::Nelson, New Zealand::

OK, let’s be honest – who doesn’t love pirates? I saw that doggone Johnny Depp movie like 8 times in the theater, I say “ARRRR” a lot on September 19 and I think pretty much the entire generation of kids born in the ’80′s wanted to be a Goonie.  Pirates have adventures, make discoveries, sit around drinking rum and talking about ancient legends and their pets always talk cryptically like some sort of obnoxious, feathered sphinx.

I, like, any good pirate/Goonie, fancy myself an outdoorsy, adventurous person.  So when some locals told us rousing tales of Abel Tasman National Park and all the glorious and varied things we could do there, my friends and I said “Aye!” with nary a blink.  Abel Tasman may be New Zealand’s smallest National Park, but it just might be the best.  Once inside, you can bike, hike, kayak, snorkel, camp, go boating and much more.  And unlike our national park system in the US, theirs are free to enter and to park.  Which is good, because this pirate is not made of gold doubloons.

To get to Abel Tasman from the closest “large” city of Nelson, our drive took us through lovely suburban neighborhoods, sprawling orchards and sun-drenched wineries. This region gets the most sun in all of New Zealand, and after several days on the misty West Coast en route from Queenstown, we basked in the warmth like seals.  You couldn’t ask for a more lovely drive; before you can say “matey” you’ll be inside the park’s grounds, where curiously unmarked roads (a first in New Zealand, where everything is meticulously captioned like a star sightings column in a gossip rag) led to small parking lots and past innumerable information shacks.  Hoping to squeeze in a hike before hitting the high seas, we parked in a small lot and picked up a path that, according to the map, hugged the rocky coastline almost all the way around the park.

Most of the shoreline at Abel Tasman is a mixture of soft sand, jutting rocks and marsh-like plants.  Just a few feet in from secluded beaches created by the winding curvature of the land, the trail winds almost unseen from the ocean.  Instead, once we had crossed a large section of marshland via a long wooden bridge, we found ourselves in a protected, shady wonderland with trees, shrubs and tall plants on either side and above.  Native tui, cute little birds with puffs of white feathers on their neck and curiously melodic chirps, darted around us.  Occasional trickling waterfalls bubbled down the hillside to our left, becoming creeks over which we crossed via more bridges.  Suddenly the plants to one side would part and we’d have a spectacular view of beach and beyond, teal-blue ocean glistening all the way across to the North Island, which rested blue and lumpy, like a far-off whale in the distance.  We couldn’t resist a few “reconnaissance” walks around the beaches; one included a picnic, because as one may guess, a hungry pirate is a cranky pirate.

Eventually the path dropped off directly onto the sand, and with high tide rushing in quickly we were forced to roll up our pantlegs, take off our shoes and wade our way across the sand, climbing over rocks and through caves as we went.  Considering the temperature of the water wasn’t exactly the balmy Caribbean-esque temperature a buccaneer may be accustomed to, we weren’t too keen on immersing ourselves up to our elbows, which was what it would have taken to go any further.  So we shimmied, shivering, back to the path and hiked our way back to the car before the tide could really catch up to us.

Any efforts to stay dry were dashed on our next adventure.  We drove to the main beach in the park and exchanged a few pieces of eight for tickets to kayak in the open waters we’d just shyed away from.   Kaiteriteri Kayaks hooked us up with seaworthy life jackets, paddles and sturdy orange boxes that, in theory, keep your valuables (camera, passport, et al) dry should your kayak flip. As a proud landlubber, I had no interest in testing that theory.  A pleasant staffer named Hannah led us through kayak safety and some directions on steering these particular vessels (they have RUDDERS guided by your feet, a first for me in a kayak), then actually had us get into the kayaks and do a couple laps around buoys to prove we knew what we were doing and could be trusted to sail the high seas without incident.  Wise, I thought.

My pal Katie and I manned a two-person kayak ourselves with myself at the stern, steering.  We set out into the fairly calm waters of the protected bay area just near the beach, where avoiding boats, buoys and the errant jet skiier was easy as pie.  To reach the more open ocean however, we had to navigate around (and OVER) some pretty hefty rocks, only to be greeted with much rougher waters and a whole lotta spray.  It took a bit, but we managed to get a hang of tandem paddling, as well as guiding the rudder (which doesn’t come as naturally as one might think) and slid across the choppy surface of the Tasman Sea like old pros.  Around small islands, outcroppings and more rocks that jut up from the ocean floor daringly close but still just under the surface, we paddled and explored up and down the coast of the park.  The sun shone brilliantly, the water echoed back a crystal clear teal blue and a light breeze blew over our heads, ruffling the trees on the shore and disturbing flocks of seagulls.

"Salty Arms" Perkins

Our arms became crusted with salt from the heavy misting surf (earning Katie the nickname “Salty Arms Perkins”), our buns tired and soaking wet from sitting in one position and having water splash into and through the kayak skirts.  After our alotted hour and a half we paddled back into the safety of the bay, narrowly missing the rocks again. We awkwardly pulled the heavy kayaks onto the sand, stripped off our life jackets and kayak skirts and helped put paddles and orange boxes away, all the while looking like we’d just taken a swim ourselves – trousers drenched and sandy.

On the way home we stopped for wine (because that’s what you do in New Zealand) and collapsed, tired and happy, onto the porch of our hostel cottage in Nelson.  Even now thoughts of Abel Tasman are some of the most vivid of any travel experience and the ones I choose to return to when I daydream about my vacation in traffic or before drifting off to sleep.  The vivid blues, the smell of the sea, the wind on my face, the pull in my arms as I navigated through the water, the cold of the ocean around my ankles and the give of the soft sand as I stepped across quiet beaches. ‘Tis a romantic notion perhaps that a pirate could find a permanent existence in such a place, but mark my words I’ll be dropping anchor there again one day.  Grog in hand, of course.

Resources:

::Fox Glacier, New Zealand::

I’m not what you’d call the most graceful person in the world.  Fact: I trip a lot.  I also walk into things (walls, lampposts, et al).  It’s a miracle I have walked the lengths of Rome, Paris, London and other such cities with moderate success, considering the plethora of obstacles just waiting to hold hands with gravity and put a not-so-awesome spring in my otherwise steady step.  I thought I was on pretty solid ground in New Zealand – so few motor scooters! No post boxes in the middle of sidewalks! No flummoxing cobblestones!

My euphoria cooled somewhat when we booked our first big activity about a day and a half after arriving in Queenstown.  A glacier climb. “Oh goodie,” I thought. “The chance to fork out $109 for the chance of a lifetime to slip and slide my way across a mass of frozen water in front of numerous fellow tourists, a guide and any local wildlife!” Not exactly what I’d had in mind.

But book we did.  After we arrived in the quaint town of Fox Glacier Township and checked in, I was about to throw in the towel and tell my friends that me and my chicken toasty were just peachy keen sitting in Fox Glacier Guide‘s Hobnail Cafe while everyone else scrabbled around atop the wily ‘berg.  But something inside refused to allow my two left feet to defeat me, so a-climbing I would go!

Here’s where I give a major plug to Fox Glacier Guiding.  It is to their credit that not only did I not fall over once on the ice (though I did awkwardly crawl around a bit in an effort to avoid such circumstances) but enjoyed myself so much that I can proudly say this is one of the top 5 coolest (literally) things I have ever done.  We had signed up for the Fox Trot, a 4-hour excursion that includes about 1 hour on the ice itself.

Getting geared up

A group of about 20 of us gathered in a small room lined with benches for a pep talk, safety instructions and to collect our gear for the half-day expedition.  Sam, one of the guides, explained how the trip would go and some of the dangers of being on ice, then instructed us on proper attire.  Layered in a sport top, sweatshirt, North Face jacket and another coat, I lined up with everyone else to trade my sneakers for heavy-duty boots, grab a set of detachable metal crampons and snatch up one of the snazzy-looking Fox Glacier rainproof jackets, as the gloomy day looked unpredictable at best.

Boarding a bus (hello, summer camp 1990) we bumped through town and turned down a narrow service road that wound through a jungly thicket as our second guide, Dean, talked knowledgeably and at length about glaciers in general – glacier movement, behavior, causes, history and relation to weather patterns – and about the particulars of Fox Glacier, which recedes and then moves forward in cycles of about 4 years each, taking essentially one step forward and two steps back over time.  Currently the glacier is in recession, which would mean a nice smooth surface for us to walk on (as opposed to the heavily-crevassed version when it is moving forward).  When the bus pulled into a small lot we found ourselves in a flat ravine snaking its way between cliffs on either side – the glacier was just ahead, but we had to hike to it. Breaking into 2 smaller groups, each with a guide, we set on our way, lumbering along maladroitly in our cumbersome rented boots.

the Cliffs of Insanity?

Over rocks and across streams, we stopped occasionally for more short lectures about the glacier by Dean, whose enthusiasm was quite catching, even for the few grumpy Europeans in our little band. Glaciers truly are enchating in their own mysterious way, but I never knew how captivating one could be until suddenly ahead of us I spied it – an enormous white mass slithering silently down between the mountainsides, beckoning as we walked ever closer.  Nearing it, we stopped to tightly strap on our crampons – metal spikes that fastened under the instep of our boots to give us much-needed traction on the ice – and pick up ski pole-like walking sticks for extra support. And up we went, climbing a short path of ice-pick carved stairs (chiseled further by Dean as he went ahead of us) until we reached the top surface of the enormous Fox Glacier.

Looking up

From that moment on I was in a preternatural icy wonderland.  We stomped around the surface leaaving our marks in the hard ice, climbed into blue-tinted caves and through glistening caverns, roped into slushy-floored holes and back out again, sipped real glacier water from small melted pools and maneuvered wondrously around various formations as Dean pointed out nuances in the incredible, frozen structure.  Finally it was time to head out of our glacial paradise and hike back to the bus.  We took off and stored our crampons and as we hiked back down the rough, rock-hewn trail we heard a roaring BOOM that sounded like an angry clap of thunder – I was glad the rain had waited until we were off the ice.

But I was mistaken: that boom was no thunder, it was a tremendous chunk of ice detaching from the glacier and tumbling to the earth below in a heaping mass.  Everyone froze (pun intended), looked at each other for a split second and then raced back up the embankment all at once to see what was happening.  The fresh ice laying in a pile at the gaping mouth of the glacier was telltale proof of the breakage that had just happened, but even as we stood, awaiting more action, it appeared to be done.  So we headed back down, only to hear another BOOM, this time twice as loud and twice as long, and back up the embankment we went!  We arrived just in time to see a mighty deposit of fresh ice – the entire face of the glacier was beginning to crumble!  We stood a good long while, determined not to miss any more, but all we heard was a continued ominous crackling noise from within the giant mass.  We had a great story to take home with us, that’s for sure.

thar she goes

Back in town and relieved of our gear, our proud guides personalized certificates for all of us, certifying that we “did visit the mighty FOX GLACIER, did brave the inclemency of the South Westland climate and did endure the rambling discourses of the guides.”  Maybe they should have added to mine “and did stay upright for the duration of the climb.”  I had conquered my graceless tendencies, at least for that day, and as I thawed on our drive north to Greymouth, we all marveled at what was most certainly the coolest thing we’d done…maybe ever.

Still there is something to be said about change.  There was the jarring cacophony of sights, smells, sounds, smoke and general bedlam of a big city after so much pastoral countryside: change I greeted with gritted teeth.  The switch to spongy mattresses, plush carpet, amenity kits and foldout luggage holders, as well as that curiously ambrosial smell that accompanies the air inside a great hotel however, was more than welcomed – it was celebrated.

The Langham Hotel Auckland fills a monotonous-looking building from the inside like a sparkling geode. Don’t let the muted exterior fool you – inside the hotel glitters like a hidden jewel from the moment you set foot inside the octagonal lobby with its massive marble center table and brilliant chandelier overhead.  It was no surprise to be greeted in typical Kiwi fashion by every staff member in sight – though accustomed to New Zealand’s renowned hospitality by this point, we could never tire of it.  Check in was swift and efficient, although I was dismayed to hear that my friend and I had been booked into a double twin room, rather than a room with 2 double beds.  Surprise – they don’t have doubles.  We’d been upgraded from a Classic Room to the Executive Level, which means embellished decor and free WiFi…two items I don’t much care about, but it was a nice gesture.

The room was small but neat as a pin, with a large window that overlooked the modest pool – likely awkward for people sunning on the deck chairs but pretty great for us when compared to the other side of the hotel, which overlooked the nondescript surrounding block.  One thing I love about Langham is their collateral and amenities – they think of everything.  Tucked into charmingly creaky drawers of antique dressers, resting atop glassy marble bathroom counters in velvet boxes and stacked on top of the wide desk one can find almost every personal essential (shower caps, nail kits, etc.), scrap of hotel information, international converters, glasses and wine openers, French press coffeemaker (no regular coffee though, only decaf…oops) and even leisure reading (a Langham-branded copy of Alice In Wonderland was stashed in the nightstand).  The collection’s cheerful signature pink and gold envelops all, peeking out from every corner, and yet one does not feel stifled with obnoxious brand messaging.

Inside the bathroom features were abundant: plentiful towels, counterspace, outlets and lighting.  Water pressure and temperature were sensitive and quick to respond though the sink faucet handle had to be turned about 3 times before the water would come out.  At the end of a long day traveling to Auckland, an evening with a bottle of Rose wine, hokey pokey chocolate and rugby on TV (go Brumbies!) wrapped in fluffy Langham robes atop the cloudlike bed was luxury to the max.

Sleeping in a Langham bed – not my favorite experience.  Optimum firmness, however, is a subjective preference and so I will not complain except to say that, should you stay at any Langham (because I have experienced this at 2 so far) you will find a mattress much more yielding than most.

The next morning, a cruelly-noticeable lack of regular coffee and wonky lumbar feeling from a too-soft mattress evaporated faster than you can say “Kia Ora” once I entered the calming sanctuary of the Chuan Spa.  At work I sit at my desk almost all day; I’d spent my vacation climbing glaciers, hiking peaks and kayaking the open sea. I was overdue for a deep-tissue massage before my 12-hour flight home.

Located on the second floor down a misleading corridor of guestrooms, the spa’s sleek hallway appears from nowhere to lead you, Zen-like, to spa reception and feels as though someone is pressing down on your tense shoulders and whispering “Relax.”  Remarkably calming lustrous grays and polished black tones coat the walls, dotted by splashes of fuschia orchids.  I was greeted and checked in by a friendly staff member who took me to the women’s (slightly cramped) locker room and left me simply with a fresh robe and slippers, directions to the showers and sauna and instructions to enter the treatment area through a door at the end of the hall.  I changed quickly into the velvety logo’d robe and thin slippers, fumbled with the electronic lock on my cubby until I got it to work and wandered through the door to a very dim, sumputous lobby-type area. There wasn’t a soul around, just a couple cushy chairs, a couch, table full of magazines and a form I was to fill out, dictating my massage preferences and any health conditions.  I filled it out, set it back on the table and my fingers had barely reached for an InStyle before a tall, dark-haired young man walked out from a mystery door behind a curtain and introduced himself as Gaston, my masseuse. (How do they know when to come out? Hello, security camera installed in the ceiling. Sketch!)

Gaston brought me a glass of ice water and led me through a door labeled “Thunder.”  Sitting on a chair next to the massage table, Gaston explained the philosophy behind Chuan Spa: based on ancient Chinese tradition and seeking a balance of the 5 elements (earth, air, fire, water and metal), treatments are determined based on the calendar to equalize Yin and Yang in the body.  I’m not much for Eastern philosophy but was fascinated in spite of myself when Gaston selected a citrusy oil made with frankincense, mandarin and lime based on the element for the calendar day of April 1: metal.

Resting upon the massage table, covered in piles of pliant, fleecy-soft bath towels, my treatment began with a scalding hot wet towel being rubbed over my feet (it feels much better than it sounds).  From there, the room filling with the thick fragrance of the citrus oil, Gaston worked deep into the tissues of my back, neck, collarbone, arms, legs, hands and feet to increase circulation, release long-held knots and relax the body.  At the end of on hour, finishing with the hot towel on my feet, Gaston told me to take my time rising from the table, and left the room quietly.  For the first time after any massage I didn’t feel like laying there and falling asleep – I felt rejuvenated, energized, awake.  I sat up gently and did some yoga stretches to be compliant, but I felt like I could have done a lap around the block and a few lunges for good measure.

Leading me to the relaxation room, I thanked Gaston and rested on a brocade chaise, a sheer curtain drawn around me. Soon enough, a lacquer tray with ice water, hot chamomile tea and a juice shot of beetroot, carrot and cucumber arrived.  I rehydrated and munched on a selection of raw pistachios, macadamia nuts, fresh dates and soft dried apricots before reluctantly giving into my schedule, rinsing off in a hot shower, trading my Chuan robe for my street clothes and joining the real world.

Which is akin to checking out of the Langham – you must leave a place of warmth and comfort to face the universe outside.  Comfortable, clean and welcoming are qualities of the staff and the rooms.  My overall impression is that of a hotel that doesn’t take itself too seriously…luxury minus the stuffiness.  The spaces aren’t too big, too opulent, too straitlaced.  There is no attitude, no sense of status, no hesitation to help.  I would brave a soft mattress to return for a stay at the Langham Hotel Auckland any time – even if it means ignoring that whole “change” thing.

Notes:

• The Langham Auckland has several food & beverage options, including northern Italian spot Barolo, which aims to impress from the stately entrance just off the lobby to the wine list to the dinner cuisine (open Tues. – Sat. only); Eight, which serves as the hotel’s 3-meal-a-day restaurant but refuses to go the boring route, instead offering global cuisine from “8 world kitchens” for breakfast, lunch & dinner; The Winery, the elegant lobby bar, which sits in a sunken space you can’t pass by on your way to the elevators without stopping to peek at the impressive (and pricey) cocktail and appetizer list or most notably the stylish Afternoon Tea, a great New Zealand tradition in the manner of their English brethren; and SPE, a bistro-style bar and casual restaurant
• Chuan Spa‘s facilities are clean and simple, the amenities broad and plentiful. The atmosphere is quiet and respectful, but can get very busy from late morning on. Try it for a massage like I did, or if you have more time, a hydrotherapy treatment, facial, scrubs and wraps, Chinese medicine (cupping, acupunture) and more. It’s pricey but I guarantee it’s 100% worth it.  If you’re extra stressed you might consider one of the “Chuan Havens,” guestrooms that line the corridor leading to the spa – with names like “Serenity,” they feature Oriental furnishings, infinity bath with whirlpool and full spa and Club Level access. Note they can only be booked in conjunction with a spa package.
• Rooms range from the very basic Classic to the more sumptuous Club Level; Classic and Executive Rooms do not have a lot of add-ons, so if you’re really looking for the luxury experience, go all-out and go Club – amenities include butler service that will help you pack and unpack, daily fruit & water delivered to your room, garmet-pressing and access to the majestic Club Lounge, serving daily breakfast, cocktails and canapés
• Rates are quite reasonable – shoulder season (spring and fall) sees rates starting at $189NZ, but expect to pay at least double that or more for Club Level and above

Waters are rising in Venice slowly

If you know anything about frescoes (or even if you don’t, come to that)…you know a fresco is, essentially, a wall.  When the plaster is still wet, an artist paints into it so that when dry, the painting is part of the exterior edifice.  That would explain all that chipping and fading over time, right? Plaster is by no means invincible.  The number of seemingly timeless frescoes that have endured over the ages (da Vinci’s “Last Supper” comes to mind) is remarkable, but it doesn’t mean they’ll abide weathering and abuse forever.  We’ve all seen the extreme difference between the Sistine Chapel of 30 years ago and its appearance today, thanks to deterioration and restoration.  But Venice faces a unique problem.

Exterior fresco at Basilica di San Marco

Much like the uncertain future of the pylons beneath and the structures above, Venice sustains another plague: fresco deterioration.  Moisture is no friend of painted plaster, yet sadly (as one might assume) it abounds in the Venetian air. Between the lagoon humidity and rising water levels, a condition known as “rising damp” has resulted, the effect of slow-surging lagoon water seeping into building foundations, becoming absorbed upward by the structure and effectively damaging age-old frescoes at their core. And let’s not even talk about what the salt in the water does to them…

Restoration of mural at San Giovanni in Bragora (Photo credit: World Monuments Fund)

This is a nightmare for art conservationists, who seek desperately to preserve some of the city’s greatest treasures like those by Veronese inside San Sebastiano, from ruin.  It doesn’t help that other disasters – like the fire at La Fenice in 1996 – have aggravated the issue.  And it’s a complex problem; to get technical, sea water damages a fresco in multiple ways, chiefly:

1. salt crystals get under the surface intonaco layer (where all the pigment is) and pushes at the paint, causing cracks, flaking and fissures
2. sulphuric acid from polluted water reacts and causes lumps in the pigment
3. condensation from the presence of water collects on the top surface of the plaster, seeping into the pigment the opposite way from #1

Giotto - flaking damage from water (photo credit CNR-ISAC)

Fun, right? A restoration process exists (and has been used) for the type of damage these frescoes have sustained, but it involves removing whole chunks of the plaster, repairing cracks, cleaning, desaturating and touching up where possible.  Organizations like the non-profit Save Venice push tirelessly for continued work but it is no easy task to raise funds, especially for projects/artists that the general hoi polloi care nothing about (have you ever heard of Giambattista Cima da Conegliano?)  And most of the time we’re so used to seeing old, worn and otherwise in-poor-condition works of Renaissance art we are almost jaded by it.

As for Venice, while it is heartening to see so much attention from the inner art circles given to the fast-increasing problems the city faces, it is just another reminder that we need to treasure the city, and its art, now while we still have it to enjoy.  If the news media is correct, our children and grandchildren may be some of the last to see the Venice we know and love as it is today and has been for centuries.

Other January ArtSmart Feature Articles:

The Cyclorama in Atlanta by Erin at A Sense of Place

Raphael’s “School of Athens” in the Vatican Museum by Jeff at EuroTravelogue

Frescoes in Florence, Italy by Jenna at This Is My Happiness

Frescoes, Wall Art & the Test of Time by Kelly at Travellious

and don’t forget to check out the group on Facebook for more!

Picking fruit off the farms in Fillmore, CA

But I digress.  2011 was probably the year I traveled least in the past decade.  I only got on a plane TWICE all year.  And that was to mingle with my fellow travelers at TBEX Vancouver.  I hit up Vegas, Joshua Tree and a weekend yoga retreat in Malibu, and had a weekend away now and then.  I saw The Price is Right live, which fulfilled my dream of seeing the Plinko board in-person (seriously, it was so cool). But my passport languished in the closet for most of the year, and I had to make peace with reading my fellow bloggers’ accounts of their worldwide jaunts from my little desk in LA.

Vancouver, BC

And you know what I realized? I like being home.  A year off of travel has made me seek adventure in my own backyard, reflect on the direction of my writing, dream of experiences I’d like to have…and save for a ::new camera:: which will accompany me in my travels ahead :)  I was tempted to feel failure at not getting out more this year – because what kind of travel blogger blogs from home?!

Joshua Tree, CA

But as I told the students at the Lessons From Abroad Conference back in October, sometimes we forget that the place we live, the place we are from, is a destination to someone else.  We are told to write what we know – what do we know better than home?  This has convinced me that a primary goal for 2012 should stretch beyond writing about my global journeys but also indeed about the beauty and fascination that is sweet home California.

TBEX 2011: Men of TBEX Calendar Party

I also told those students that writing about experiences you’ve had – no matter when they happened – is vital to understanding why you travel, why it drives you, what you can learn about yourself and about other people by doing it.  I have thought many hours about these things while enjoying time at home…and realized it is the memories of travel that drive us to go back and make more.  They are rich and sweet and unattainable again, so we crave the feeling of creating them over again.  It is a glorious cycle!

2012 will have travel – to a new country (New Zealand!) on a new continent where the Jet-Setters and I will find adventure in our 4th trip as a travel team.  To Keystone, Colorado for TBEX 2012, where once again I will join my fellow bloggers and travel enthusiasts to talk breathlessly about our craft – over a whole lotta drinks.  To the Windy City (Chicago!) to see family, the Bears, and Lou Malnati’s. And hopefully somewhere new and exciting with my parents, who are pretty hip travelers themselves and with whom I am long overdue for a vacay with.

Wine Cruising in Long Beach, CA

So cheers to my intrepid readers, fellow bloggers and dear friends.  I cannot wait to share 2012′s travels, read about yours and learn a little bit more about why the journey is so much a part of us all.  Here’s to peace, safe travels, health and joy for us all in the New Year!

The Annual Whopping Life Travel Total Round-up as of Dec., 2011:

courtesy of The Shore Hotel, Santa Monica

Allow me to remind you of some common, anger-inducing California tourism experiences, for those who may have vacationed here:

• Brick wall/sketchy alley/apartment parking lot/freeway out your hotel room window
• Driving everywhere. Valeting everywhere. Spending cocktail money on gasoline.
• Key card slots you have to time just right otherwise you’re locked out forever.
• Traffic noise when you’re trying to sleep.
• Convention attendees swarming the lobby, the fitness center and the pool, and causing backups at the front desk

Sound familiar?  Are you annoyed all over again?  Breathe a sigh of relief then, because the newly-opened, ultra eco-friendly Shore Hotel in Santa Monica’s got you covered on all those fronts and more.  For those looking for a truly leisure-filled California getaway that won’t break the bank and will leave you with the beach-filled visions of the Left Coast you came for, your search has ended.

Main Lobby - Shore Hotel Santa Monica

The  local family-owned hotel opened back in October as the first new build the city of Santa Monica has seen in 10 years.  With only 164 rooms and a modest 800 square feet of meeting space, this beachfront beauty whispers relaxation as soon as you walk into the glass-enased lobby.  In fact there’s hardly a spot in the building that doesn’t give you a sprawling view of the ocean – every room is angled for a view of the Pacific and to maximize natural daylight, and for the windows you’re not looking out of, they’re angled to reflect the shoreline back to you.  Clever, huh?

image credit: Skott Snider

The glass-encased lobby is sprinkled with minimalist furniture, sleek tile and sandstone walls with a waving pattern that mimics – you guessed it – the ocean.  When I visited one afternoon around sunset, it was a pretty stunning sight.  Hotel amenities include a solar-heated pool, 24-hour business and fitness centers and covered self or valet parking.  In-room you can find iPod connectors, silence-inducing sliding glass doors and, since there’s no room service available just yet, a takeout service from local restaurants with one call downstairs (menus are on your desk).  A little jarring is the not-so-private glass shower set between the bed and the bathroom, but one click of a button and an opaque shade lowers…you know, in case you’re not ready to share that much with your roommate. 

image credit: Skott Snider

Another nifty feature?  Doorbells that also serve as service lights (green for housekeeping service, red for “do not disturb”) and helpful warnings to the staff that someone has recently used their key and is in the room (no more awkward run-ins for towel delivery).  How does it know!?

Calm it down - out by the pool

Which “LEED”s us into hugging the environment for a moment – from a gym floor made of recycled tires (it’s delightfully squishy underfoot) and paper-saving aforementioned doorbells (really called an INNCOM occupy sensor system) to water efficiency systems (low-flow showerheads and on-property water runoff treatment and recycling) and reused textiles in carpet, upholstery and furniture, among many other features you can read about here.

image credit: Skott Snider

And who would I be without discussing location, location, location.  Unlike so many SoCal hotels that require you to rent a car unless you want to be trapped in hotel-land all day and night, The Shore Hotel sits about a block from the Santa Monica pier (in fact you can see it out the window, ferris wheel and all), and across the street in the other direction from Santa Monica Place, an open-air mall that leads out to the 3rd Street Promenade. Dining, nightlife, shopping and the beach are effortlessly at your doorstep. Not bad.

There’s lots more coming for the Shore Hotel – springtime will see the opening of Blue Plate Taco at the hotel right on Ocean Ave., a food and beverage concept that will enable the hotel to provide other amenities like room service and a bar for hotel guests (scheduled for a March opening).

Some exciting new packages include a seriously full-blown New Year’s Resolutions offer that includes accommodations, a one-day cleanse by Pressed Juicery (delivered to you at the hotel), ASICS sports accessories, a personal one-hour training session and a 60-minute massage from Tikkun Spa (based on single-occupancy, rates start at $435).  And since “IRIS” is getting kicked out of the Kodak Theatre during the month of February (thanks, Academy Awards), the Shore Hotel is giving visitors a chance to get their thrills in with an inclusive Cirque du Soleil Package that inclues accommodations, 2 tickets to Cirque’s thrilling “Ovo” show (staged literally across the street at the Santa Monica Pier) and trapeze lessons for 2 at the Pier given by Trapeze School New York (package available Jan. 20-March 25, 2012; rates available upon request).

image credit: Skott Snider

Regular rooms start at $250, but I checked online at the time of this writing and found them as low as $219.

You know, so you can save your money for that ferris wheel.

Mary Cassatt - "A Cup of Tea"

Americans are known for our pioneering spirit, right? We tend to tackle tough stuff – we invented jazz (if you think it’s easy to play, try following the written music) and we make some mean BBQ (YOU try entering a chili cookoff!)  We are blessed in that we can travel almost anywhere in the world freely.  And when a well-traveled woman has a dream, she’ll take on the world.

Such was the case of American painter Mary Cassatt (1844-1926), whose Pennsylvania childhood was peppered with visits to Europe and, despite her parents’ disinclination to support it, painting lessons at the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts.  At the World Fair in Paris in 1855 she was exposed to the works of Delacroix, Corot, Courbet and Ingres, solidifying her desire to make painting her career rather than a social skill, as was the acceptable interest for females of the time.  She found however that the opportunities for women to immerse themselves in training were few and far between – so she took matters into her own hands.

Like a true wanderluster would, Cassatt packed up and moved to Paris, applying to study privately with masters of the École des Beaux Arts, since they did not admit women.  While she copied at the Louvre and practiced her pastoral imagery on trips to the countryside, soon returning, frustrated, to the U.S. when the Salon wouldn’t regularly accept her subject-appropriate work, a group of artists were not-so-quietly gathering who, like her, rejected the stiff and unrelenting world of “acceptable” art.  Returning to Europe only to find further frustration and little progress, Cassatt joined Berthe Morisot, Degas (her most inspiring colleague) and the other Impressionists in their cause, depicting those now-recognizable sketched glimpses of everyday life.  Vivid pastel work, bright colors and soft scenes of mothers and children or women bathing (among others) are Cassatt’s hallmarks; she spent the final 30+ years of her life immersed in the art world, even taking up women’s suffrage causes and patronizing her own Impressionist colleagues by purchasing their works.  She found critical and financial success no only in Paris but Italy and America as well.  At the time of her death, Cassatt – though she had spent the majority of her life and career in Paris – was considered an American treasure.

Feminist? Maybe a little bit. Stereotypical female? Sometimes.  It cannot be denied though, that Cassatt’s zeal for the world abroad and her forward-thinking, unstoppable attitude toward her art and career reflect the essences of the American travel spirit in all their forms.  She truly embodied the inherent nature of what it is to be an American – to go above and beyond, and to cross borders to realize dreams.  Today there are stunning reminders of Cassatt’s legacy in homes and museums all over the world.  We can only hope our own travels leave those we meet with even a small memory of the same sense of possibility.

Other November ArtSmart Feature Articles:

Why Abstract Expressionism Matters by Ashley at No Onions Extra Pickles

An Unusual Dinner Party in Brooklyn by Jenna at This Is My Happiness

Warhol’s Art & Today by Erin at A Sense of Place

Five American Artists Worth of a Second Look by Kelly at Travellious

I’m pleased and honored to post my first article for the ArtSmart Roundtable, a group of art-history-loving travel bloggers who post a related article the last Monday of each month.  This month’s topic is Outdoor Sculpture; for more related posts, check out the links at the end, or find us on Facebook here!

So you may notice I write about Venice a lot.  (Understatement?)  I’ve explained why countless times, but I’ve never told one of my favorite art-related Venetian stories.  Now finally with this month’s topic, “Outdoor Sculpture,” the time has come to relate the exciting tale of an oft-overlooked corner of the Piazza San Marco - of the 4 small statues that rest subtely and quietly amid the throngs of people who pass them by without a glance, unawares of their fascinating history.  They also throw into sharp relief something I have always mischeviously loved about Venice – the unabashed, centuries-long record of yoinking art treasures, pieces of buildings and related items from other kingdoms only to deposit it in Venice, never to be returned from whence it came.

Piazza San Marco - straight ahead: the tetrarchs!

Along the canal-facing side of the façade of St. Mark’s Basilica, at or just above eye level, sits one of my favorite pieces in all of Venice.  The Portrait of the Four Tetrarchs, as it is officially known, is a sculpture of – you got it – four figures, who at first glance appear to be a group of dwarf kings hugging each other.  In fact, the sculpture is a respectful depiction of the four rulers of ancient Rome, or tetrarchs, a type of governance instituted by the Emperor Diocletian in 293 A.D.  At the time, the Roman Empire was divided into halves, each with a “senior” (Augusti) and “junior” (Caesars) ruler; the statue symbolizes not specific people of the time, but rather the ideals of the tetrarchy – rule and authority in harmony with each other.  That the pairs are each embracing solidifies this ideal.  When combined with the material (porphyry, an extremely hard and rare purple marble from Egypt) the entire sculpture is a symbol of solidarity, strength and perserverance.  Unfortunately this was not so true to history – quarrels among the tetrarchs led to the entire system breaking down by only 313 A.D.

Though ancient Roman sculpture is largely known for it’s realistic depictions of people – pockmarks, wrinkles, facial features, etc. – the tetrarchs by contrast are generic, expressionless and rather trance-like.  It is thought this was meant to reinforce the order and strength the rulers were to bring to a chaotic empire.

porphyry tetrach statues in the Piazza San Marco

But where are they from?  Here’s my favorite part of the story!  The statues themselves likely originated from the Philadelphion in Constantinople, a Byzantine palace where they were assumed to be part of the porch columns lining the front section of the building.  When the Venetians invaded during the Fourth Crusade (around the year 1200), they pirated the tetrarchs and hauled them back to Venice, where they’ve been attached to St. Mark’s ever since.  Now here’s the funny part: one quick glance at the tetrarchs and you’ll notice one of them is clearly missing a foot (a foot which has been cheaply refashioned in cement or the like).  In the 1960′s a piece of the foot (the heel, to be precise) was unearthed in an excavation near the Bodrum Mosque in Istanbul, where it remains at a nearby museum.

the missing foot!

As Ron White would say, “I told you that story to tell you this story.”  As an art history major in college, I had a very cranky professor who taught all the ancient Greek and Roman classes.  He quickly became my favorite teacher thanks to his oddball stories, told in a crotchedy manner and always peppering otherwise very serious lectures.  He told us when he was a grad student in the ’60s, he had recently been learning about the statues around the time he traveled to Istanbul as a student to visit his professor, who was excavating ancient sites near the city.  While they were there, movement around the site caused the discovery of what would indeed turn out to be the missing foot from the tetrarchs.  How cool, I thought, to be at the real-time discovery of a piece that had been separated from its whole for so many centuries!

I had some doubts in my mind about the veracity of the story, but I never forgot it, and the first time I traveled to Venice I marched straight to the southwest corner of the Basilica di San Marco and saw the still-missing foot for myself.  The approachable, inscrutable and mysterious quartet was like seeing an old friend as I watched a story from the classroom come to life.  Now each time I’m in Venice I stop and pay a visit to my tetrarch pals, stone-faced and unnoticed on the side of the basilica, a memory of a long ago time and a far away place.

Other October ArtSmart Feature Articles:

The Muiredach Cross as Public Art in Medieval Ireland, by Erin at A Sense of Place

Jaume Plensas Outdoor Sculpture by Kelly at Travellius

Paris’ Haunted Père Lachaise Cemetery by Jeff at EuroTravelogue

Has Public Sculture Lost Its Edge? by Ashley at No Onions Extra Pickles

Outdoor sculpture in Florence by Jenna at This Is My Happiness

…and don’t forget to check out the group on Facebook for more!

Truth be told I knew very little about Belfast.  Other than that it is the birthplace of Van Morrison (whom I loooooooove) and the city where the Titanic was built, my historic knowledge of the area was poor at best.  Great job with the pre-trip research.  As I pulled my wool jacket over my shoulders and left the musty warmth of the hotel with my friend Bob to face the bleak fall day, I imagined we’d do what we usually do while traveling – walk until we found something interesting.  I had heard about the Peace Walls in conjunction with some curious too-fast reading about the “Troubles” period of the late 1960s, but I didn’t understand what they were or anything about the safety (or lack thereof) of the neighborhood in which they can be found.  I mentally bookmarked them as something to see, but that drizzly day we didn’t set out to find them – they found us.

on Northumberland Rd: walking, thinking

Or rather, we got lost.  Fantastic. Not surprising, but fantastic. Quickly tiring of central Belfast, which I’m not excited to say is largely under construction and peppered with chain stores (Boots Pharmacy, Tesco, Debenham’s, et al) we wandered across a highway and immediately found ourselves in a quiet suburban section of town — lined with graffiti-covered walls.  Falls Road is located in a primarily Catholic neighborhood in West Belfast (with a lovely cathedral, by the way), one where we saw few cars but much barbed wire.  Along it we walked, and as we walked, up Falls Road, across Northumberland (which, as it is a connector road between the two neighborhoods, may be closed off during times of heightened tension) and down the Shankill Road side, we were soon engulfed by colorful murals, wire fences and cement barriers stretching toward the sky.

Bingo. As we’d find out later (when Bob and Katie took a black taxi tour of the political districts of Belfast and learned more details) it can be one of the most dangerous areas of Belfast to wander, even today in what is considered a relatively peaceful time.  We probably should not have been by ourselves walking those streets with no guide and no map, but we did.  And what we discovered was an emotional, telling and fascinating glimpse into the disquieting history of Belfast.

photo by R. Perkins

The peace walls (or peace lines, as they are sometimes called) are barriers built between Catholic and Protestant sections of the city to minimize violence and uprising between the two groups (nationalist and unionist, respectively).  What started as a small project (a few, built around 1969) has become an entire maze of walls, growing taller and longer around these neighborhoods. While local government has discussed removing them, they still stand – and still have purpose, and in fact most polled residents prefer it this way, fearing the tension will escalate should they be taken down.

What is sometimes scary and also very beautiful about the walls is the images and words that have been scrawled across them over the years.  Tourists and locals alike have painted, drawn and written all over – ranging from angry outbursts to expressions of hope, remembrances of those gone, and wishes for peace.  There are political statements supporting or decrying terrorist actions in other places around the world, sketches of loyalist personalities, and nationalist heroes like Bobby Sands.

photo by R. Perkins

The Dalai Lama and former President Clinton have even signed the walls, and blank spots encourage others to add their signatures as well.  We found some images very disconcerting – Sinn Fein scribbled in various places, a drawing of a small boy crouched dejectedly on the ground, paintings of masked men holding rifles and murals painted in frustration at American politics.  Others, like pictures of doves and messages for hope for a “unifed Northern Ireland” indicate a deep desire among those living in Belfast for the tensions to finally cease.  We were, by all accounts, left speechless.

Later, doing research, I stumbled across an article from the USA Today from 2008 about 2 children growing up on different sides of the walls, and read it in fascination and sadness.  Among the cheery pubs, busting Waitrose markets and (as we found) the very upbeat and warm people of Belfast, it is incredible to think these prejudices still exist and scary to imagine the heart-heavy tensions in what are otherwise very normal-looking, cozy neighborhoods.  My hope for Belfast is that the quiet times they have known in recent years continue, and that these walls serve as a reminder to those who visit that the people of Belfast do, indeed, yearn for peace.

Dublin, 2009

Talk about feeling old.

I had the honor today of speaking to over 150 college seniors from around southern California, all of whom have returned from semesters, summers or years abroad all over the world, and all of whom have been impacted so much by that experience they are seeking ways to get back out there.  It was a room full of people who love to travel, a room full of TBEX-ers waiting to happen. It was the LA-area Lessons From Abroad Conference, held at Chapman University in Orange, CA.

I was also honored to be on a panel alongside veteran LA Times photojournalist Don Bartletti, and attorney and Tanzania’s Arcadia Center Academic Director Roland Adjovi – 2 extremely accomplished, kind and fascinating people.  I’m no public speaker, but it was exhilarating to see the interest taken in the range of professional careers and learning opportunities available to young people today, and to have a chance to speak to them about the incredible experience of travel blogging.  Study abroad is a life-changing experience that challenges young people to think about the world in a different way and then come back to their home country looking for ways to apply their newfound insights to their next “peak” in life.  It was a thought-provoking and exhilarating day, and I was pleased and excited to be invited to share in it.

For those that attended interested in getting started travel writing, I promised to post a blog with a list of resources and tips, which they can find below.  And of course please feel free to e-mail me with any questions, or if you’re interested in attending an upcoming LACOT meeting or the 2012 TBEX conference next June in Keystone, CO.

RESOURCES (well, a few)

TBEX – Travel Blog Exchange, the largest organization of travel bloggers in the world (most members are from US and Europe). Annual conferences held domestically and in Europe.

LACOT – LA Consortium of Online Travel, a group of LA-area travel bloggers who meet every 2 months or so to have drinks and talk all things travel.  Founded by Jen Miner of The Vacation Gals and Melanie Waldman of Travels with Two.

TBU – Travel Bloggers Unite

Facebook Groups – Travelbloggers, PRSA Travel

Twitter – weekly online travel chats #TNI (Travelers’ Night In) at 12:30pm every Thursday or #TTOT (Travel Talk on Twitter) Tuesdays at 2:30pm.  These feature a series of questions centered on a topic, in which anyone can participate.  Most of the major players in online travel media participate weekly, and love new people who join!

TIPS (again…just a few)

• Find your niche – solo travel, budget travel, foodie travel, eco-travel, road trips, etc. and make that the theme of the majority of your content. A region or country counts too!
• Get started on WordPress or Blogger and just. start. writing.
• Think of your website as a job in a sense.  Be professional – plan your posts, have a unique voice, market yourself as a brand.  If you are serious about growing your blog to become a viable resource or you’re interested in sponsored trips or freelancing for other sites, this is your calling card! Make it visual, provide social media links, email contact info, and what you’re all about.
• Create a Twitter account and become involved with the travel conversations happening 24/7.  I’ve found this one of the most effective ways to drive traffic to my blog, network globally and build my brand.
• Read other travel blogs – lists of the best ones can be found simply by Googling it or asking on Twitter – many bloggers and publications have created their own lists.  Read their posts, comment on them and invite them to check yours out.
• Get involved with one of the above groups, or a non-profit like Passports with Purpose or The Passport Party Project that are current and popular with the community right now.
• Start taking photos, everywhere, all the time. One day when you’re writing and you need a photo of a suitcase or an interesting doorway, you’ll have them in your library somewhere to pull from.
• Get traveling, and get writing!

Good luck, adventurers :)