So the travels have turned into surf safari again. When your significant other is married to the waves, it happens.

Chris and I set out on a road trip to Portugal from France, and by the time we had picked up the rental car in Madrid he was already busily charting the swell – it was brewing somewhere far, far away, and ultimately headed our way. After checking the offshore buoys online, Chris determined that we had a window of about four days until we had to be near the coast. In other words, I had four days to plan the trip how I wanted – then it would be coast-est with the mostest for the rest of the time.

I am used to this sort of imperative.

But even in the off time before the swell arrives, I somehow always feel the energy of the phantom waves’ presence pounding down on us, steering our itinerary toward the ocean.

There’s Chris, already judging wind conditions as we approach the coast. A worried crease pinches his forehead as we near the fishing village of Peniche on Portugal’s central coast and the wind is absolutely howling onshore, causing what little swell there is to foam into loathsome closeouts.

When we reach our destination, Ericeira – a surf-centric fishing village less than an hour north of Lisbon – times are truly turning tense. The main break is full of ‘kooks’ floundering in the waves like beaching whales – young prodigies of the onsite Escola de Surf, no doubt, hauling boards the size of boats and acting as slalom buoys for the folks who actually know what they’re doing in the water.

“In America, you would never put a surf school right at the main break,” laments Chris, shaking his head. He scowls at the Austrian and Swiss license plates on cars stacked with surfboards in the parking lot. “I don’t mind people learning how to surf,” he said, “but the thing is they don’t know anything about the etiquette.”


To go into surfing etiquette would sidetrack this blog completely. And, coming from a kook like me, it probably wouldn’t hold a lot of credence anyway. So I’ll refrain.

The next morning, things were looking up. As we drive to the main break in Ericeira – a right point break at Ribeira – the swell lines are more visible then ever. Arriving on Sunday just as the Internet predicted, they are steamrolling toward the shore. The wildflowers spilling over the dunes still have their petals shut in sleep, but for the surfers the day has long since begun.

Chris can barely contain his excitement. The wind is offshore, causing the peelers to stand at attention until breaking in a finely cut line.

I can’t help but relax, too, even if I won’t be paddling out myself. Finally the ocean has delivered – and in such grand scale, no less, that the kooks (me among them) will most likely stay onshore – just like one of those dreaded, wrong-direction howling winds.

- by Terry Ward

(Note: I’m afraid the title may be misleading. I just reread it, and it sounds a bit “servicey,” as though research was performed in conjunction with these recommendations. Research is a tricky word, which is why I try to avoid it at all costs. That doesn’t mean, however, that my opinions are uninformed. I have heard of all of these places and know for a fact that they are indeed inexpensive, and if you do not already live there, going there makes it a getaway.)

Arlington, TX

Arlington, the seventh largest city in Texas, is the largest city in the United States that is not served by a public transportation system, which is perfect because there isn’t much to see. Plus, if you were on public transportation you might miss one of Arlington’s greatest attractions, the sign dedicating route I-20 to Ronald Reagan. Arlington also boasts the original Six Flags theme park, which is now the country’s oldest Six Flags theme park.

Latrobe, PA

If you like beer, you’ll love Latrobe. After a year of inactivity at the former Rolling Rock brewery, Sam Adams will begin rolling out their premium lagers there next month.

If you like anything else besides beer, you won’t like Latrobe.

Pensacola, FL

Ever wonder what the National Museum of Naval Aviation is like? Well in Pensacola, you can find out. Pensacola also boasts several miles of coastal land, referred to as the “World’s Whitest Beaches.” Whether this is a reference to the city’s demographics or the color of its sand, Pensacola promises not to overwhelm your senses.

Flint, MI

With the fourth highest unemployment rate in the U.S., Flint is a great city to relax. Stop by the city’s tallest building, the 19-story Genesee Towers, but don’t get too close. Completed in 1968, the building has fallen into severe disrepair, and passersby are encouraged to beware of falling debris. Flint is also the largest city in America with a one-syllable name.

Compton, CA

Adventure junkies will love the energetic lifestyle offered by Compton. Activities include running, dodging and constantly remaining alert of your surroundings. Compton also has a thriving nightlife. Catch a shootout between rival gangs, but don’t get too close. End the night with a stiff drink at any of the local bodegas.

- by Dan Murphy of [redacted] fame

It was Friday night, the sun was setting, and my father decided that he wanted to celebrate the Sabbath like a good Jew. Sure, some people come to Rio de Janiero for the beaches, the music, the bikini waxes, but not my father. And this action was particularly puzzling as Brazil is neither a country known for its Jewish population, nor is my family terribly religious.

After getting the name of a synagogue from the concierge, he set off with my mother and no command of Portuguese. And after twenty-five minutes of walking, it turned out that no such synagogue existed.

“Well, we tried. Let’s head back,” my mother said.

And just as my father was about to respond, he spotted a Jewish couple. How do you know they were Jewish, you anti-Semite, you ask? Well, let’s just say nothing screams Heeb like payas (those curly sideburns) and an accompanying woman with a long skirt and a stroller full of babies.

“Perfect!” My mother exclaimed. “I bet they know where there’s a synagogue. Go ask them.”

“And how am I supposed to ask them?” my dad said, frustrated.

Frankly, I think there are a lot of ways he could have explained himself. Simulate praying. Draw a Star of David in the air. Show them you’re circumcised. Instead he said, “Let’s just follow them and see where they’re going.”

And that’s when my father started his Jewish reconnaissance mission. And as my mother knew it was fruitless to argue, she went along for the ride. I don’t know if it’s because my father was in the army during Vietnam—albeit it was language school—which made him feel like trailing someone was a good idea, but off they went.

Whenever they feared they would be “discovered” they would jump into the nearest doorway, like some kind of two member A-Team gone horribly wrong. They followed the couple for three miles, past the beach, past the prostitutes, the pick pockets, and the many salsa and meringue clubs that filled the city.

Finally, the Jewish couple entered a building. Only problem was that it was someone’s house. Seems the couple was heading to dinner, and not to hang with God just yet. My parents dejectedly began the trek back to find our hotel.

Luckily, the expedition wasn’t a total loss: my mother found a “Curves” gym, which she belongs to in the states, and it thrilled her to no end. Apparently, it’s just the little capitalist things.

- by Emily Epstein of b’scuse me? fame.

Flying is never fun. Even in the best case scenario you’re the worse for wear by the time you get off the plane. This task is even less fun when there are babies involved. Sure they’re cute, but boy can they scream.

On my flight back from Hong Kong, I sat behind the most adorable little Chinese children. One such precious item was a little boy who was about 2. The only thing that was questionable about him were his pants. They looked like normal pants until you realized there was a slit from the butt to the waist. You know, kind of like the chaps that Prince wears. Now, I figured, sure, he’s a bit young for the rock star attire, but whatever floats his boat.

Halfway through the flight I feel something warm on my foot. And I freak out. And that’s because I know exactly what it is. That’s right, this little bundle of joy had managed to pee not only onto the seat, but through the seat onto my foot behind him.

And I knew it was pee right away because he had done the same thing to the guy next to me earlier in the flight.

Now maybe you think I’m an idiot for not changing seats, but frankly, I didn’t think that pee, like lightning, would strike twice.

After further investigation, I learned that “baby chaps” used to be quite common in rural parts of China. When the kid would have to pee, the parents would just hold him up over the dirt road and he could do his thing without anyone having to change a diaper. And yes, this saves on diapers and fertilizes the earth, but is definitely not meant for a 12-hour flight.

Even better, the flight attendants, who were helpful but were totally laughing at us, tried to explain that it was just part of Chinese culture. I assume they were talking about the buttless pants; after all, I don’t think golden showers on tourists’ feet have ever been a local custom.

- by Emily Epstein of b’scuse me? fame.

In the 1987 hit play Into The Woods, six famous fairytale characters find themselves lost in the forest, each on a separate mission. They sing a cheerily addictive song called “Into the Woods”, and they skip. Along the way, there is adventure, deception, true love and redemption. There is even a goose who lays golden eggs.

I believe this is a false representation of the woods. Over the weekend I went to the Poconos, and it was nothing like this. Maybe this is the off-season (or maybe my father should have taken me camping more when I was young) but from what I could tell Into the Woods gets it all wrong. That is not meant as a recrimination. I love musical drama as much as the next guy who saw the entire series of Dawson’s Creek, but when I am “away” I prefer to relax. I don’t need ogres chasing me or princesses relying on me to save them from towers. I get enough of that in Manhattan.

I’ll be the first to admit that like most people I always thought of the Poconos as one of those fake places that people use as reference points in conversations. Like when people say something is “like Reno.” But it turns out it is real, and it is boring, and I love it.

I understand that people might call it “The Fake Outdoors” (or not, because I just made that up) simply because there are things like security gates and onsite gyms with guest passes available for friends and family of members, but the bottom line is that it’s unnatural to be pretentious about nature. The Poconos has trees, lakes, rocks and all the other things that people crave when they are trying to get away from curbed sidewalks and Starbucks (although the on-site restaurant proudly serves Starbucks coffee). And as a wise person once told me, “Wherever you go, there you are.” She never explained it to me, because when she first said it to me I nodded profoundly in mock understanding, but over the weekend I learned what it means. It means that you can’t expect a change of scenery to cure what ails you. You need to use what is around you to cure yourself.

I learned all that from my dog, who I brought with me. Being a city dog, he often gets depressed that he cannot run more than ten feet without hitting a wall. So when we arrived at the house, which is situated on over three acres, he was confused. Yet he was smart enough to understand that the land is only what you make of it. So he didn’t run around hastily, searching for adventure, which is what he craves in New York. Instead, he pensively roamed the land, appreciating its unique splendor, and at the end sat on a rock, contemplating the silence, taking all there was to take from a land he never knew existed.

Now if only I could get him to lay golden eggs – something I wouldn’t mind picking up behind him.

- by Dan Murphy of [redacted] fame