Time to don your whites for celebrity spying and strawberry gobbling. What does Wimbledon mean to travel? Tennis is all about travel, boasting as wide an international appeal as any sport. ATP tour professionals are the most-traveled atheletes in all the sports world, grinding through a demanding schedule that includes stops in Australia, Monaco, Paris, England, NYC, Tokyo, Bangkok, Dubai and Las Vegas. Tough life.
Wimbledon, the grandaddy of Grand Slams, kicks off today, celebrating it’s 130th year of competitive play. With an expected attendance of around 500,000 for the two-week event, plenty of travellers are soaking in the All England Club fun (and rain).
The summer festival season kicks off this weekend, leaving me wishing I could be in about ten places at once.
As a former New Orleanian (though no one who’s lived in New Orleans will allow for this former nonsense, despite where you currently reside), I love seeing proper Cajun/Creole celebrations in other cities. And that’s just what the devotees behind the Long Beach Bayou Festival are up to, running strong in their 21st year. Expect mounds of crawfish, great zydeco/blues/jazz and lots of parading in what’s become a grand tradition of New Orleans meets SoCal.
On the softer side, but no less a marvel of the senses, Newport welcomes flower-heads from around the world for their annual Flower Show. Held at the Rosecliff, a majestic sea-front mansion from the Gilded Age, the Newport show is the biggest summer flower show in New England, at least two-hundred times larger than the Northern Maine Potato Blossom Festival.
Is it Friday yet? Can I get a beer? If I were in Colorado, I’d be swimming in it. Lagers. Stouts. Ales. Porters. Mmmmmm. A mere 30,000 thirsty travellers will be descending on Fort Collins, Colorado (rocking town, by the way) for this weekends Brewers’ Festival...And I’ll be…I’ll be in Maryland toasting the sky in tribute.
Who needs birra when there’s vinooooooo? Plenty of both will be spilled at the Calcio Fiorentino Revival, a costumed, medieval football match in Florence. It is possibly the most violent human celebration I’ve ever witnessed, more Fight Club than Premier League. Ahh, those crazy Italians.
Three years ago when a certain American President retained control of the White House after a less than stellar first go at it (you may have heard of him), I made a promise to myself. You see, I wasn’t what you would call “satisfied” with the results of that election. However, I’m not the type of person to take to the streets in protest (it was a cold winter and the streets can be dangerous). So I decided to protest my way: I would leave the country…once every year for the next four years. I figured everyone won: I got to see new and adventurous places. And no one else really mattered.
The first year I went to Scotland. It was my first intercontinental trip, and I only drove into oncoming traffic once. It was a roaring success. After navigating myself from the small northern town of Ballater all the way to Edinburgh and back in one day, I considered myself a seasoned foreign traveler. I’ve always set the bar for success rather low.
My second year, I ran out of money or time or maybe both. After futile attempts to pay my way to Fiji using $500, a Blockbuster gift card, and my wit, I settled on Montreal. I gave myself a pass on this because technically Montreal resides in a foreign country. Besides, I have learned that it is never good to be hard on oneself, especially when one is giving it their best shot, even if that best shot only lands you in Canada.
I resolved then (re-resolved, really) to not let myself down this year. So this Saturday I leave for Siena, Italy. Clearly, I will have much to write upon my return. In fact, I have a distinct picture of what Italy will be like. And taking a cue from a certain world leader, I will end my pre-trip post with some ignorant observations about some things about which I know nothing. Call it cultural stereotyping, call it racial profiling, call it my best plan yet. Here are some uneducated expectations:
1. I will eat pasta and drink wine. Every morning.
2. I will meet a beautiful, dark-haired woman named Maria. She will speak little English and giggle at my big American hands. My girlfriend will hate her.
3. I will eat pasta and drink wine. Every night.
- by Dan Murphy of [redacted] fame
Summer is nearly upon us and for those of you in the Northern Hemisphere, Thursday, June 20th marks both the summer solstice and the longest day of the year. Celebrate extra daylight by picnicking in the park; roadtripping cross country; heading off in that backpacking trip that you’ve always wanted to take; enjoying the summer’s countless outdoor festivals; hitting the surf or taking your sailboat out for a refreshing spin around your local lake. No matter what you do, be sure to get outside and soak up all that this summer has to offer.
* And The Winner Is…
* Sailing on the Hudson River
* Festival of the Sun
* Summer on Travelistic
* Road Trip on Travelistic
TOP VIDEOS THIS WEEK
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The Grandaddy of all Dragon Boat Festivals kicks off today throughout China. Commemorating the life and death of poet Qu Yuan, who drowned himself in protest of government corruption, thousands of teams construct dragon boats and race in regional celebratory competitions. The day winds down with some delicious zhong zi, the ceremonial stuffed rice dumpling.
China isn’t the only place where Yuan’s spirit endures. With Chinese expats the world over turning foreign-soil Dragon Boat Festivals into annual events, from Vancouver to Washington D.C., and dragon-themed boat races all the summer rage across rural America, the Dragon Boat tradition has sustained and, in some instances morphed, into red-blooded American competitions.
I’m betting they don’t eat zhong zi in Tennessee. Somewhere, Qu Yuan is smiling.
It’s sticky-hot, I’m maintaining a healthy sunburn from 1.5 hours outside a day, the AC is cranking, my hands are blistered from too many BBQ mis-grabs and the multiplex is full of big-bad blockbusters.
Feels like summer.
And as of this Thursday, June 21st, at 2:06 EDT, it is Summer. Or if you’re in the Southern Hemisphere, it’s Winter. Time of the Solstice.
People throw the word Solstice around like a frisbee, but I’m not sure if many folks know what it really means, or where it comes from. Something to do with the sun…A time of change, a seasonal change. The time marking the beginning of a season. Possibly coined by the Druids?
Solstice is actually Latin for the time the sun stands still. According to Wikipedia, “A solstice occurs twice a year, whenever Earth’s axis tilts the most toward or away from the Sun, causing the Sun to be farthest north or south at noon…(On) the solstice the Sun stands still in declination, that is, its movement north or south is minimal.”
And while most believe that solstice marks the beginning of summer (or winter), some European cultures (and Wiccans – unclear where the Druids stand on this one) proclaim Solstice as midsummer, or Litha, celebrated with bacchanalian nature festivals each and every June 24th. So if you find yourself in the Finnish countryside this weekend and folks are building bonfires the size of barns, you’ll know it’s not just for you.
Is it just me, or do European dogs seem better behaved than their canine counterparts in America?
In France, dogs get first class treatment – which isn’t to say that we don’t completely indulge our pets in the States. It’s just that here, dogs are seriously treated like people. You see them trotting into bakeries behind their owners to pick up the daily baguette. Dogs patiently lounge tableside, waiting for their owners during indoor meals at brasseries.
They even trot calmly and with a purpose around the Carrefour – the French equivalent of Wal-Mart – as if they’re sure the chewies are just around the corner and they’ll be in and out in a jiffy, merci beaucoup.
I suppose the reason why I notice the dogs here so much is because they remind me of the canine in my life – a lovable if hyper poodle named Wally who lives with my parents in Virginia. Wally definitely could not hang in France.
While the German shepherds and Scotties in the markets in France simply pass each other with nary a second sniff, Wally would go berserk. Just the scents wafting from the market itself would have him humping everything in sight. Wally is simply incapable of walking in a straight line down the street without greeting everyone and everything in sight.
I just can’t figure out how these Europeans have their dogs so well trained. It’s the same in Spain, Germany, Holland and beyond. Dogs are somehow capable, in busy city settings, of following along behind their owners, unleashed, without feeling the need to chase every tail that goes by.
And have you ever heard anyone say that dogs and their owners resemble one another?
It’s true. Just have a look at any city square in Europe, you’ll see. Man and his best friend, side by side at the café. Taking in a little people and pet-watching while sipping a cool drink – then getting up nonchalantly after an hour or two to go do some more shopping.
- by Terry Ward
Las Vegas in April is a sunny retreat from the chilly Northeast in early spring. But a week-long convention is enough to exhaust even the most enthusiastic sun-seeker. Vegas had dissolved into a blur of vendors, nametags, and long lines for the convention center shuttle. At night, there was no refuge in the hotel from the din of slot machines and bad cabaret acts. I had also eaten enough fried chicken, gravy, and creamed vegetables to last me a year.
On the last day of the conference, my boyfriend and I high-tailed it out of Las Vegas. We knew nothing about Boulder City except it was near the Colorado River and, more importantly, hot springs. We arrived in the evening and explored the downtown: a supermarket, an antique shop, a pizza parlor, and a wine bar that doubled as a retail store. We decided to save our energy for getting up extra early.
The next day, we made a requisite stop at the Hoover Dam. Or rather, my boyfriend made the stop and I tagged along, complaining about the sheer crush of cars and tourists just to see a piece of concrete. It didn’t look very impressive from above. It was one of those “been there, seen that” type of stops, and then back on the road to the main destination.
We didn’t have enough time to kayak 9 miles on the Colorado to the hot springs, so we rented a boat instead. There were no signs for the springs, so we relied on descriptions culled from internet research, such as “narrow canyon near mile marker 17” or “large rock outcrop near two smaller outcrops”. After careful searching, and retracing our trail, we found one of the three springs. We reached the spring after a bit of climbing, and spent an hour soaking away the last bits of stress from Sin City.
After the hot spring we decided to head further up the river. The water came to a near standstill at the base of the Hoover Dam. We were about 200 feet from the base, with the dam towering over 700 feet above us. There were no lines of cars anywhere, or throngs of tourists, or massive placards touting the glory of hydroelectric power. Just two sunburnt people, straining their necks, struck by how impressive concrete is from a different angle.
- by Diana Kuan of Indietrekker fame
Oregonians have a fastidious devotion to local products: seafood, wine, cheese, chai, ice cream…the list goes on and on. Local craft beer, however, enjoys somewhat of a cult following. There are 28 breweries in Portland alone, and countless other microbrewers that usually consist of a couple of guys in a basement experimenting with hops and barleys and yeast, and showcasing their products only at annual beer festivals.
Telling a local you’re from New York will elicit a brief moment of delight (“I love New York!” or “Oh…must be exciting living there!”), then a prolonged moment of pity (“No good beer there, huh.”) I live in a city where basements are extra apartments, not think tanks for craft ales. So I had friends show me around to the best watering holes in Portland, keeping in mind that a week is hardly enough time to experience the best of the city’s brewpubs.
Sure, there are bigger commercial breweries like Rogue, Widmer’s, and BridgePort, which are all good for large crowds. But for atmosphere, we turned to some of the many brewpubs housed in historic buildings. At the Baghdad and the Laurelhurst, two renovated movie palaces that are also pubs, we bought second-run show tickets for $3 and pitchers of house brews for $10. Every other row of seats has tables to accomodate your popcorn, pitchers, and extra glasses. The films range from foreign flicks to good ol’ slapstick (we saw “Reno 911” at the Baghdad) But here, you don’t really go to the theater to watch the movies.
McMenamins Kennedy School is on the outskirts of Portland, but still draws a large city crowd. The former elementary school was renovated by the McMenamin brothers into a hotel/brewery/restaurant/pub. And renovating in Portland means keeping almost all rooms intact. You can have a drink in the Detention Bar or Honors Bar, or host a private party in the Gym under the basketball hoops. (Note to all imbibers: All the toilets are left at kiddie height.) One room that has been removed is the Teacher’s Lounge; the site has been turned into a hot tub for a nice post-drink soak.
It’s a good thing that there are tons of hiking trails around Portland to cancel out 7 days of IPAs, brown ales, porters, and stouts. The greasy pub fare, on the other hand, will have to be taken care of later.
- by Diana Kuan of Indietrekker fame
