Our 4×4 jeep was trouncing over hardpan sand at the edges of the Sahara Desert when I noticed an ominous black cloud rising behind the low hills over my left shoulder.
“I think there’s a sandstorm on the way,” I said to the driver.
“Is nothing,” he tossed back casually.
I hesitated. I was certainly no authority on the Saharan Desert or Morocco, so I was inclined to trust him, but having lived in Arizona for 12 years, I’d been through my fair share of sandstorms. “No, I’m fairly sure it’s a sandstorm, and a pretty big one at that,” I reiterated.
As we drove the last few kilometers to our tent camp the driver casually suggested to our tour host, Dror Sinai, that we could do a sunrise camel ride the following morning rather the evening sunset ride. Before he could reply we crested a final rise in the dirty washboard sand and descended into a Laurence of Arabia landscape. Wave after wave of caramel-colored dunes stretched to the horizon. Scattered around the sinuous peaks and valleys, a caravan of ratty-looking camels nonchalantly chewed their cud. Read More
At the Bristol, England airport, I handed my boarding pass and passport to the EasyJet ticket agent at the check-in counter. He punched my locator number into his computer, then looked up at me quizzically. “You’re a bit early,” he said.
“Yes, I like to get to the airport with a lot of time to spare,” I replied.
Amused, he shook his head. “No, I mean that your flight is for tomorrow, not today.”
“You’re kidding!” I grabbed the boarding pass back from him and, sure enough, my flight was for the following day. Sadly, it was not the first time this had happened to me. One of the drawbacks of perpetual travel is having to keep track of lots of travel plans and sometimes things just go awry.
“We might be able to get you on the flight today, but you’d have to pay a change fee,” he suggested.
Unfortunately, I was headed for Paris, with a quick connection the following morning. Since my layover was only eight hours, I had planned to sleep in the airport. Going a day earlier meant getting a pricey hotel room at the Paris airport. Instead I asked about accommodations near the Bristol Airport and learned there were two hotels just minutes away, both of which had shuttle services. The first was fully booked but the second, Winford Manor, had a room available for a reasonable price of £78 (about $118) and immediately dispatched their shuttle to pick me up. Read More
Stonehenge. The word conjures up visions of thousands of slaves struggling to set giant stone lintels atop colossal standing stones. Of Druid priests in flowing white robes performing ultra-secret rituals within the sacred circle. Of summer and winter solstices, when sunbeams pierced the precisely spaced stones and fell on the monolithic sandstone altar, alerting priests to the shift of seasons.
I couldn’t leave England without seeing this iconic site and my friend, Heather Cowper, who so graciously let me camp out at her house in Bristol, offered to be my chauffeur for the day. Shortly before the 9 a.m. opening hour we stood at the head of the queue, hoping to get photos before the swarms of tourists descended. English Heritage, the organization charged with managing the site, had agreed to grant us access slightly before the official opening time. We had about a three minute head start on the crowd but by the time we made it around to the far side, where the light was good enough for photos, people were already congregating.
I was disappointed. In addition to the crowds, the walking path is so far away from the site that it’s difficult to conceive of the immensity of the stones or the tremendous undertaking it must have been to raise them. Stonehenge seemed less significant, less imposing than I had expected. Hoping that the audio guide would provide inspiration, I put away my camera, donned the headphones, and retraced my steps to the beginning of the self-guiding tour.
I learned immediately that Stonehenge was never a Druid site. This false belief likely stems from the work of William Stukeley, author of the 18th century book, Stonehenge, A Temple Restor’d to the British Druids. In it, he correctly deduced that the site had been constructed by residents of ancient Britain, rather than Romans or Danes. Read More
The moment Measha Brueggergosman sang her final note the audience in the ballroom of the Bath Assembly Room erupted in applause. I enthusiastically joined in and prepared to rise for a well-deserved standing ovation when a deep rumbling rose through the soles of my shoes and reverberated off the walls.
“What are they doing,” I whispered to the man seated next to me.
“It’s like extra applause,” he whispered back. “We Brits stamp our feet on the floor when we’re particularly pleased with a performance.”
Brueggergosman has been captivating audiences since she first stepped onto the stage in 1998, but it was her performance of the Olympic Hymn at the 2010 Vancouver Winter Games that finally thrust her into the international spotlight. Serendipitously, I was visiting Bath, England on the day that Brueggergosman was scheduled to appear at the annual Bath International Music Festival. I settled into my third row center seat, tingling with excitement to hear this master operatic soprano perform selections from Ravel’s Sheherazade, Britten’s On This Island, Wagner’s Wesendonck Lieder, Poulenc’s Chansons, and Turina’s Tres Sonetos.
Brueggergosman climbed the few steps to the stage, revealing bare feet when she lifted her floor-length gown. Once front and center she smiled and playfully arranged the yards of fabric flowing around her feet with her toes, then clasped her hands formally in front of her waist and stood statuesque. Read More
From the roof of Thermae Bath Spa I looked out over Tudor and Georgian rooftops with row upon row of cylindrical black chimneys as Charlotte Hanna, assistant sales & marketing manager for the spa, gave me a primer on the history of Bath, England. Archeological evidence suggests that humans were visiting and worshiping the hot springs in Bath as far back as 8000 B.C., but it wasn’t until 2,000 years ago, when the Romans colonized Britain, that written documentation began. The invaders wrote of a lush, uninhabited valley where natural hot springs bubbled up from the ground. Locals lived in forts atop the seven hills that surround the valley, descending each day to graze their livestock, fish, and to worship the water. But each night they retreated to their hilltop abodes, leaving the pristine valley to Sul, the pagan goddess of water, healing, and wisdom worshiped by Britons. “Clearly, the ancient people of Britain considered this a spiritual site,” Charlotte explained.
The Romans erected a temple to Minerva, their own goddess of wisdom and healing, but acknowledged the pagan goddess by naming the site Aquae Sulis, which means waters of Sul. By the first century AD they had constructed the Roman Baths, a five-foot deep rectangular basin lined with 45 sheets of lead and topped by an enormous barrel-vaulted hall. People from all over the Roman empire flocked to the the site: Germans, Italians, the Gauls (French), Spanish, northern Africans, some as slaves but many as travelers determined to visit what had by then become one of the most important destinations in the Roman empire. Read More
The young man was so intent upon spray painting the brick wall that he didn’t notice me. He was tall and willowy, wearing baggy jeans and checked shirt, but with a respirator covering his nose and mouth it was hard to tell much more. His mural, on the other hand, screaming out in blood-red block letters, was anything but nondescript. I interrupted to ask why he was painting a mural on a brick wall when he knew it would likely be covered over within days.
He paused and swiped at beads of sweat running down into his eyes. “Just for the love of it. It’s the way I express myself,” he replied. He didn’t much care that other street artists would paint over it. “There’s sort of an unwritten agreement that we don’t paint over other work when it’s brand new, so at least I know it will be seen for a little while. And when it’s gone I’ll paint another one.”
Travel blogger Heather Cowper and I had embarked upon a walking tour earlier that day, specifically to view street art in her home town of Bristol, England. We’d begun on Nelson Street, home to See No Evil, the UK’s largest permanent street art project. Inspired by large-scale street installations in Melbourne, Australia and Lisbon, Portugal, street artist Tom Bingle, better known by his street name Inkie, began looking around for a location in Bristol that would be appropriate for such an installation. Read More