Twenty five years ago, on the evening of 9 November 1989, the Berlin Wall fell. Berlin had been on my travel wish list for a long time. With the 25th anniversary of the fall of the wall looming, I decided to put it off no longer.
The city did not immediately impress me. The apartment I rented for a week was in a 15-story high rise in the Kreuzberg area, just a ten minute stroll from the infamous Checkpoint Charlie that marked the border between the American and Soviet sectors in the days when there was still an East and West Berlin. From my 4th floor window I looked down on a sea of squat, uninteresting structures. Some of this uninspired architecture owes it’s existence to Hitler, who espoused a Nationalist style that valued function over form and eschewed even the most basic ornamentation. But to blame Hitler solely would be a mistake. By the end of World War Two, 60% of the city’s buildings had been razed and another 20% were unusable.
Russians troops, who reached the city in December of 1945, were intent upon revenge for the 20 million of their countrymen who had fallen. Berliners fought, not on behalf of the Third Reich, but in a desperate attempt to protect their families. After surrender, even the buildings still standing were pocked by mortar shells and bullet holes. Berlin was little more than a pile of bricks.
“It was women who rebuilt the city,” one of my tour guides from Context Walking Tours explained. “So many of the men had been killed in the war. Every day the women, my mother among them, would go to the streets to clean and stack the bricks so they could be reused.” In the face of such devastation, little consideration was given to designing beautiful buildings. Read More
Route 66. Just hearing the name makes me nostalgic for the days when I threw my tent and sleeping bag in the back of my 1969 Dodge Dart and headed west in search of adventure. I came by my romantic notions of travel quite naturally. Not only had I spent long hours poring over photos of exotic lands in the National Geographic Magazines piled up in our front hall, the television series Route 66 debuted in 1960 and quickly became a smash hit. I didn’t know it at the time but the name of the show was hugely misleading, as many of the episodes were set in states through which Route 66 did not travel. The bulk of the episodes, however, focused on the American West, leading me to believe that Route 66 was located in the western U.S.
In truth, America’s Mother Road began in Chicago and ended in Los Angeles. Beginning in 1926, when the nation’s Federal highway system was authorized, it was cobbled together from a web of of existing local, State, and national roads; ultimately its 2,448 miles of pavement provided the primary connection between the Midwest and the Pacific Coast. As more and more families were able to afford cars in the years leading up to World War II, Route 66 came to represent freedom, adventure, and opportunity in the American psyche. This “Golden Era of the Automobile” lasted until 1956, when construction of the Interstate Highway System began and many sections of Route 66 were subsumed by the new superhighways. The last section of Route 66 was bypassed by Interstate 40 in 1984. A year later the last road signs were removed and U.S. Highway 66 was officially decommissioned. All along its route, the stores, motels, service stations, and roadside attractions that had depended upon the historic road for their livelihood went into decline, in many cases disappearing altogether. Read More
It’s fashionable to say that New York is the greatest city in the world, but this Chicago girl prefers the Second City. For the first time in many years, I had an opportunity to spend summer in the Chicagoland area, where my family still lives. As I always do whenever I’m here, I took one of the many walking tours offered by the Chicago Architecture Foundation. Last time I opted for a lunchtime tour of the Chicago Board of Trade Building, which provided a fascinating in-depth architectural look into the art deco skyscraper and allowed me to watch commodities traders screaming out orders in the “pit.” Since I focus on issues of culture, this time I chose the Treasures of Culture and Commerce walking tour in downtown Chicago, which promised to share the stories behind the great architectural landmarks of State Street and Michigan Avenue from the late 19th and early 20th centuries.
So much has changed since I grew up on the south side of Chicago. When I was a child, mom and dad would take my sisters and I downtown for the unveiling of the department store Christmas windows. For days beforehand, the giant windows that front State Street were covered in butcher paper. We’d plaster our noses to those icy window panes, excited beyond words as the paper was peeled away to reveal heaps of toys amidst a wonderland of animated figures.
Those days are long gone, as are many of the original department stores. Mandel’s, where my mother worked as a young woman, is just a memory. Marshall Field & Company, where we had lunch at the Walnut Room at least once each holiday season, is now a Macy’s. The gargantuan Christmas tree that rose seven floors through the atrium, terminating in the center of the restaurant, has been replaced by a huge American flag. Read More
Because I delve deeply into local culture during my travels, I tend to stay places for longer periods. As a result, I’ve never tried to visit a city during a long flight layover. Recently, however, I was flying back to the U.S. on Aer Lingus, the national airline of Ireland. I choose them whenever possible, as Aer Lingus is the only airline in the world that allows passengers to clear U.S. Immigration and Customs on Irish soil, rather than at end of the flight, when I’m dead tired. Even though I had flown this route before, I’d never managed to visit Dublin; this time I was determined to carve an extra day out of my busy schedule between flights.
Effective use of time was most important, so I chose a hotel near the airport that also had access to the city center via public transportation. Bright and early the next morning I took the hotel shuttle back to the airport and caught the Airlink Airport Express Bus into Dublin, about a 40 minute trip. The Express Bus deposited me half a block from O’Connell Street, the main thoroughfare in Dublin, where I jumped aboard the Hop-on/Hop-off sightseeing bus and climbed to the upper, open-air deck. These buses are available in many large cities around the world, and whenever possible I take this tour on my first day, as it provides an invaluable orientation to the city. Read More
For more than 30 years, I’ve been searching for my personal paradise. My criteria isn’t unreasonable. I want a mild climate; good infrastructure (a good international airport, since I travel so much); decent health care; political stability; a low cost of living; cultural opportunities; a low crime rate; availability of quality, fresh, organic fruits and vegetables; access to spiritual programs such as meditation, Buddhism, and Yoga; and a friendly, eco-conscious community. After visiting almost all the States in the U.S. and more than 50 countries, I’d all but given up. My paradise just didn’t seem to exist. And then I was invited to visit Arillas, a small town on the northwestern tip of the island of Corfu, Greece.
The first indication that Arillas was different came when my host, Alex Christou, owner of Zambeta Apartments, welcomed me to his complex, installed me in a sunny two-room suite, provided me with a map and some literature, and then left me alone for the next 24 hours. Normally, when I am invited somewhere in my capacity as a travel writer, my host puts together an itinerary so jam packed with events and activities that it makes my head hurt. Wise man that he is, Alex wanted to give me free time to discover Arillas on my own. Read More
Another day, another tour. This time I have come to the Blue Lagoon on the tiny island of Comino, famous for its clear turquoise waters. Frankly, I am bored out of my mind. Though others are swimming amongst clumps of jellyfish that are fading from royal blue to blue-gray as they die and wash up on the postage stamp beach, the water is too cold for me.
An hour after completing an hour hike along the cliff tops, I have commandeered the only patch of shade in sight, to sit and write while I await the return of my boat back to Malta. Trash is scattered over the sand around my feet: piles of cigarette butts; napkins, plastic cups, and straws from the food trucks that shuttered and drove away at 4:30 p.m. In front of me, a row of green plastic trash bins overflows with the detritus of the day. Read More