=perth-a-vibe-and-an-attitude-that-fits http://familyvagabonding.com/perth-a-vibe-and-an-attitude-that-fits/#comments Sat, 25 May 2013 06:50:37 +0000 Powell Berger http://familyvagabonding.com/?p=1035 We wandered into Perth for a couple of days on our way up to Ningaloo reef. We hadn’t loved Adelaide, where we’d spent one night before flying on to Perth. While the surrounding areas – Kangaroo Island, the wine regions, and Hahndorf were wonderful – the city left us cold and ready to move on. Our hostel (the YHA in Adelaide Central), a cool bar table/pit at the pub where we had dinner, and the new airport were our only highlights from the 24 hours, a sure sign a city won’t be on our come-again-soon (or ever) list. By the time we got to Perth, we were jaded, fearing another let-down.

Silly to be so worried.  In its little corner of Western Australia, this smart, can-do city delivers on the charm, adventure and simple pleasures that make Australia one of our favorite destinations.

Melbourne brags about being the best of the best of Australia (which, by the way, it’s not really, in our opinion, but would be pretty darn cool if it quit bragging so much.)  Darwin is the entry point to the Outback – or so it seems – and revels in its too-cool-for-school rough and tumble self sufficiency. Cairns and Queensland have the Great Barrier Reef (enough said).  Sydney has that iconic Opera House, a harbor with ferry tale boats that bob around taking folks to and from work, the globe’s best New Year’s Eve fireworks (above one of the world’s coolest bridges) and world famous surf spots; to paraphrase Bill Bryson, no wonder those folks are so damn happy all the time.

And Western Australia? It sits over there on the other coast, some several thousand miles from the rest of the country, just doing its own thing.  We get it now. Why would they want to share the secret?

We did what we always do in a new place. We walk. We eat. We explore. In those first three or four hours after dropping our bags, we introduce ourselves, get to know each other.

It was the simple stuff that spoke to us.  The artsy, playful street scene in the downtown walking area, for example.  It’s not that we’ve not seen it in other cities – street musicians, playful fountains, acrobats doing various routines for a crowd – but here, it felt normal, like part of the vibe.

Take the random fountain. A young mom embraced it with her two children, allowing her toddler to run, dodge, jump and try to outwit the spurting water that shot up unexpectedly from the sidewalk.  The little girl squealed and giggled, and mom encouraged her, praising her bravery, even joining in and darting between the spurts with her stroller to get in on the action. And when the little girl was finished, drenched and happy, mom popped in the department store and bought dry clothes so her daughter could change before continuing on. Other parents with other strollers followed her lead, and soon the fountain was filled with giggling, happy pre-schoolers.  And the department store readied for the after-party. All this on an otherwise random Wednesday afternoon.

In Kings Park, two women sat with their perfectly outfitted folding table and chairs, their picnic basket, their glasses, their biscuits and their bottle of wine, chatting and nibbling and enjoying the afternoon.  All in the middle of the green lawns between the memorials where people walked and snoozed and caught up on their reading. And somehow, it looked perfectly at home, this tea party setting in the middle of the park. I choose to believe these two kindred souls meet there weekly, and the stories they share are honor-bound to those grounds, never to be spoken of outside that sacred spot.

The café scene is all it’s cracked up to be, with cool, hip spots on every corner, and coffee a religion as though spun off of the grounds shipped over from Seattle. Even public transportation is in on the action:  free buses carve a pattern through the main areas of the city – totally free! – so locals can get to and from without drama. When we hopped on, clueless, the bus driver and several passengers took time to help us map our route, made sure we got off at the right spots, and even made suggestions of things not to miss.

When planning long-term travel, you get it right some of the time, and other times, you realize you fumbled.  Perth is the jumping off point for the vast wilderness wonderland that stretches up the western coast and on to Broome, the Kimberlys and eventually into Darwin.  I routed us through Perth for a quick stop-over before flying up to Exmouth for our Ningaloo Reef and whale shark adventures, not understanding that in this part of the world, getting there really is half the fun.  We’ve already decided, next time through Australia, we’re setting aside a month to drive, explore, meander and get to know the place.

And of course, we’ll start that journey in Perth, where we, too, will dance in the street fountains and share secrets at a tea party right in the middle of the park.

Perth Australia Bus Sign

 

 

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Walkabout http://familyvagabonding.com/walkabout/?utm_source=rss&utm_medium=rss&utm_campaign=walkabout http://familyvagabonding.com/walkabout/#comments Fri, 24 May 2013 20:41:46 +0000 Powell Berger http://www.familyvagabonding.com/?p=60 The Aboriginal culture uses the term Walkabout to describe a journey of unforeseen destination and adventure in an effort to find one’s soul.  It’s a journey of unknowns –  destination, duration, and discovery. You go, then one day, you return. And in that time, it is believed, you find what you’ve been seeking.

Ningaloo Coast, Western Australia

Sitting in a campervan park in remote Western Australia, looking out over the vast red earth that stretches past the horizon, I get it.  What’s out there, beyond the last visible scrubby tree? As the sun sets, the reds and oranges and pinks stretch across the sky in technicolor, a prelude to the carpet of stars that soon fill the darkness.  What might be discovered if one ventures just a bit further, beyond the horizon and into the Outback?

Seems maybe there’s a reason our vagabonding keeps bringing us here.  We started our adventures in Australia, several years ago, and now seem to be drawn back again and again. This time, we’ve wandered through Southern Australia – Adelaide, Barossa wine region, and Kangaroo Island – and now on to  Western Australia, first Perth then north, to outposts it seems even many Australians seem only to have heard about but never visited.

We came seeking whale sharks.  We’d heard about them one starry night sitting on the Sydney Sundancer back in 2009, after yet another glorious day snorkeling the waters of the Whitsunday Islands (Cross link to that post.)   As our friends and hosts told tales of Western Australia – it’s rugged, outback terrain, and the stunning coastlines that stretch for miles – we knew we’d one day see that corner of their country.  When they told us about the whale sharks – gentle giants larger than school buses that swim near the surface – Austin knew what he wanted for his 16th birthday.

He never forgot.  For the following several years, he researched and studied and followed the patterns of these amazing creatures.  He knew where in the world they could be viewed; apparently one can also swim with them in Baja, but it’s less reliable to have a siting there he told me.  I think it was a ploy to get us back to Australia, but I didn’t mind. I wanted to return to this mosaic of a land as well.

Much has happened in our lives since sitting on that sailboat, bobbing around the Whitsundays

Exmouth, Western Australia, Vlamingh Lighthouse

Vlamingh Lighthouse

.  On that journey, we were just beginning our roadschool adventures, not sure how we’d do it or even what it really meant. Four years later, we’re still trekking around the world, roacshooling along the way, a Walkabout of our own, I guess.

As happens in travel – and in life, too, I guess – we plan less now than when we started out on these adventures.  We leave more to chance. We follow our whims and our instincts.  We’ve embraced hostels and campervans and rental apartments in the sketchier parts of town. We’re still learning to spend less and enjoy more.

Our family has changed too. We are older now. The kids, primary and middle schoolers when we started, are now teenagers with their own ideas and plans and dreams.  I’m older too, and keep the Advil bottle a bit closer for those days when the joints remind me of my age.  It’s just the three of us on the road these days. Sometimes families take different turns and course corrections as well.

It’s our Walkabout, our discovery, our adventure. Sometimes it’s hard, not knowing what’s around the next bend, where life might take us.  But it’s harder, I think, to be still and dormant and stuck, and know exactly what’s ahead day after day after day. And so we wander.

Tomorrow, we swim with whalesharks. We make a 16th birthday wish come true.  Then after that?  We leave that to the Walkabout.

 

 

 

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The Power of Less — A Book, but also a Lifestyle? http://familyvagabonding.com/the-power-of-less-a-book-but-also-a-lifestyle/?utm_source=rss&utm_medium=rss&utm_campaign=the-power-of-less-a-book-but-also-a-lifestyle http://familyvagabonding.com/the-power-of-less-a-book-but-also-a-lifestyle/#comments Thu, 16 May 2013 01:39:50 +0000 Powell Berger http://familyvagabonding.com/?p=1016 There’s a little independent book shop in Sydney we love.  It’s in the Rocks, and we happened upon it our first time to Australia, when everything seemed so exotic and foreign and new.   It was our first year roadschooling, and Emmi discovered the magic of literature from that store. Those few books, Australian classics but new to us, still sit prominently on our shelves at home, a bit worn, tattered and loved.

Ariel’s Books, I believe it’s called. We can never remember the name, but we know exactly where it is, and always seem to make our way there on our first day in town. Small, quirky and decidedly independent, it somehow always manages to surprise and inspire us. This time was no exception.

“The Power of Less.” It spoke to me from the table in front, one of those hard cover self-help books that, for me, are like the gossip mags by the check-out in the supermarket.  I flip through them as I wait, never thinking I’ll actually buy one, nor really want to be caught reading it. But still, I’m curious, and it’s there, so I thumb through it.  But this one, I can’t put down.

“I’ve read it, and it’s actually quite good,” the proprietor says as she straightens another table.  She’s been there every time we’ve come.  Maybe the owner, she’s the one who first recommended the classics for Emmi back several years ago. She doesn’t remember us, and I’ve never drawn the connection. We always chat, and I always like her.  “It’s mostly stuff we know of course, but it makes so much sense, and is so well written.”

“Really?” I ask.  “I’m reading the part about managing emails and technology, the black hole of my existence,”  I tell her. I’m a compulsive email checker, and feel the need to respond to each and every one, then file it away somewhere.  But I hate it. My gut clenches every time there’s one from a needy client, from a business I quit loving years ago but just recently had the courage to walk away from. Or from others where distance is just better.  It’s all fear-driven, I realize, and I hate it. But still, I do it.  And somehow, this little book seems to have a few good tips that might help shift the tide.  God knows it’s time.

The proprietor and I continue to chat. Turns out she’s a writer as well, so we swap grammar and writer and funny wording stories.  She tells me about a medical piece she’s currently editing, something about women’s health, where the writer continues to write “sanity napkins,” despite the editor’s corrections.  We both laugh.  “Sanity napkins. How I could’ve used those,” I remark.

I’m too cheap to drop $25 for a hard-cover self-help book, so after too long thumbing without buying, I return it to the pile.  Emmi and Austin, likewise, haven’t found a must-have, so we wander on, without a prized purchase from our favorite store.

But I can’t stop thinking about that book, and our conversation.  The e-book version is much cheaper – only $10 – and it adds no weight to my already too heavy pack. I buy it.

She’s right of course. It’s all stuff we all know already. Time management, priorities, focus, etc, but somehow, this time it’s resonating.  I committed to one habit change – just as the book recommends – and am held accountable by my kids. (In case you don’t have kids and so don’t understand this, there is no tougher prison-master than an empowered off-spring waiting to catch you in the act.) I promised to check email no more than three times/day, and to process the in-box to empty each time.

So far, it’s been working.  The fact that we’re now in rural, isolated Australia with only one wifi spot in town makes the commitment a bit easier, but still, I take credit for change.

But like all tech junkies, I find work-arounds.  I have an international data plan, and periodically, the cell signal is just strong enough to set up a hotspot.  And of course, I can always pull mail on my phone. I just try to limit it to three times/day.  And again, so far it has worked. And I’ve felt really, really good about it.

Until today, when I slipped mightily off the wagon.

“Don’t do email first thing in the morning,” is one of the #1 rules to the book. “Use that time for your priorities, the things that are important to your personal success,” it counsels. I’ve been doing that everyday, getting up and writing – some of my best work I think – leaving emails for late morning.

Until today. For reasons passing all understanding, I picked up the phone off the nightstand (checking the time I said), and before I could stop myself, I downloaded the emails, “just to see what’s there.”  The sun wasn’t even peaking over the horizon, and I was cuddled under the blankets fingering my phone like a meth addict with a new score.  And just like the familiar villians in a made-for-TV-movie, they were all there: a couple of needy clients still wanting a bit more of me, attachments that couldn’t be opened because the signal wasn’t quite strong enough, along with an assortment of other meddlesome, time-sucking things demanding my attention.

The sun is now beating down on the ocean out my window, and I’m still consumed by these messages.  (I’ve tried to open the attachments four times as I’ve written this piece).  I’ve got a raging headache; I’ve used a huge chunk of my monthly data allotment trying to retrieve info that doesn’t want to be retrieved, and my morning productivity has been shot to hell.

And I still can’t open the damned attachments.

We fall off the wagon, I know. And if we can, we get back up and try again, hopefully a bit wiser from the fall. As for me today, I’ve finally turned the phone off, and once this piece is written, I plan to curl up under the blankets again, take some Advil for the headache, and finish reading the book. Or maybe I’ll start from the beginning again, just to be sure I really get the concept.

Oh, and I’ve already made plans to have dinner at the little café with free wifi. I’ll open the attachments then. Surely they can wait that long. Question is, can I?

 

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