i'm baaack....

and better than ever!

 

The Ring of Fire

The Pacific Ring of Fire is a chain of volcanoes, running along the coastline of various continents bordering the Pacific Ocean. It's a notoriously geologically unstable region that is home to over 75% of the world's volcanic eruptions and earthquakes and other than the Haiti Earthquake of 2010, this area has been victim to more natural disasters and human devastation than any other this century. Starting with the 2004 earthquake that erupted off the back edge of the Ring of Fire and started the tsunami that destroyed numerous vacation destinations and took countless lives. So may lives were lost that no one is sure, but its estimated that 231,000+ lives vanquished. The 2008 Sichuan China earthquake had 69, 195 causalities. Last month in Christchurch, New Zealand approximately 200 lives were taken in a 6.3 earthquake. On March 10, in China near Myanmar another 24 lives fell to a 5.8 quake.

An now as the disaster unfolds in Japan and reports blanket the Internet, Japan may be experiencing it's worst natural disaster in history that began with an 8.9 earthquake yesterday and followed by at least one 6.3 aftershock. Some 1300+ lives are missing with a minimum of 675 confirmed dead.

Life is precious and fleeting. Prayers go out to all that are suffering or have suffered.

Al,

the Travel Valet

An Idiot Abroad

I don't know how many of you have seen the television's newest travel experiment, An Idiot Abroad. According to the Science Channel, many of you, something like 15 million, have. At least that's their claim on the commercial trailers. It's a pretty damn funny take on a Brit who doesn't like to venture outside of his element being thrust into very uncomfortable situations on the premise of seeing many of the world's great attractions. Ricky Gervais funds this "practical joke" experiment and goes out of his way to place Karl Pilkington (the Brit) in many compromising and uncomfortable situations. "It's quite funny. You should check it out."

On a side bar, why is it when we (Americans) watch British television do we feel the need to turn up the volume? Do we think British syntax will morph into a Midwest accent as the volume increases? It puzzles me, too.

Happy Travel,
Al, the Travel Valet

Fell on Black Days

I was left behind. How it happened, I'm not sure.

Traveling along in my life minding my own business trying to live up to my responsibilities and expectations, and it happened.

The alarm on my iPhone started singing Fell on Black Days by Soundgarden. I laid there and listened to the words cuz I wasn't ready to face another day of the same shit. On a side note, I find it strange I can sing the correct lyrics to thousands of songs yet I never listen to the words. Anyway, I just woke up one day (a generic Thursday, I think) after 100s of days in a row of waking up after completing the same tasks as I had completed the day before. Faceless people I loiter with call it, the "same ol' same ol '". I was just shuffling along with the rest of the cattle heading toward the feed trough one day and I woke up. I woke up.

This can't be my life? You know, the one that was going to set the world on fire, amass riches beyond comprehension, cure cancer. That life. I stumbled to the bathroom and turned on the light. I looked into the mirror and saw a person I didn't even recognize, the reflection of some total stranger was standing in my bathroom looking back at me. It was uncomfortable seeing this man I didn't know. The man I had become. What happened? Where was I while this metamorphosis took place?

I knew the answers before my clouded mind could generate the questions. Depression would be the medical term, I suppose, if I were to see a doctor. Surely, he would write a perscription for some sort of emotion balancing chemical. You know, the kind that has more crippling side effects than curative medicinal qualities. Doctors are great this way, if you have an ailment or even the thought of an ailment then they have a script for you. And then they will kindly offer curative measures for the side effects. It's an endless cycle of perscriptions, dosage adjustments, and doctor's visits, temporary symptomatic Band-aids.

My problem probably could have been altered with one of these "happy pills", but my problem didn't need a Band-aid laced with a side effect. I needed to change what society, the government, my job, my community and my family had asked me to become. What I had allowed myself to become. I needed to make ME right.

I found it in reading, learning and experiencing travel. I burst my own bubble and stepped outside the lines. And felt young again. I may not cure cancer or die with the most toys, but I promised myself something better, a full life. And I'm living that promise.

I was wondering, can you say the same about yourself?

Email me at thetravelvalet@gmail.com or contact me through this blog or http://www.thetravelvalet.com/ if you would like your reflection to represent the real you.

Happy Travel,
Al, the Travel Valet

Did You Know? The Ancient Greeks didn't pray or give eulogies at burials. They only asked one question when they buried their dead. Did he live with passion?

Need Washing?

A friend forwarded me this story while I was in the midst of a painful day. The flawless timing of the email shook me a bit. I accidentally erased the email so I am retelling the story based on memory. Please forgive me if I altered it a bit.

A little girl had been shopping with her Mom in Target. She must have been 6 years old, this beautiful red haired, freckle faced image of innocence. It was pouring outside. The kind of rain that gushes over the top of rain gutters, so much in a hurry to hit the earth it has no time to flow down the spout. A small crowd had formed under the awning and just outside the door of the Target. We waited, some patiently, others irritated because nature had messed up their harried day.

I am always mesmerized by rainfall and got lost in the sound and sight of the heavens washing away the dirt and dust of the world. Memories of running, splashing barefoot so carefree as a child came pouring in as a welcome reprieve from the worries of my day. The little voice was so sweet as it broke the hypnotic trance I was caught in...

"Mom let’s run through the rain," the little red-headed girl said.

"What?" Mom asked.
"Lets run through the rain!" She repeated.
"No, honey. We’ll wait until it slows down a bit,’ Mom replied.
This young child waited about another minute and repeated, "Mom, let’s run through the rain."
"We’ll get soaked if we do," Mom said.
"No, we won’t, Mom. That’s not what you said this morning," the young girl tugged at her mom’s arm.
"This morning? When did I say we could run through the rain and not get wet"?

"Don’t you remember? When you were talking to Daddy about his cancer, you said , If God can get us through this, he can get us through anything!"
The entire crowd stopped dead silent. I swear you couldn’t hear anything but the rain. We all stood silently. No one came or left in the next few minutes. Mom paused and thought for a few moments about what she would say.

Now, some would laugh it off and scold her for being silly. Some might even ignore what was said. But this was a moment of affirmation in a young child’s life. A time when innocent trust can be nurtured so that it will bloom into faith. Mom handled it well.

"Honey, you are absolutely right. Let’s run through the rain. If GOD let’s us get wet, well maybe we just needed washing," Mom said.

Then off they ran. We all stood watching, smiling and laughing as they darted past the cars and through the puddles. They held their shopping bags over their heads just in case. They got soaked. Then, amazingly, others followed. Adults running, screaming and laughing like children all the way to their cars. And yes, I did. I ran. I got wet. I needed washing.

Circumstances or people can take away your material possessions, they can take away your money, and they can take away your health. But no one can ever take away your precious memories.

I HOPE YOU TAKE THE TIME TO RUN THROUGH THE RAIN.

Al, the Travel Valet

Bitten by the Bug

Many people have asked me when I had been bit by the travel bug. My patented answer has always been "before I can remember". As lame as that answer is, it's the truth. One of my two earliest memories includes a snapshot quick vacation. I remember standing inside the gates of Disneyland in the summer of 1969 attempting to line up a picture of Cinderella's castle with my Brownie camera. The summer was abuzz with astronaut excitement. Neil Armstrong and Edwin "Buzz" Aldrin were a week away from walking on the moon. My father, a photographer, decided to take his young family to California for a short vacation before a Life Magazine assignment in Cocoa Beach, Florida. I was 4 years old.

Even though, I don't recall exactly when I had been bit, I do remember the moment I realized I had been infected by the bug's powerful toxin. Early June 1974. In the early days following the graduation of third grade, I had been called home by the "neighborhood alert system". We middle-aged folks raised in the 60's and 70's understand the the powers of the NAS. It was how your parents called you home, before cell phones. They would stand out on the front porch and yell. Even if you were out of earshot, someone would hear the call and pass it along if they knew the direction the neighborhood children had run. All children knew not to ignore the NAS.

I was in the creek behind the Fire House catching crayfish with my best friend. I never understood why we captured these pinching mudbugs. We always released them after one of the prehistoric-looking monsters brought blood to our waterlogged fingers...it was probably a rite of manhood. I'll have to ponder that a while.

Anyway, the NAS found me quickly and I knew to run. It wasn't anywhere near dinnertime and I had not been issued any edicts, which only meant one thing, something was wrong. Though muddy water and trepidation weighted down my legs, I knew not to dally. My dad, who spent as many as 280 days a year on the road, was home. And he despised childish loitering.

I walked headlong into a buzzsaw and, as long as I live, I will never forget the next few hours. It went down like this.......

"Where have you been?" My dad asked the question as he examined my sodden legs and bloody fingertips. It was easy to sense something bad had happened. My stomach was churning bile. I suddenly felt very ill and my father noticed the immediate change in my demeanor. I could see a familiar glare in his eyes. I was guilty of...something.

"In the creek by the Fire Station. The firemen feed scraps to the crawdads. Some of them get this big." I held out my fingers four inches apart.

"How long have you boys been in the creek?" My father was interrogating, but I was sure I had already been convicted. I knew the routine all too well. My heart sank.

"Uh," I looked at my fingertips trying to judge the pruning against my many hours in the pool. "Maybe two hours or, Uhhh, a little less." I wasn't sure. It could have been 45 minutes or 4 hours.

"Well, I have my doubts about 2 hours." His eyes bore into me.

"I'm not exactly sure about the time." Faltering before even before the accusation.

"Don't you have something to tell me?"

"Uh, Uh, Uh...no?" The stuttering answer came out like a question. My son must be lying my father reasoned or he wouldn't be so apprehensive to answer. He asked me several more times and my responses became less and less convincing. I was crying and begging forgiveness in less than five minutes. I still didn't know my crime. Admittedly, I was no angel as a child and could be a headstrong handful. Everyone else, my brothers, mother and the nosey neighborhood waited out by the gallows hoping to see a hanging.

In an effort to shorten the story, I was accused and convicted of throwing a baseball through a window across the street. I denied the crime vehemently which caused the bigger problem for me. In the opinion of the neighborhood, I was lying. And in my household, this was a crime punishable by death. I wore that "Scarlet Letter" for the duration of my adolescence.

You may ask, what does this have to do with the travel bug? Well, while the crime didn't turn out to be earth "shattering." The punishment was. My dad forbade me to travel with him that summer. That was the moment I knew had the disease. The punishment crushed me.

He was a freelance photo journalist about to leave on a photo shoot for National Geographic. Walter Cronkite of CBS had stirred up renewed interest in the UNICEF mission and their struggle with poverty-stricken children in eastern Africa. He was going to take me along. I had traveled with him the year before to some harsh, wind-blown ports of the North Sea. He photo documented some grotesque whaling practices. For three weeks, I couldn't breathe. Horrified, terrified and loving every second. Being the eldest son and in Texan parlance, I had just been denied a birth right.

It took a year to figure out that Roger, a younger kid who lived around the corner, broke the window. My family never understood how much the accusation, conviction and punishment affected me. I became a different person...cynical, suspicious and addicted to travel.

Have a great day!

Al, the Travel Valet

College Football? Why Don't You Get It?

Sorry I've been gone sooo long. Sometimes LIFE gets in the way.

I was talking to a New Yorker the other day. He was coming out of his pants excited about the upcoming football season. Growin' up in Texas where football is a seven day a week religion not just a Sunday morning commitment, I understood his excitement. Trying to be cordial I asked him which team he rooted for and he barked, "The ___ New York ___ Giants, of course..." He added the typical east coast linguistic flavor to his response which I chose to edit out. He rambled on, but I quit listening (seems the Giants have built a new stadium). He didn't ask me anything about my football preferences and I'm glad he didn't. He just wouldn't understand. I know these things only cuz I've been down that road before and it is a long, bumpy road filled with Volkswagen-sized potholes. Not good traveling.

The brief conversation got me thinking.

I know New Yorkers think their five boroughs make up the center of the universe. And to some degree, their arguments are understandable. Gotham boasts world class culture, cuisine and diversity. But one is remiss to think New York is the cat's pajamas when it comes to sports. Yes, they have the Yankees who have won something like 35 out of the 105 or so World Series. They also have the Mets, Knicks, Nets, Jets and the ___ New York ___ Giants. They also have one leg of horse racing's Triple Crown in the Belmont as well as the world's largest tennis tournament in the US Open. One may think I have presented a great argument for Gotham City. Well, you are wrong.

Did you know...the 11 largest stadiums in the country were built specifically for college football and account for 11 of the world's largest 18 stadiums. Did you know every Saturday from September through December these eleven behemoths are filled to the rafters with rabid college football fans.

Did you know...approximately 975,000 fans attend NFL games each week while more than 2,100,000 witness college football firsthand every single weekend. That's 2.1 million folks; 2.5 times the NFL.

Have you ever been to a Texas/Oklahoma game in Dallas during the State Fair? Or the Army/Navy game? Or the Michigan/Ohio State game at the end of the season? I have. I have also been to a Cowboy/Redskin game and a Cowboy/Giant game when the teams were great and guess what...there is no comparison. Not even close. Compare the Kentucky Derby with a three furlong quarter horse race and you'll begin to see what I'm talking about. The energy, fan participation and pageantry of a college football game rivals the NFL playoffs every single weekend. It's not even close.

New York will never understand.

Enjoy the football season.

Al, the Travel Valet