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If you’re like me and don’t always get a chance to travel across the United States but want to see all its wonders, there is a place in Pennsylvania that will almost feel like you’re seeing the real thing. It’s called the Grand Canyon. Unlike the official Grand Canyon which is in the desert, Pennsylvania’s Grand Canyon called The Pine Creek Gorge is set in the Tioga State park near Wellsboro. The canyon is over forty miles long with mountains, rivers and at some places is over 1,000 miles deep.
I stumbled onto this place many years ago when my mother was getting married and wanted a place for a honeymoon; nothing too extravagant, just a place outdoors, to be with nature. There are many hotels you can stay in but if you’re more of the outdoorsy type there are cabins in the area you can rent. The rates are affordable and cabins can be for two or for a group. There are campgrounds where you can pull out your sleeping bag and stay the night. I personally like the comforts of a bed & breakfast which can be also be found here. Some will have such luxuries as Jacuzzis, fireplaces and swimming pools.
Whether you’re an extreme sportsman or want a leisurely weekend you can do either here. The trails are not difficult, while some are a mile long. Of course there are areas where if you’re looking for a work-out, can be found. One of the most popular trails is the Pine Creek Rail Trail. It starts in Ansonia and continues to the Jersey shore. There are over 57 miles of bike riding, hiking and an area for equestrian riding. It has been voted by USA Today as one of the “ten great places to take a bike tour.” Or you can try the West Rim Trail that was voted “best hike in Pennsylvania” by Outside Magazine. If you’re only looking to sight-see, there are horse-drawn wagon rides during the summer. In winter you can travel some of the trails by cross-country skiing or even snowboarding.
As you make your way through the canyon, you will come across people who are backpacking or simply bird-watching. Many bird watchers come to this area to see the Bald Eagle. Fishermen will be here with their boats making a day of it. You want to make sure you visit the Vista views with camera in hand as it has extraordinary views of the canyon. The Vista views are Colt Point on the west rim and Leonard Harrison on the east rim. In Wellsboro there is an observation tower costing three dollars to climb and you get a magnificent view of the canyon.
During the summer, Bluegrass festivals are held, some lasting up to two weeks. You can make your way to the many museums from art to glass making. In Morris, Pa. there is Oregon Hill Winery, where you can sample and purchase wine. As you venture into the surrounding towns you will find many places to dine and find antiques. Not only will you be able to shop at department stores but you will also have the luxury of shopping at quaint bookstores, hobby and quilt shops. If you forget any outdoor gear at home, you can purchase whatever you need. There are also places with bike rentals and shuttles to pick you up from your destination.
Whether you’re looking for a weekend away with friends or a romantic getaway, Pennsylvania’s Grand Canyon offers anything from outdoor sports to leisure walks with magnificent views of the scenery.
Whenever I venture to my home state, I always try to make my way to Amish country. I’m originally from Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, forty minutes from Lancaster County; a place where you can find anything from shoofly pie to antiques. Throughout the county there are stands selling fresh breads or just picked fruit but one place where everyone gathers on a Friday morning is The Green Dragon.
The Green Dragon located in Ephrata, Pa. is a farmer’s market that spreads over twenty acres of land. It opens every Friday, rain or shine. Around six a.m. you can smell coffee and baked donuts as the vendors set up for the day. The Amish will pull in with their buggies, ready to sell their meats, pastries, and garments. Most of the market is set outside with stands side by side in a row. Anyone from a serious merchant to a part-time crafter can purchase a spot for the day.
The farmers come with their livestock to auction as well as hay and household goods. There are small butcher shops throughout the indoor buildings ranging from poultry, seafood and meats. A variety of lunchmeats can be found including Lebanon bologna (sweat but delicious) named after the town a few miles from Lancaster. Or you might find items like stripe or pickled pig’s feet.
The Amish sell quilts, quillows (a smaller version of a quilt) or quilted key chains for sale. If you’re looking for Amish food, they have homemade apple dumplings, pies, cakes, breads and sweet rolls. What I always eat when I go is a whoopee pie. It looks like an Oreo cookie but made out of chocolate cake on either side and the inside is cream. The cream is usually vanilla or chocolate but it has evolved over time to include other flavors such as pumpkin and peanut butter. I have tried other whoopee pies but none taste quite as good as the ones from Lancaster County.
You will find crafters selling their candles, soaps and country decor. During the winter months all sorts of holiday items are made and sold. There is a wide assortment of clothes ranging from shirts, hats, scarves and mittens that are either designer or hand crafted. I have even seen on occasion a Victoria’s Secret stand. If you’re a fan of sports, baseball cards will line a stand or plaques of players on another. Candy filled with raisons or nuts can be found or if you have a fetish for a wide variety of nuts, The Green Dragon will have it.
As you spend your day looking at what each vender has brought for the day, you can nibble on BBQ chicken, hard or soft ice cream, soft pretzels or Zerbe’s potato chips. You can even try freshly squeezed lemonade and eat a pumpkin funnel cake. If you really want a treat, Beulah’s candy shop is located in the indoor market. It has four stands ranging from nuts, gummi candy, fudge, even sugar free candy. Anything you can imagine – they have it.
There are many places in Lancaster County to visit if you want to learn how to live as a farmer or see how the Amish live day by day, but if you’re looking to buy something unique or have never experienced Pennsylvania Dutch food before, this is the place to go. You will be impressed with the size and the items you won’t find anywhere else.
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The world is a big place with wonderful sites but not many cities have the wonderment and magic as New York City. Whether it’s the history of the buildings, the Italian food to die for or the fashion, it is a city not to be missed. When I received the invitation to participate in a scavenger hunt throughout its streets I couldn’t resist.
Eataly, an Italian marketplace, was hosting the event. Located at 200 and 5th, the stunning market boasts some of the best gelato you will ever have. You can purchase imported Italian chocolate, tea, meats, pasta of all kinds and fresh bread. It has many different restaurants each specializing in a main dish from pizza to fish. My favorite is situated in the middle of Eataly and has high top tables without seats. You can order a wide variety of cheeses, wines and other appetizers. There is something about being part of a group, holding a glass of wine and dipping bread into olive oil over enlightened conversation that keeps me captivated.
As soon as I read the email for the scavenger hunt, I saved the date, signed up and prepared to have a wonderful experience. When I arrived the day of the event I was given an Italian picnic basket complete with a book of questions for the scavenger hunt, water, chips, a token for a mozzarella and tomato sandwich, gelato and espresso. Before I started my adventure I couldn’t resist but try the sandwich. It was smothered in olive oil and sea salt. Every bite was better than the last one. While I wanted to stay at Eataly all day I was ready to see the city.
The scavenger hunt was made up of twenty questions, most of the clues answers’ could be found within a in a ten block radius. I ventured into Madison Square Park where I had to find statues and count buttons on the coats all the while making sure I wasn’t impeding on the movie that was being shot on the opposite street. Or making sure I didn’t bump into people who were waiting in line for the Shake Shack. A place that sells, according to the locals, the best burger you will ever eat. Leaving the park I walked past a museum that has everything and anything you’d want to know about sex. It wasn’t part of my quest but I did take a slight detour. I proceeded on with my adventure finding a plaque on the side of a building for Washington Irving only to keep going to the Armory to solve more clues.
The other part of the hunt took place in midtown Manhattan where I searched Radio City Music Hall for a dog in one of the gold sculptures; then counted the squares above the Barrymore theatre. The hunt ended at one of the greatest tourist attractions, The Empire State Building. I have never been inside but the quest sparked a new interest in me to not only know about the attractions but to see them. Like many people who have lived in the city, I have yet to venture to the places tourists go thinking this makes me an elitist, when in reality I am missing the highlights of New York.
The scavenger hunt lasted six hours as I traveled through the city. I took a break midway through the day and went to Lombardi’s for some of the best margherita pizza New York has to offer. Afterwards, I walked to a nearby pastry shop and had a marshmallow chocolate cupcake before finishing the hunt. I could have opted for the full nine hour forty question hunt which I know I would have enjoyed but this way I still have the map. I didn’t use my token for gelato and espresso. This only means, I will have to go back and do it all over again. I can’t think of a better way to spend a lazy Sunday afternoon than finding new places to visit in one of the most magical cities in the world.
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Ever since the movie, everyone has a bucket list. Mine, well, is long enough to last me three lifetimes but I’m determined to finish it. A few years ago while taking a few moments away from life and its hectic calling I was watching the discovery channel. This beautiful man, perhaps beautiful isn’t the correct word but what he was doing was.
He was swimming cage free with a Great White. While some may find this terrifying, I was fascinated. I was so fascinated I watched an entire week of “shark week.” By Sunday night I was determined to swim with sharks, not any shark but the Great White. I wasn’t sure how I was going to accomplish such a feat but I was sure I was about to find out.
As I did research I realized this wasn’t going to be easy. How does one tell their family and friends I want to be up close and personal to the most feared creature on Earth? I found it’s easy as no one believes you, except for the other crazy friend who wants to do this adventure with you. I searched the web for the best places but what I found, chances were I wasn’t going to get up close and personal for less than three grand.
My new number one bucket list idea came at the same time I was moving to Southern California. The idea of taking out the credit card for a day with sharks wasn’t high on the list even though swimming with one was. I decided to stifle my desire and make a three day drive across country to my new home. Unbeknownst to me my crazy friend who was also making the trek had something up his sleeve.
Southern California was everything I thought it was going to be; palm trees lining the streets, gorgeous beaches and of course the well-known Ferris wheel in Santa Monica. I was mesmerized by the people I met. Being from the Northeast, I was enthralled by the slower pace of life. I was able to enjoy day to day living in a way I never had before.
After a month living in the Northern hills of Hollywood my roommate said to me he wanted to take a road trip to La Jolla, California. We took out the GPS and away we went. Three hours later I was looking at a beautiful beach in October. The beaches back home would be too cold to even think about getting into the water at this time of year but here, a bathing suit and some sunscreen and I was ready to go. Only he wasn’t quite ready to get into the water.
He led me to a place that sells snorkeling equipment and a wetsuit. I looked at him and wondered what was he thinking? I can’t get a suntan in a wetsuit. He smiled at me and said just you wait. So I did. At his command I put on the wetsuit, watched him pay for a pass and walked out of the shop with snorkeling gear in hand.
We walked by the main beach and set our items down. He took out a waterproof camera and said are you ready? I was ready only I wasn’t sure what I was ready for. He grinned at me and said you’re going to swim with sharks today. I looked at him, looked at the ocean and back at him. I didn’t believe him. He laughed, grabbed his snorkeling gear and went into the water. I had no choice but to follow. I realized as the water touched my toes, the coolness of it, I would never forget this day. A wave came up and dozens of sharks were engulfed in it. It came crashing down and I wasn’t sure if I could go through with this after all. I took a few deep breaths, steeled myself and went deeper into the ocean.
The sharks were all around me. I put on my snorkeling headset and looked into the water. They were vast and dark against the sand. My heart raced with wonder and excitement. I was still a bit uneasy but I didn’t care. I knew this was a once in a lifetime moment and I refused to let it pass by. No, it wasn’t the Great White but they were still sharks and I was still swimming with them. The shark I was in close proximity with was the Leopard shark. While they are sharks, they are harmless creatures having a small mouth and don’t actually chew their food. This fact didn’t curve my fear or give me the nerve for a good hour to actually reach out and touch one.
The skin of a Leopard shark is smooth and wet feeling unless you’re petting them backwards. Then the skin is rough like sandpaper. Either way it was thrilling to have the opportunity to be this close. The Leopard shark wasn’t the only sea creature in the ocean. A sea turtle was only a few feet away from me. It caught me off guard as I stared at its descent into the deeper waters.
I spent the entire day snorkeling with the sharks. I took so many pictures to remember the experience. I haven’t given up on swimming with Great Whites. I’m still fascinated by their strength and beauty. I still research where to swim cage free but my experience in La Jolla has left me feeling fulfilled. I plan on going back and visiting my new friends who gave me a chance of a lifetime.
(c)Antoinette Marie
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Summer is here and you’re itching to pack your suitcase and get away but not sure where to travel or your budget has left you unable to fulfill a dream of visiting Thailand or Spain or that place you haven’t yet discovered. If you’re looking for something more rewarding than going to an island getting sunburn reading endless romance novels there is an alternative. Not many vacations will leave you feeling as satisfied as being part of the experience with WWOOF.
WWOOF otherwise known as "World Wide Opportunities On Organic Farms" is an organization made up of farmers throughout the world who allow volunteers to stay at their farms to help with various tasks throughout the year. It was founded by Sue Coppard in 1971. She saw the need and the opportunity for both the farmer and the volunteer.
What started in the UK has now been established all over the world. The volunteer can choose from a vast assortment of countries. The possibilities of what you do and what you experience are endless. You may want to work at a winery in Italy or take care of sheep in Ireland or travel to Hawaii and tend to papaya trees. Each host has different needs and time frames. You can volunteer for a weekend or for a whole summer. If you have family or want to travel with friends, it is a possibility. Each host will have their own set of guidelines and how many people they can accommodate at a time. The first farm you choose might not suit your time frame, your needs or theirs but there are many farms in need.
The first thing the volunteer must do is choose what country they would like to volunteer in. Most countries have their own membership and there is a fee. Remember to look at all the qualifications needed to enter and stay in the country you choose. You may need a passport, health insurance or other documentation. After joining there will be a list of hosts and what needs they are looking to fulfill. Some countries will have a notice board for both the host and volunteer on there website. It is constantly changing and can be an ideal way of finding the right match. As you proceed with the process make sure you’re able to provide everything that is needed to enter the country as well as performing the tasks of the farm you will be staying at.
This is not for the person who wants to get away and enjoy free accommodations and free meals, though they are provided. You must love the idea of learning and helping the community. This is for someone who has always wanted to be in the countryside but didn’t have the means or the way to do so. You will be earning your keep and discovering activities you might not ever thought you’d try or do. It will be a rewarding challenge, one that will stay with you for the rest of your life.
You might even discover when you come home to familiar surroundings you miss the landscape and what you’ve experienced and find yourself signing up for a new adventure, meeting new people and learning new trades.
To learn more go to http://www.wwoof.org.
(c)Antoinette Marie
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World travelers are hidden in our
daily lives. The man on the corner selling newspapers has seen the foothills of
Saudi Arabia. The woman in the next cubicle has danced in the bars of
Israel. Walking down the street in a
city, I wish I could simply look into the minds of passerby. What are their
stories? Where have they walked? What
have they seen? On one occasion, I finally was able to look into the travel
stories of one traveler – spending his winters in a corner of a classroom, waiting
for the summer months to come.
Brett looks up from his computer and smiles.
He turns down his techno music (a standard sound in his study periods) that has
been resonating from his computer speakers, and turns to me. His jacket
displays the logo of the HHS Wrestling team, with COACH brazenly embellished on
the sleeve. He is deeply involved in Haverhill High School, with good reason;
it was his high school too. And though he has returned to where he grew up, the
trip getting here has taken him across the country, and across the world.
Brett Legault grew up in Haverhill,
Massachusetts. He attended Haverhill High, where he played football, wrestled
and ran track. After graduating, he attended Plymouth State University- not for
teaching, but for his degree in Business. “No, I never planned on being a math teacher,
but once I tried teaching, I fell in love with it after the first day,” he
tells me. His favorite part of teaching? “I love it when you can see the light
go on. It’s amazing when the kids don’t think they can do something, and then
figure out they actually can. Usually, it’s just a matter of trying,” he
explains with a genuine smile. But it isn’t just in the classroom where he
helps Hillies succeed.
But his other passion is far from
New England. It is in the tacks upon his wall. I learned of Brett’s life of
travel when in high school, after asking him about the map he had next to his
chalkboard. It isn’t often that world maps are found in math rooms. But it
isn’t often that a math teacher is able to say he’s been to Thailand. Mr.
Legault’s travels are represented with colorful tacks stuck in every country
and state visited, creating quite a display. This man takes his summers
seriously: seeing the world.
After graduating from college, Mr.
Legault moved to Las Vegas with a friend. But even in the Entertainment Capital
of the World, there wasn’t enough excitement. And in a moment of freedom, of
living life without ties, without regret, Brett decided, with a spin of a
globe, to become a traveler. “We were just sitting around, shooting the breeze,
and I started spinning the globe…and I was looking at all the places I hadn’t
been yet. My finger stopped on London…so I went.”
Thus began a life of bartending in
London, and traveling on short one to two week trips around the continent. On
any given day Legault could be in Thailand, or Ireland. Some weeks, he went to
France and others Amsterdam. For four years, Mr. Legault lived as a traveler.
After being asked for one specific experience that he held above others, he
told of a weekend trip to Ireland. “I met ‘Uncle Bob’ while in a bar one night.
He was a retired cop. We met and he basically took me under his wing, showing
me all the places that tourists never see. I was even invited to meet his
family and friends. In that weekend I learned a lot about Ireland in a
citizen’s perspective, rather than a tourist’s.” His face lightened as he
thought back on the old man, and then his eyes grew wide as he recalled another
memory. On the other side of the world, he was snorkeling the Great Barrier
Reef, when he came across a shark. As it swam by, he said, “I realized how much
life has to offer, and how many experiences are out there if you just let
yourself find them.” Out of all his travels, he tells me that New Zealand most
complemented his personality. “It’s just the epitome of nice being nice.
They’re just amazing people with strong morals.”
With so many stories kept hidden in
the colorful tacks, it’s amazing that the traveler has found his way back home.
But he has the memories, and continues to make them. “Iceland is pretty high up
on my list of places to go next,” he says with a glint of excitement in his
eye. I wouldn’t doubt his intentions either. For this man, another summer means
another tack in the map, and another memory filling his mind.
On a cool summer night, I step away from the sparkling coals of the bonfire and make my way carefully down to the dock. There are double the stars: half in the sky, half in the smooth surface of the water. I dream of stepping out onto the surface with my bare, sap-spotted feet and dancing across the Milky Way. I’m jealous of the Loons who float across the water, weaving in and out of the big dipper and circling the moon, with no noise but their haunting calls out into the cloudless sky.
To me, those birds are the sound of
summer nights. Echoing off the boundaries of Long Lake,
the trilled cries harmonize with the pops and cracks of the fire, the summer
wind drifting through the leaves, and the gentle bump of the canoe on the side
of the dock. This is where I spend my summers. Sitting on the rocky coast of a
lake in Maine, my grandparents’ house behind
me, I need nothing else. It’s a perfect New England
get away. Maine
is known for being “the way life should be.” Sometimes, I believe it.
My grandparents’ house is located
in Harrison, Maine to be exact, and situated on the back
of Cape Monday Cove on Long
Lake. Few know where it
is until I tell them it’s connected to Sebago Lake,
which, for some reason, is a popular camping spot for people in my hometown of Haverhill, Mass.
It’s exactly a two hour drive - over the river and through the woods. Dirt
roads and farmland rule the countryside, but it isn’t all that rural. In the
summer, the population of the town triples in size. It’s a vacation spot – the
water comes alive with boats, swimmers, jet skis, floats, trampolines,
water-skiers, wake boarders, and the ever so popular tubers. I like to listen
to them, the low drone of their engines, and the high pitched screams and
laughter of those being bounced around on the waves. They usually circle down
into the cove, sometimes to sight-see, sometimes to reach calmer water for
wake-boarding tricks. It’s relaxing. I usually can be found on the dock, back
towards the sun, eyes closed and listening to the sounds of the water. Rarely
are we in the house in the summer. If we are it is simply to change, or eat.
The house
is situated on the side
of the rocky banks. But my grandmother, through years and years of work,
has
made the landscape into gardens worthy of magazines. Everywhere, there
are
flowers, bright yellows, oranges, pinks and purples: Black Eyed Susan's,
Impatients, Roses, Peonies, Morning Glories, and Zinnia’s. They line
the drive
as you come into the yard. They’re on either side of the wooden walkways
my grandfather
has constructed, surrounding the house on all four sides, hugging the
cement
walls of the cellar and flowing outward ten to fifteen feet.
One year, my brother and I made
stepping stones, with our hand prints as the centerpiece. They still sit in the
garden next to the driveway, alongside the birdbath and a wooden bench. Pine
needles are usually sprawled over the surface. Now, when I try to place my hand
in the print, my fingers are twice as long, and my hand too wide. Those little
hands are the same ones that gripped the tattered rope of the wooden swing that
sits in between two pine trees overlooking the water. There are pictures of my
grandmother and I on that swing when I was too young to even walk. One year,
the rope broke and I flew off into the rock wall in front of me, scraping my
legs on the way down. But with a length of new rope and a couple of nails,
everything was back in order.
That
swing is only one of many constructions my grandparents have made for me.
Across the street, there is a playground hidden in the woods. It has
everything: a tree house – suspended between five or six birch tree saplings, a
seesaw, picnic table, zip line, and a tire swing. It was amazing in the fall
and in the winter. But once the mosquitoes took over, it was almost unbearable.
I’d still venture into my playground in the summer to look for toads - tiny
little toads that I used to collect like bottle caps. My grandmother would take
old soda bottles and make them into little homes for the amphibians. I’d carry
them around until I felt bad, and then let them back out into the woods,
telling them that I’m sorry but I just wanted to look at them for awhile.
My
grandparents
love projects. The arrangement of our docks changes drastically
every year, as they are trying to make the perfect set up for our boats.
My
grandparents own their own fleet consisting of two kayaks, a sunfish, a
paddle boat, a canoe, a small fishing boat, and a powerboat. I like the
kayaks,
and the canoe. Awhile ago we had a dingy, which usually only fit one
person,
but I was small at the time so I could fit with my Dad. And he rowed us
around
the island at dusk. We watched a Crane take off into the sunset on the
far side
of the lake, only to come back with a fish in its mouth later on.
The cove behind the island is even
quieter than our own. Another time we glided through, I was in the canoe with
my mother and grandmother. The sun was setting, and the water bugs were dancing
on the darkening surface of the water. I sat in the middle, on the floor of the
canoe, dragging one hand in the water, catching the whirlpools my mother’s oar
was making in the surface. Loons called out to us, announcing our entrance into
their homes. And then a soft music was heard. There, in the back of the cove, a
violin was singing a high, slow melody. The lights of the houses behind
illuminated the water just enough to silhouette the canoe with the violinist.
He was alone, playing for all the cove to hear. And the Loons harmonized,
making nature and music come together in an eerily beautiful song that I shall
never forget.
The island is only accessible by
boat in the summer. In the winter, the ice freezes so thick that they plow a
frozen road to this otherwise inaccessible land. Ice fisherman and snowmobiles
also take advantage of the temporary tundra the Maine winter brings. My grandparents’ house,
what was in the summer an unwanted necessity, is now a comfort. Walking in, the
fireplace is burning brightly, and through the sliders, I can see the lights of
snowmobiles flying across the flattened surface of the lake. The television is
turned on longer, and the beds upstairs have more blankets added to their
layers.
The winter
has a different feel.
It’s more of comfort, less of fun. The snow is piled high against the
windows.
And sometimes I retreat to the cellar to the computer room to sit and
talk. My
grandfather is usually down there, working on his US Sub Vets website.
Sometimes he tells me stories about living underwater for months at a
time. I couldn’t imagine it. I can barely stay inside the house for a
day
straight. Walking out onto the ice, the wind whips by, and my face
freezes. One
year, there was no snow, but the ice was three feet thick. It was a
skating
rink ten miles long. I wished I had learned how to do more than simply
skate
forward. At night, just as in the summer, the winter has a magic. Gone
are the
loons, but the ice sings it’s own song. Expanding and contracting, as
almost as
if it’s breathing, the ice murmurs under the snow. Low, thundering booms
are
heard even inside the house. I love to watch the reactions of those who
don’t
understand the noise. Many feel my house is haunted. In all seasons, an
eerie
sound is present. To me, it is simply a part of my cove.
Some nights, when I walk down to
the dock and wish I could dance among the stars, my grandmother will come down
and stand next to me
“It’s beautiful out tonight,”
she’ll say, gracefully sipping out of her wine glass.
And sometimes I don’t think she understands how much her
home, this place, truly means to me. The loons call out, and she tells me to
come back up to the fire. I can hear my mother laughing in the background. I
smile and follow her back up. In the warmth of the embers, my family is
smiling. I smile too. For the moment, I don’t need to dance among the stars.
Dancing in the firelight is just fine.
“I’m going upstairs tonight,” I called to them over my shoulder as I shimmied up the L-shaped staircase and pushed on the metal door.
“Do you have a blanket at least?” Kaley called back to me. It was March, and though we were down in one of the most southern parts of Italy, the chill was still there, rising off the ocean and up over the sea of white stone that is Ostuni. We had decided to travel on our spring break, but because my friends were visiting from the University of New Hampshire, I thought it foolish to spend extra on a guided tour and airfare for a trip to Greece. Instead of following my roommates to the Pink Palace, we found our one white one - a summer house of a local Italian woman. She has a shop across from Café Pretoriana, the bar we frequented, and was friends with the owners, who told us about the opportunity. The little store was filled with ceramic art. Plates and dishes, cups and ladles, basins and tables, all painted beautiful blues and oranges, yellows and greens. She was a true artist, and she was proud of it. She grabbed my hand and pulled me around the store, showing me a painted rooster on a vase, and a plate with a pattern so intricate, it was almost impossible it was completed by hand. She spoke to my Italian friend, Shereen, about the property and Shereen relayed it back to us. It was inexpensive because of the off season; the artist thought us crazy to go down there so early.
“Siete pazza!” She said as she threw up her hands, almost knocking over one of her masterpieces. But she was grateful for the use of her little home away from home, and so were we.
After a five hour train ride, we pulled into the Ostuni station in Puglia, Italy. It was dark, but light shone down from the hilltop, the town bathed in a golden light that embellished the white walls of the structures.
Once we reached our door, it opened to a small, almost cave-like dwelling. The inside is much like the outside, with the white walls gracing the hallways and rooms. But the difference, was that this woman had brought her artistic style here as well. The ground floor bedroom was painted with tall reeds and sand dunes with furniture to match. Upstairs, painted vines scaled the walls and bricks were revealed beneath the white for a truly decorative touch. She painted curtains on the walls and rocks upon the floor. And the silhouette of the buildings right outside her home were decorating the inside above the bed upstairs. We had a painted Ostuni skyline to take hold of our dreams.
But it was when we discovered the rooftop that I knew a piece of my heart would remain within this city. As we climbed the last few, almost hidden, steps and pushed open the metal door, it screeched on rusty hinges and revealed a panoramic view out to the ocean. There was more of the woman’s artwork even here – a painted sun right below where the sun sets on the horizon. We ate and drank there. We were suddenly disinterested in the house, and spent hours reading in the warmth of the March sunshine, and gazing out from our perch atop the city. But the most precious find was mine. As the others walked down into the city to buy bread from the local baker, and the ancient olive oil from the farms of the ancient olive trees that line the city, I explored, and found a closet full of summer accessories. And behind the plastic lounge chairs and the drying racks, a hammock unraveled into my arms. Embellished with shells on the fringe, it was the perfect piece to my furniture puzzle on the small little roof. I strung it up and poured myself a glass of wine. La vita e bella. Life is, and was, good.
That night I ventured up the stairs again as my friends settled into their beds. I brought along my blanket and as I pushed that squeaky door, the sky unfolded through the crack into a spread of stars like I have never seen. I listened as abandoned wind chimes rang out among the other rooftops stacked below mine. I imagined all of these houses full in the summer months – with wine glasses clinking upon some and laughter dancing up from other rooftops. I settled into the hammock and the southern Italian wind rocked me back and forth as I gazed up into the inky black sky; not a sound but those bells and the wind.
Sometimes, the most popular places to visit are not the best. Finding that diamond in the rough is simple when traveling; you just need to have the courage to take chances to find it. As I stepped into Ostuni, I had barely researched, but it ended up being one of my most memorable experiences. Though the town was under populated, though it was chilly, I found the solitude inviting and the landscape gorgeous. Dare to take the chances that may lead to mental serenity or adventure. Your most memorable travel experience may be hiding in a diamond in the rough.
For some reason, the owner thought it’d be a good idea to paint it Kelly green, and to make it worse they painted a leprechaun on the side. Typical. Tourist. But it was cheap, and it was easy, and it was my savior from planning, and procrastinating, and producing nothing but worry. My backpack was tossed in, with the bags of the Canadians and the Chinese and the Australians and the Swedish, and I sat in my own seat, curled up behind my coat and I looked out the window to the green, the leaves, the sheep, the ocean, listening to the Irish brogue of our driver as he lulled me to sleep.
And that bus, that horrid green, that blends-but-clashes-with-the-landscape green, that contained a small collaboration of nations, rolled over the hills of Ireland and down to the coast and back up again. Over and over. Like the surprisingly blue waves off the shoreline. And I would sit, and lean my head against the window, swaying back and forth with the rocky road, sitting in my adopted, moving home, feeling that this was the safest place in the world, the safest, strangest place I’ve ever been. This bus, where I knew no one. Where I was no one. No one but the lone American girl that had studied in Italy and was from Boston. And the freedom of it – the freedom of being able to be anyone I wanted. To do anything I ever wanted to do, say what I wanted to say. I could. I had no restrictions, no baggage, no history. No one had any expectations. They knew me as I acted that week and nothing more, nothing less.
So it was ok, when some days I was loud and happy, and laughing, and talking, and telling stories about my life, my home, about Italy, about people that I loved, my pets, about what I missed from home, my school, about everything that I have ever known, releasing my mysteriousness, letting them know me, letting them understand. But it was also ok to sit in my own seat, legs pulled up tight to my chest. Sit. Think. Listen. Learn. Quiet.
And I’d feel so happy, so content, so needlessly comfortable, watching the landscapes of Ireland pass lazily outside my window. And my heart would soar and tell me it wanted to live here forever. In between the rocky coast and the rocky countryside. Weaving through the fishing harbors and the peat bogs and the myths and the fairy rings. And when I stepped off that bus and walked onto the plane that last day, the bland, white plane, I sat in my seat and brought my knees to my chest and rested my head against the window. But something, was missing.
I swirled the whipped cream into my hot chocolate, making patterns as the spoon twisted in the cup, hitting the sides, plinking with each moment of contact.
“I have no idea,” I sighed, and dropped the spoon to the side of the cup with a clatter. Tuya was sitting across from me, the light of her computer reflecting in her glasses. She squinted at the screen. “I don’t really care. I just want to go.”
We were sitting in Café Pretoriana in Ascoli. Besides the school, it was our only internet access point. The password to the WiFi was Led Zepplin. The hot chocolate was as thick as pudding. They played Italian rap music. The couple that ran it became my best friends. It was a comfort place.
“What about here?” Tuya spun her laptop towards me and pointed to the digital map. A small speck in the center of the Mediterranean appeared under her finger.
“What is that?” I asked.
“It’s called Malta. Must be warm, right?”
“Better be. I’m pale and need tanlines.”
“Is it a country?”
“No idea.”
Before we had looked at that map, Malta was a dog. I had never heard of the country, or its people. But my travels were an educated adventure that opened my eyes to another small, but beautiful portion of the world.
As we walked down the street to Granny’s Inn Hostel, I could not believe the weather. Bluebird skies and eighty degrees in April. Purple, blue and pink flowers were blooming through the wrought iron fences, and a breeze wafted the scent of the ocean air up through the maze of pale colored houses with bright colored trim. As we were buzzed in, I exclaimed at how gorgeous this place was. She gave me a puzzled look.
“Welcome to Malta.” She said as she shrugged. This weather was the norm.
In the next few days, we toured the city, craving the history, the beaches with names like Golden Bay and Paradise Bay. We roamed the craft areas and went dancing in the clubs. Malta was a haven I had never even known existed. And it started with a pinpoint on a map, a little spontaneity, and a chance.
When asked, many people will say they want to travel to big cities, the famous. Rome, Paris, New York, London, Dublin. But when you search beyond those limits, worlds can be opened up. Before purchasing that next flight, spin a globe, stop it with your finger, and reveal worlds you never even knew existed.
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