Travel Oops: People Really Do Win These Things…

Posted on March 27, 2013 by sglaser

A lemon cake. That’s what I won at a school carnival in third grade at Forest Hills Elementary in Eden Prairie, Minnesota, USA. Contestants walked around a circle marked by numbers on the floor while music played until the cake walk ringleader stopped the song. If the ringleader announced your number, you won the cake.

Despite the fact I didn’t particularly like lemon cake, I was quite impressed with my prize and my luck. It’s a good thing because that is essentially the only award by chance I have received. I’m not really counting a pair of ski gloves I won at a raffle last year since, basically, almost all raffle contestants were out skiing or in the lodge drinking beer when the tickets were drawn. Due to several no-shows, I claimed the gloves with one of the last remaining tickets.

However, my luck karma reached jackpot levels at the end of 2012. After entering a Facebook contest sponsored by Lonley Planet, Tourism Australia and Virgin Australia Airlines, I won two roundtrip tickets to Australia. Yeah. I know. HUGE. MASSIVE. MEANT TO BE!! People really do win these things.

The Universe must have been listening. Ever since my family and I returned broke in 2011 from my exchange teaching stint in Adelaide, I have joked that I need to find someone else to pay for or sponsor our travel. The Universe came through — BIG TIME.

The contest involved writing a 25-words-or-less bit about who you would take to Australia and why. Of course, I chose my husband, Kurt. I must admit that in my entry writeup, I didn’t want to admit that we had lived in Oz already. So I wrote something rather vague and cheesy. Here’s the spiel:

“A real homebody, my husband Kurt has just recently given travel a go; I want to share the world with him!”

I figured the part about “recently giving travel a go” was vague enough to cover…”he hadn’t really traveled outside the country until we moved to Australia, and then we traveled HEAPS.”

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Signs of the Times: “Sorry, Christ the Redeemer, You are not Authorized”

Posted on March 23, 2013 by sglaser

Ski Cooper, Colorado. When I first saw this sign, I immediately thought of the famous Christ the Redeemer (Cristo Redentor) statue in Rio de Janeiro. Really, the sign, I believe, is meant to say children or babies are not allowed. Then, I thought how would a baby even walk over there and open the door in the first place.

The Unfortunate Photo: Checking out the floor tiles of the Taj Mahal

Posted on March 17, 2013 by sglaser

My friend Jane Whitmer was kind enough to let me use this photo of her at the Taj Mahal. Talk about trooper: Jane had bedbugs, Delhi Belly, and it was 120 degrees fahrenheit on the day she visited this Wonder of the World.

Here’s the Travel Oops Interview about Jane and her travels to India.

Signs of the Times: David “Creeperfield” Stares You Down in Las Vegas

Posted on March 15, 2013 by sglaser

Las Vegas, Nevada, USA. Forget Celine Dion, Michael Jackson, Elvis Presley, Frank Sinatra and the Rat Pack. David Copperfield rules over Las Vegas (apparently, according to his website, he was knighted by France and the US LIbrary of Congress considers him to be a “living legend.”)

Currently he is booked at the MGM Grand, but he is everywhere in LV. At least his eyes are. If you thought the Mona Lisa’s eyes look everywhere, remember she is 30″ by 20 7/8″ and kept behind a glass case. David Copperfield is emblazoned on several sides of a very large building. He’s also on posters, billboards and cabs. So he stalks you with his unsettling stare.

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Travel Oops — “Did I tell you I had a bad experience the last time I was here?”

Posted on March 14, 2013 by sglaser

A show at the Melkweg © Ciell

I think it was while my college friend Amy dumped water all over my face as I lay on the concrete floor outside of the Melkweg’s concert hall that I decided hashish in Holland was not for me.

The “Black Afghani,” which I had tried earlier in the evening, took over during the show at Amsterdam’s famous venue. As everyone gyrated around me, I stood still. Staring at my feet, I was focused and determined to synchronize my heartbeat with the drumbeat.

Finally synched, I saw a blue light shoot forward. Then blackness settled in. Only vaguely aware of anything, I fell forward, slamming into the people ahead of me. A barely audible “Steph,” Steph,” STEPH seeped in with the black. “Man, you are dead weight!” I heard someone say in the fog.

Also altered, my friends dragged me out of the main music hall and into a busy corridor. People whooshed by without even looking down as I lay on the ground. Tourists passing out in the bars of Amsterdam was about as common as tulips blooming in spring. Fortunately, my friends, whom I had only known for three weeks when we began our Dutch study abroad program, surrounded me.

The first coherent thought that came to mind was: “Damn! My parents are going to find out about this!” That thought, along with total embarrassment, contributed to the major paranoia I experienced for the rest of the night. On the train back to Leiden, I was convinced that all the passengers returning from Amsterdam at 2:30 a.m. knew what had happened and judged me for it.

During the rest of my stay in the Netherlands, I avoided further encounters with THC. I also avoided telling anyone I really just didn’t like it.

Six years later and back in Amsterdam:

“So it’s 25 guilders for 2 grams of Black Cobra light hash. You also serve space cakes, magic herbs and herbal elixirs, correct?” I asked. “All righty, that should do it.”

“Would you like to sample something?” suggested the hash bar’s balding owner. Wearing gold hoop earrings, he so strongly resembled Mr. Clean that I thought he should be hawking kitchen cleanser rather than drugs.

“I can’t. I’m working, but thank you for the offer. Dank u wel” I said while scribbling a few bulleted points into my notebook.

I was back in Holland. This time I was revising and writing for the 1996 Berkeley Guides Europe edition. Fodor’s created the Berkeley Guides, compiled by UC Berkeley students, to compete with Harvard’s Let’s Go budget travel series. Although I wasn’t a student, I worked as a copywriter for the university. My job and past experience in the Netherlands were connection enough.

Amsterdam © Stephanie Glaser 1989

As travel writer/updater, it was my job to ensure that travelers read new, accurate and reliable information. Fact checking is a huge part of the job.

Consequently, I confirmed hours of operation, prices, bus routes, wheelchair accessibility and cultural norms. I visited museums, parks, cafes, hostels and, of course, hash bars. This was for the Berkeley Guides after all.

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Signs of the Times: Is there something newer than silicone?

Posted on March 8, 2013 by sglaser

Las Vegas, Nevada, USA. Maybe the company has come up with a new marinade for their famous hot wings. Regardless, we know there’s something saucy.

Travel Oops: Interrupting the Rapture — Roosters in Bali

Posted on March 6, 2013 by sglaser

While your chi may be in balance, your senses go ballistic in Bali. After all, you’ve got the sweet smell of incense and plumerias wafting while wooden chimes clonk together in the humid, tropical breeze.

And then, overworking your retina, Technicolor greens of jungle vegetation, rice paddies and terraces pop. Meanwhile, soothing golds of National Geographic sunsets and ornate costumes calm down the pupil palpitations.

You may experience the wet brush bristles that a Hindu priest gently dabs on your skin before he places rice grains on your forehead to deliver a blessing. At the end of the day, with a semi-warm Bintang, swallow down all of those sensory details along with the lingering taste of turmeric and chili peppers from Nasi Goreng, Indonesia’s national dish.

It’s enough to keep you completely zenned out for life. However, a specific sound on the Island of the Gods easily shatters that inner peace and jars your senses into consciousness. A rooster. At 4 a.m. Every morning. On the dot. (Aren’t they supposed to wait until sunrise?)

For centuries, roosters have strutted their stuff as part of the scene in Southeast Asia, where they were originally domesticated. In fact, today, these cocks are like scooters in Southeast Asia — persistent, aggressive often competing and always demanding attention. In Bali, cockfights are sacred and have always been part of “Tabuh Rah,” an important Balinese Hindu ritual.

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Signs of the Times: Welcome to McDonald’s (but after 30 minutes, get the hell out!)

Posted on March 2, 2013 by sglaser

Las Vegas Strip, Nevada. I understand that on the Vegas strip, many people probably “linger” a bit longer than some businesses may like, but this sign is pretty clear. I also definitely get why you don’t want people who aren’t paying customers to hang out, but wow, if someone is enjoying a Big Mac bonanza, he or she should probably be allowed to at least begin the digestion process. I wonder if the people to which the sign is targeted think to themselves, “Wow, like the sign says, I’ve overstayed my “welcome,” I had better move on.”

On the other hand, this Mickey D’s further down on the south side of the LV strip where it’s less populated and glitzy, has a sign that says, “Here’s where the party is People!!” Now here is a welcome sign. I’m lovin’ this one!

Travel Oops: Unfortunate Photos Complete with Unfortunate Fashion

Posted on March 1, 2013 by sglaser

This series of photos is unfortunate in so many ways. First there is the fact that my overexposed sister Suzanne and I, along with our bad 80’s perms, essentially block out and overshadow the Eiffel Tower. Then, we are wearing some pretty atrocious coats. Actually, I’m really the one who is wearing a rejected carpet remnant.

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Travel Oops: How about a Skippy Burger on the Barbie?

Posted on February 27, 2013 by sglaser

Shrimp? author: Ramiroja

“Maybe we should get some shrimp,” I suggested to Kurt as we cruised through the aisles of Coles, one of Australia’s main grocery stores. “You know Aussies really like their ‘shrimp on the barbie.’” I repeated a well-known fact in the US about Australians and their barbecue bounty.

Kurt and I were preparing to host our first “legit” Australian barbecue. To say barbecuing is popular in Australia is a pretty flimsy assessment. BBQs in Australia are like Baptist churches in the Bible Belt of the US. They are a given, well attended and the followers are devout.

We knew barbecue was big time. In fact, only living in Adelaide a few weeks, we had already been invited to two events.

The grills, alone, are impressive precision-engineered machines and major household appliances. Some look like they could power a small aircraft. Certainly the control panel of the one we used confused a rookie Yank like me as I attempted to adjust settings during a trial run.

Consequently, we searched Coles for the right meats, sides and even condiments. “I don’t see any shrimp at all — just these prawns,” I called out to Kurt. “Yikes, and look at how expensive they are.” I could certainly understand exorbitant prices for seafood in a land locked area, but we were ten minutes from the ocean. Nixing the idea of shrimp, we considered other options.

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